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Loki stared down at his new hand. This woman—Agent Hill—had very calloused fingers, her nails chipped from strain. This woman's form was uncomfortable—foreign. Like garments that itched insufferably.
He swayed slightly on his feet and pressed against the wall to keep his balance. He cursed in his mind; he shouldn't have used so much of his magic, looking back. Without the cuff it was easier for his magic to rebuild, but it was far from its highest level. He felt his veins ache as they tried to stretch his meager magic to keep up his appearance.
He stood before the door—the staff within. His fingers itched at the idea of it. To have his power in control, in ultimate potency, was tempting—lusty, even. If he could be free of the Mind Gem's clutches, if he could have ultimate and absolute control over himself…
The dangerous thoughts swelled and he forced himself to nudge them aside. His full power was not the reason for this god-awful expedition, but for the protection of this realm. Of Midgard. The very realm that he tried to both destroy and instill peace via his rule. The realm that probably detested his very being, and here he was putting many necks on the line just to gamble the chance of protecting it and the rest of the realms.
Wouldn't the mortals think it droll?—the mortals that lived as briefly as a housefly would and yet their time of life was so inexplicably precious to the formidable beings of all of Yggdrasil. Why Thanos did not think Death was satisfied enough with mortals dying off from old age or disease or freak accidents happening each year, Loki did not know.
He pulled open the panel on the wall beside the bolted door. There was a number pad, clear glass panel and red light within the square. Loki recognized the same attributes on JARVIS at Stark Tower.
"Okay, Bambi," said Tony. "The key password is five, two, eight, four, nine, one. You got it?"
Loki pressed the correct numbers, waiting with baited breath. After a second of an afterthought, the flashing screen glowed green with approval.
"Now, let it scan your thumb and eye," said Tony. "Don't worry, it won't hurt. A lot easier than sticking some metal claw into someone's skull, anyway."
Mortals indeed have long memories.
Loki pressed his thumb against the clear plastic, letting the red light pass over it and copy the stolen thumbprint into its system. When a green light flashed next to it, he crouched over and stared into the red light; he felt the warmth of the light as it scanned Hill's eye, accepting him as their trusted agent, before the doors clicked and slid apart.
His heart leapt and he immediately shed his disguise. The room was long and dim, but he could feel the thrumming of magic as solidly as a gust of wind. It was empowering—enticing, even—and it took much self-control to not run forth. His energy was famished, parched for power, and he was just several paces away.
He let the door close behind him, walking forward, his boots clapping a lonely sound on the floor. Machines filled the room, but not a single one of them hummed. Other unearthly weapons were locked in glass cases, but Loki paid no heed to them.
He could have sworn that for once he felt the Mind Gem squirm in fear in his chest.
Down the halls, down the paths in the room, until he felt the magic reverberate stronger as if played like a lute.
His breathing quickened.
A faint blue light. He recognized it. Just shoved against the wall in a glass cage.
He stepped toward it, slowly reaching out a hand to take it.
Power, power, power seidr seidr seidrseidr
He remembered the anger that pulsed in his hand in that staff—his anger and self-righteousness and pain that made his power soar.
He paused.
He was fifteen feet away and he stopped in his tracks. His blood ran cold.
I who was and should be king
you tossing me into an abyss
I was the rightful king of Asgard—betrayed—
Monster that parents tell their children about at night
No, Loki—
Was he going mad?
He was—he had to—if he hadn't fallen from the brink already.
Memories—nostalgia—no, not nostalgia—déjà vu—
Forget.
Forget.
He couldn't afford a bout of mental delusion at a time like this.
It was surely only his mind. Only his imagination.
Barton needed help fast and Loki couldn't dawdle because coming to the staff reignited old memories like this.
He changed, didn't he?
(Did he?)
The young trickster was dead, and so were his nightmares. This was he, Loki, and he had grown in his isolation. The same pains and hungers that goaded him to wage war on Midgard were obsolete. And if they were not, he would force them to be.
(Because it doesn't hurt to think about Odin or Asgard, it doesn't hurt to look down at his hands and imagine them blue, it doesn't hurt it doesn't)
The scepter was secured in the glass case, but Loki was suffocated by its presence. If he must master this weapon, his heart must be clean. It must be unburdened by darkness that had the potential to consume him. He knew the implications: the staff brewed in emotion and stripped all inhibitions, and if he could not cap his own, if he could not control it—
He lifted open the glass, holding his breath. It was as untarnished and gleaming as he had seen it the first time, when his master (no not master never master never his never never oh master please master it hurts it hurts) had bestowed it to him so long ago in exchange for a promise. Its veneration demanded fear.
His fingers curled around the cold metal and his magic jolted in excitement within him. It surged, flowing freely like a river, as shallow as it was with the Mind Gem in him. It pulsed, energy wrapping around him, breeding, feeding.
Something within him jolted.
"Worthless monster, who makes play he's still a king."
"Unloved and unknown, who thinks himself a prince."
His mind and heart were set on fire.
Images of Thor, dying in an alleyway.
When he breathed, he never had enough.
Heads ripped off, bodies limp on the floor, "Long live the king, long live the king—"
Anger was not unfamiliar—
They will fight and they will fall—
He lifted the scepter from its stand, and how it sang with power!
How he grinned in the dark.
Loki betrayed them.
That, or Loki was lying somewhere with his head ripped off and Natasha was the only survivor.
Clint didn't know which scenario he'd rather believe in, but truthfully he couldn't care less. All that he knew was that Natasha was bleeding in front of him and she needed help or something and this wasn't according to the plan.
"Nat," he whispered. She was on her knees and he tried to bent down, but the hook kept him firmly above her and he wanted to curse out loud. "Nat, are you okay? Did they—did it—?"
He knew very little could hurt Natasha physically, much less cripple her like this. He could only imagine the worst and feel sickened by it.
She was breathing quickly, and shallowly, and he feared she was hyperventilating.
"Nat, it's me. It's Clint. You're with me, you're not alone," said Clint. How he wished his hands weren't bound behind him! It almost physically pained him more than the hook in his shoulder not to hold her and comfort her. "We're together, see? We're not alone and we're going to get out of this and we'll be fine."
"I was apprehended," Natasha said, her voice strangled. "I was cornered, I tried fighting, but—"
There were more of the Chitauri. Shit, shit, shit. Clint breathed in and out deeply, trying to keep his head level. How many more, he did not know. Natasha could fight an impressive number of Chitauri in one fight, so if she was so outnumbered that she lost…
"It wasn't your fault. Like hell it was your fault," said Clint. "You're here now. We're here. If they do anything else to you, I'll—"
At those words, Natasha let out a choked sob and hid her face in her hands. Clint felt what little color that was in his face drain away.
"What did you do to her?" he yelled at the spy, who stood before the shut door. "What did you do?"
"It is not what we did do," said the spy. "But what we may."
Clint tore his gaze away from the spy; there was no time to get angry.
"Nat, they're not going to do anything to you. I won't let them. Do you hear me? I won't let them," said Clint. His mind was whirring and words tumbled out of his mouth. He didn't know what he could do—what he could afford to do—but if it meant making sure nothing touched Natasha, then it had to be worth it.
"I don't believe you are in the position to decide that," said the spy. It reached out and grabbed Natasha by her red curls. She sucked in a breath as it wrenched her to sit up straight. Clint saw how swollen and bruised her face was and he let out a yell of fury.
"You want to beat anyone up, that's me," said Clint. "You leave her alone. I've already got a damn hook in my shoulder, just hurt me."
"But how easy it is to stay silent if that were the case!" said the spy. It pulled out a long knife from its side and Clint thrashed in the spot.
"You said you were meant to bring order!" he said. "You said you want to keep the balance but what you're doing right now is downright chaos."
"Chaos upon mortals is merely a child's play," said the spy. "Come, now. Did I not promise that if you aided us, your companion—" It kicked Natasha hard against her back. "—would join you in safety?"
"For how long?" said Clint. "Until Thanos blows up the entire universe with us in it?"
"You are persistent in your hatred for our leader," said the spy. "Fine. Shall you think of it that way? Then would you rather die hand in hand with her, following her into the dark, or shall we cut straight to the end?"
The tip of the knife wheedled against the side of Natasha's neck. A bead of blood bloomed from her skin.
"Wait," said Clint. His heart hammered against his chest. He had to think fast—of anything. "Wait, let me talk to her. Please."
"To say your last goodbyes before your foolishness kills her?"
"Sure," he said, the words tangling on his tongue. "Come on, just—I'll talk to her."
The spy lowered its knife before nodding and throwing her forward. She fell upon Clint's feet, pulling him slightly down and wrenching his shoulder even more painfully on the hook.
"Tasha, can you stand?" said Clint. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
Natasha slowly rose to her feet, swaying on the spot. He could see how her ankle was twisted unnaturally and a pang wracked his heart. She raised her gleaming eyes to his, her entire form shuddering.
"What did those bastards do to you?" Clint whispered.
Natasha swallowed hard before shaking her head.
"They won't stop with me, Clint," she said. "Even if you don't talk and I get killed, they won't stop there. They'll threaten more people, and more, and more."
"They'd have an easier time looking for Loki themselves," said Clint.
"They said they would compromise," she said. She spat out blood and he flinched. "They said—Midgard would be spared if you told them."
"Christ," said Clint. "Do you believe that?"
"I don't know," she said. "All I know is that if we do nothing then it's guaranteed people will die."
"If we give up the Mind Gem, then it's guaranteed that people will die then too," said Clint. His eyes hardened. "Nat, what did they say they would do to you if I didn't tell? Besides kill you. I know that there's more."
Natasha let out a whimper and she nearly fell to her knees, but she kept herself steady against the wall.
"Nat—oh, for Christ's sake—" He looked up to the spy. "At least give her a chair or something!"
Clint suddenly went crashing onto the floor as the chain that held him up loosened. He felt sharply on his knees, Natasha following. Even with his arms and legs bound, he made sure she was eased to a sitting position against the wall.
"Clint, they'll take me," said Natasha. "They know everything about me—intimately—everything I fear—every way I fear dying. When Loki found out through you after the battle, he—and the Chitauri—"
"It's not going to happen," said Clint. He made sure his voice was steady, even though his heart was beating rapid fire. "It's not going to happen."
"I'm afraid," said Natasha, her voice shaking. "I could only ever tell you this. I'm so scared."
"It won't come to that," said Clint. "Just stay calm and trust me. How did they catch you? Where's Loki?"
"That's what we have to tell them," said Natasha.
"No, I meant, where did Loki go?"
Natasha breathed quickly, nearly choking on her own air, and she pressed her hand against her mouth as if she was about to vomit. But Clint was sharp—he noticed, and his mind raced.
The flash of confusion in her eyes.
"Take in deep breaths, Natasha," said Clint, speaking slowly as his mind worked swiftly. Surely she knew where Loki was, as they were going to find the scepter together. He could see that there was no ear bud in her ears; did the Chitauri force it out of her, or was it never there?
"You begin to bore me, mortals," said the spy. "Shall I quicken the process?"
"Wait," said Clint. "A little longer."
He stared deep into Natasha's eyes. "Eyes on me, Natasha. Calm down. It's okay, no need to hyperventilate or panic or anything."
If she never met up with Loki after all, she would have just said so. If Loki was attacked and dead somewhere and she was all that was left, neither of them would be here now. If Loki had defected and left her to face the Chitauri, neither of them would be here now either. If Loki was in any situation, hurt, apprehended, compromised, anything, Natasha would have just told him because surely the Chitauri would already know that Loki was with them in the SHIELD headquarters—
He felt nauseous.
"Nat, I'm going to make a decision, all right?" he said softly. "And you know that no matter what, I'm going to protect you."
Honeyed words, as soft and delicate as glass. Perhaps that was how lies were spun.
"I trust you," she murmured.
He had to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. It was indeed her voice saying it, but he never imagined her shaping those words so bluntly, so easily, ever.
"Come here," said Clint, gesturing to her. She leaned over and rested her head on his uninjured shoulder as if to embrace, except both of them were too worn and in pain to raise their arms. He felt the weight of her head on his bones and he swallowed hard. "Listen to me. I'll tell them where Loki is. I'll help bring him to them. I'll strike a deal, you got it?"
"What?" she said, her voice thin.
"You heard me," he said. Slowly, surely, he twisted his body as if to comfort her, but he felt the hook slide in his muscles. It burned, but the fact that it could move and not just tear was all he needed. "I'll hand them over and compromise. We'll keep Ear—we'll keep Midgard safe. That'll be the bargain."
"Clint," she said.
The point was the hardest, how it curled and proved nearly impossible, but Clint was halfway there and he wasn't going to turn back. He sucked in a breath, his body shaking.
"Nat?" he said. He knew how to play this game now. A considerable amount of weight fell from his shoulder. "Do you love me?"
She shifted slightly, turning her head until she faced him, her eyes deep blue.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."
He closed his eyes.
"Oh, Nat," he said. "I know you too well."
The hook fully free from his shoulder, he swiftly jumped onto his feet, took hold on the hook and chain behind him with his bound hands, and spun sharply, stabbing Natasha in the neck.
She screeched, but not in her voice—a horrific, reptilian howl that shattered his ears. Her form contorted, malformed, until her pale, familiar face twisted and the disguise fell away, revealing a writhing, dying Chitauri on the other end of the hook, its shape-shifting magic sapped away.
He knew, he thought with a grim smile as the spy howled and the blow pummeled him in the stomach. He knew, because Natasha was never so honest. Her truths were twisted to sound like lies and by far she hid the truth the most from herself. An imposter would say anything they thought he wanted to hear, and the price was the truth.
The blast threw him against the wall and his head spun. He couldn't move his hands with their binds, and he was certain that even if the rope was cut that he would not be able to move his right arm. He yelled, but there was no possible way that anyone could hear him, and even if they did, they could not move faster than the spy raging toward him this instant.
The door flew open and the other soldier took charge, shooting its rifle at Clint. Clint fell onto the floor, rolling onto his back and kicking at the metal shelves along the walls until they toppled onto the two Chitauri. It could only serve as a distraction at most; with the floor slick with his and the fallen imposter's blood, his limbs bound and paralyzed, Clint didn't know how long he could truly last. They were no longer aiming to subdue him; they sought to kill him.
He swung his legs against the sharp end of the fallen shelf and tore off the bounds at his ankles. His legs finally free, he gathered himself to his feet and had barely enough time to kick away one of the Chitauri's rifles before it hurled a fist at him. It caught him straight in the chest and he was certain some of his ribs broke on the impact as he toppled onto the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
This was it. This was the day he was going to die, with two Chitauri coming straight toward him. He couldn't get out, he couldn't move, he could barely breathe—
There was a guttural shriek followed by sickly sputtering, and no killing blow upon him. Clint looked up, nearly blinded with pain, to see the Chitauri guard writhing in pain, a shattered end of a meter stick pierced through its chest. The metal twisted within its body with a brutal, moist crunch as bones and insides contorted within the body before sinking back into the skin. The guard fell to the ground, dead before it touched the floor, blood pooling from its nose, mouth, and wound, revealing Natasha behind it—her eyes flashing with danger.
The moment the spy laid its eyes on Natasha in the room, it charged toward her with such speed that Clint panicked for her survival. Before more carnage could play out, she rolled out of the way, sending the spy crashing into a dark-clad figure (he knew who it had to be before he even saw who it was). Loki, armed with his all-too-familiar scepter, bashed the spy against the head with his weapon until it fell at his feet. Natasha launched herself around its neck, and with her charged suit, shocked it into paralysis. It jerked at the jolt and fell to the ground underneath her.
"Leave it!" said Natasha as Loki stepped forward, holding his scepter aloft. "We'll question it ourselves."
Before Loki could silently protest, Natasha hurried to Clint's side. Clint could barely hold himself up off the ground, his right side nearly useless. With a flick of a hidden blade she sliced off his bounds and his arms fell free. She pulled him off the ground, her careful hands trying to stem the heavily bleeding wound.
"Clint, I'm so sorry," she said. And it was absolutely, undoubtedly her—the gruff edge of her voice, the low whisper, everything was unmistakably her, saying all the words Clint knew to expect from her. "We're going to get you out of here and fix you up, and—Clint, stay with me. I'm so sorry."
His breathing was ragged and he didn't know if he would come out of this with his right arm anymore. Despite it all, he raised his eyes to Natasha and, seeing that she was perfectly unmarred by injuries, felt relief wash over him.
"Next time," he croaked, "we are so seducing Fury instead."
The look on Tony's face when he found out he had to transport both a half-conscious Clint and a Chitauri prisoner out of SHIELD headquarters in his Lamborghini would have made Loki laugh if it were in any other situation out of context. But there was no time for teasing or laughter when Clint was bleeding out and Loki found himself wanting to strike the spy with the blunt end of his staff every time he saw it twitch. He was used to traveling at breakneck speed, thanks to the Bifröst, but Tony's speed when he drove them back to the tower was like shuttling through light.
The moment the Lamborghini was safely inside the garage underneath Stark Tower, Natasha immediately supported Clint out of the car and away to medical help, where Bruce was waiting at the ready. Loki couldn't catch sight of her face before she whisked away with Clint, but he could imagine her face unreadable and yet strained with worry for her—her what?
Friend? Brother-in-arms? Lover?
He assumed Clint was the latter, and pretended that it made no difference.
Loki stood by the doors to the medic labs for a short amount of time.
Long enough, though, to see the medics bustle in and out, blood on their gloves and impersonal masks over their noses and mouths. Long enough to hear Clint screaming in pain behind the doors that slid open and shut so frequently. Long enough to know his rawest thoughts without even needing the scepter.
The wound was bad, that much Loki knew. Prolonged exposure to stress from being strung up on a hook, after all. And it was a hook of Chitauri technology, after all—the Chitauri were very advanced in their methods of pain. Infection ravaged the wound, spreading like wildfire, burning Clint's arm until the aloof master assassin couldn't hold back a sob. The wound festered too quickly, and the muscles were too torn.
Loki did not see Natasha anywhere. Perhaps she was with Clint right now, as blood poured from his arm. Maybe she kissed his forehead as he sobbed. Holding his hand, whispering promises that she had no power to keep, soothing his frayed mind. She had that effect, and Loki doubted he was the only one to notice.
He imagined them in close proximity to each other, their heartbeats a breadth away. What a strange thought to think.
He pretended that he did not recognize the pang of jealousy.
(What a lie. Was it not his closest companion? Was it not shame and hatred that had stayed by his side for as long as he lived, the most loyal of friends that held him tight in his darkest moments? Were they not the first to reach a hand to him when he fell? Did they not have the utmost faith in him?)
Loki's heart should rot in his chest, from all the black thoughts that coated it like slick tar. To pine for the attention of a mere mortal when someone else was obviously in more dire need of it. When said mere mortal would no doubt choose another when given the choice. Loki had a long memory—how Clint hesitated when he spoke of her that time Loki demanded Clint tell him everything about the Avengers, how the raw fear shone in Natasha's eyes when Loki threatened Clint's mind and life…truly, it should not have been a surprise.
He felt a weight upon him and blamed it on the stones in his pocket.
He watched the unyielding door. His mind told him to walk through them, to see Clint, to make sure he was all right—it was because of his scepter that the archer was injured, after all. But his legs refused to move, and he felt as if moving a single muscle would tear him apart. He was glued to this space on the floor, to these air particles, that kept him from moving forward. From seeing.
He imagined Natasha reading Clint poetry at his bedside and he gave a small smile. For someone who claimed all she had in her heart was an archive of debts, she knew very well how to show love.
He wondered, childishly, if she read to everyone she knew that got injured. She wondered if anything she did with Loki was solely for him, and his only, that she confided in him and none else. If it was not out of circumstance, but because she was she and he was he.
Was it selfish to wonder?
He imagined her holding Clint's hand tight as the worst of the pains wracked his body, her fingers interlocked with his. Their hands pressed so tightly together that the lines on their palm engraved into each other's flesh.
(He clasped his hands together as if in prayer and realized that he never knew what it felt like to fill the gaps between his fingers)
And Clint would scream and shatter Loki's thoughts, because Midgardian medicine could not put Clint to rest, nor could it stem the flow of the infection.
Loki closed his eyes, packaging his raw thoughts in a tight box and shoving them into the corners of his mind, before slipping through the metal doors. There were only three medics, Bruce included, that were able to help Clint. The table that Clint lay on was spattered with his blood and Clint was breathing shallowly and rapidly, his chest rising at an alarming rate. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched and trying to bite back a scream. The wound on his shoulder was mottled, almost blackened. Loki could recognize a cursed wound just by the smell of it, its stench wet and sickening.
"Loki, what are you doing here?" said Bruce the moment he saw Loki at the door. "You have to leave, we're just—we're swamped."
Loki's eyes darted to the figure standing a little ways off from the bed. Natasha was watching the medics with the intensity in her eyes that he came to recognize well. She clutched her arms stiffly, and he could tell that it took much of her not to be closer to Clint.
He took a step closer, almost challengingly. The medics were trying to sew up the wound, but the string they used dissolved as soon as it slipped through Clint's skin. Did they not realize the intensity of this wound?
"Loki, give them space," said Natasha. Her voice was thin but otherwise calm. "Let them do their job."
Did she doubt his abilities? He wanted to snort. While mortals were not completely clueless, they certainly still had ignorance.
"We're going to have to tie off his shoulder," said Bruce, his voice grim. "Nothing's stopping the bleeding. Any longer and he'll bleed out. Tourniquet, clamp, anything."
"No," choked out Clint, nearly delirious from the pain. "No, don't do it. You'll cut off my arm. You'll cut off my whole arm."
"Clint, we're doing this to help you, okay?" said Bruce. "Clint—listen—you have to trust me. You have to trust us."
"You can't. You can't," Clint said, and he was nearly in tears. "You can't cut it off. I'll be useless. I'll be nothing. You can't cut off my arm, you can't cut off me, Doc. Please—please, you can't."
"Clint—" Natasha said, but her voice was strangled and all pretty lies ran dry. Her eyes shone with dangerous tears that Loki was unaccustomed to. It struck him deeply.
One of the medics was about to cut off the circulation from Clint's arm with a tight cord until Loki put a hand on his wrist to stop him. The medic looked up reproachfully, trying to shake off Loki's hand.
"You have to leave, sir," said the medic, his voice evidently embittered. Loki was not popular even for SHIELD's live-in team.
Loki took a step closer, pushing his way to Clint's side. Before any of the others could pull him away, he put a hand upon Clint's bleeding shoulder.
The curse was immediately evident. It pulsed under his palm, squirming and itching like burrs. It bundled in Clint's shoulder like a ball of barbed wire, tearing at anything that did so much as graze it. He felt it wheeze and ooze like a sickly creature rearing its ugly head, seeking better prey.
"What are you doing?" said the medic. He grabbed Loki roughly by the arm to pull him away, but Loki turned and gave the medic such a stare that the medic backed away immediately. Loki turned back to Clint, who gasped for breath, his eyes upon Loki but barely seeing.
Just trust me.
Loki let one finger slip into the wound, into the warm sticky blood and ruined muscle. There were cries of protest around him, but Loki raised his other fist as if to say that anyone that tried to come near him was not going to come out untouched. Bruce was the only one of the three doctors that did not watch Loki with cries of indignation or anger, but instead with pensive patience and nervousness.
Just as his finger sank deep enough, the curse sensed his presence immediately. It was a hungry bastard, preying on strength and pain, and the moment it detected Loki's hand coursing with tempting power, it sought him out immediately. It dragged itself closer toward Loki's finger, running its claws through Clint's veins and muscles along the way. Clint groaned and let his head fall back, closing his eyes.
If you want me, come claim me.
He lifted his finger just enough to tempt the curse as it snapped its metaphorical jaws at his fingernail, desperate for a bite. He let out sparks of harmless magic from his fingertip to goad it further until it practically squirmed with excitement. Clint gasped at the sudden pain and Natasha immediately clutched Loki's elbow in worry. Loki jumped at the sudden contact, but he did not tear his attention away from the situation at hand.
"What the hell is he doing?" said one of the mortals.
"Stand back," said Bruce.
The curse finally caught Loki's fingertip, clinging to him with such intense force and Loki feared he would be pulled into Clint's body and devoured within his bloodstream. Keeping a grip on the curse, he firmly extracted his hand from Clint's shoulder as the curse tightened its hold on him. He grimaced at the sight of what dangled on his finger; Natasha's fingernails dug into his elbow and one of the doctors gave a cry of disgust. Like heavy tar, the sludge-like curse oozed from Loki's fingertip, stretching itself to engulf Loki's hand and still have enough to ooze toward the floor, heavy with burden. It burned at the touch, stinging like needles embedded in his skin. He felt as if it would rip his flesh should he try to wipe it off.
With steel in his eyes that spoke volumes of intimidation, he pointed to the door, gesturing—forcing—the other doctors to leave. He didn't particularly care if Bruce stayed, or Natasha, but those other mortals who thought they had any knowledge in healing might as well hang up their long white coats and take on another occupation.
"He wants you to leave," said Natasha behind him. He couldn't see her face. He couldn't tell what she felt.
"He has no authority—" started one.
Loki made a swift motion with his wrist, brandishing his hand forward until the black curse whipped toward the speaking doctor, reaching a near inch to his face before snapping it back toward Loki. It was enough to make the doctor gasp and stumble into Bruce, the look on his face indescribably worth it. Loki gave a smirk despite the pain that sank into his hand, now slowly inching toward his wrist.
The two medics had no problem leaving after that. Bruce, on the other hand, lingered, and Loki did not protest. He turned back to Clint, who still breathed shallowly on the table, but his sweat-dotted skin was not as gray as before and his body not as stiff and wracked in pain as it was earlier. Loki placed his uncursed hand upon the shoulder wound, trying to ignore how the black poison gnawed at his fingers, trying to find an opening. The wound was angry and bleeding, but no longer resilient against healing. Still, Clint had already lost a great deal of blood, and there was little time.
"You know how to heal this kind of wound?" said Bruce.
Loki nodded. With his free hand he dug into his pockets and pulled out a handful of healing stones. Bruce and Natasha gaped at the speckled stones bewilderedly. Clint took one look at them and groaned.
"This—better not be some stupid shiatsu treatment," he gasped out.
Loki batted him on the forehead for his impudence before swiftly crushing the stones in his hand into gritty powder. The dust sprinkled upon Clint's wound, clotting where the broken skin did not meet and sewing the wounds. Natasha's grip tightened on his elbow as Clint gave a moan of pain while the healing stone reconnected his bones, knitted his muscles, and healed his skin. Loki piled on more and more of the healing stone's remnants, watching carefully as the magic worked to its highest extent before fading into Clint's skin like snowflakes.
"Tony should get a load of this," Bruce said, his voice low.
Suddenly, a burning sensation shot up his arm and he stumbled back, the half-broken healing stones falling from his fingers. The curse was crawling up to his forearm now, still heavy and thick from his fingertips. Wherever it touched left a sensation so searing it froze him.
"Loki!" Natasha moved to wipe his arm clean, but Loki stepped away immediately, shaking his head. Drawing up his concentration he sent a jet of magic down his arm and through his fingertips, only for the spell to rebound from the curse that gloved his hand and shoot right through his veins. Regurgitated magic burned his insides on its way up and he stumbled back.
"How can we help?" said Bruce.
Loki pointed wildly to Clint.
At least help me finish the job, you idiots!
Bruce hesitated before giving Natasha a short nod. She did not hesitate in hurrying to Clint's side, repeating Loki's motion of breaking the stone and sprinkling the remnants onto his wound as it helped restore his blood into his veins. Loki forced himself not to watch, though the curse eating away at his hand did not feel as painful as it did before.
"What should I do? What can I do?" said Bruce. "Can I use something to wipe it away?"
Loki shook his head. Who knew how fast the curse would try to reach Bruce, especially if it could sense the powerful, unbelievable monster within him that broke all laws of nature—?
Loki gasped inaudibly. Of course—if anything could survive a plummet of several hundred meters, a bullet shot, and an entire invasion of Chitauri, surely a curse of this caliber would be nothing.
Not that he could count so readily on the beast, if the last time they encountered each other was when Loki was thrown against the floor. Maybe the beast could grab him by the ankles and fling him so hard that the curse would rip off of his arm.
Another jet of pain pierced through his skin and he stumbled back, flinching in pain. Bruce took a hold of his free arm quickly.
"Dammit, Loki, let me help! You're in pain," said Bruce.
Trust me, I'm not enjoying this either.
The pain sank into his muscles so badly that his arm jerked, slamming against the wall in reflex. Bruce gave a cry of frustration.
"What the hell is this thing?" said Bruce.
Loki raised his eyes to Bruce's, wondering if Bruce could tell it was a curse. Judging by the green hue of his face, it mattered not what it was but the fact that it was disgusting and unappetizing—
Green hue?
Well, he never knew that the beast could be unleashed if it was angry for someone, now.
Loki's eyes darted toward Natasha and Clint. There was that particular risk, but surely Bruce had the beast under enough control. Both of them survived when Loki prodded the unleashing of the beast upon the helicarrier, did they not?
The curse needled at his bones, like knives against kindling, and he knew he hadn't time to lose. He dramatically slammed his arm against the wall again, falling sharply onto his knees. Bruce was at his side immediately, hands flying all about him, desperately wanting to land to help but being unable to.
"Damn this thing, it's practically eating you!" said Bruce, his voice strained. "I don't care, I'm going to get it off you—"
Green speckled Bruce's jawline and side of the neck, but the beast was not awakened yet. Bruce's hands inched closer to Loki's, barely missing the black sludge of the curse. In an attempt to move away from Bruce's unprotected touch and to goad the beast even further, Loki jerked his arm back as if the pain was too unbearable and slumped to the floor, meanwhile feeling his sense of pride diminishing at every second.
"Loki!" Natasha's voice.
(He didn't expect that)
But all was pushed to the side when a great roar erupted in the room. Loki raised his head barely an inch just to see the transformation. Bruce's form immediately tripled in size, rippling a mossy green that ripped his clothes to strips. His hands ballooned to nearly the size of Loki's torso and Loki swallowed down the immediately instinct of fear at the sight of the beast (he still remembered how it felt to be flung around like a doll).
The Hulk gave a monstrous roar, beating his fist against his chest, and Loki wildly wondered if perhaps he took the wrong gamble. He forced himself not to back away, like a child itching to stay still as a wild wolf eyed it ravenously, evaluating the possibility of it being prey.
The beast is not mad at you. Maybe it was before, but not now. Stay calm. Keep breathing. Don't—
Loki caught sight of the look on Natasha's face and a flash of uncertain regret flared in him. Clint had only seen the beast when they fought on the same side, the beast tamed and united against the same enemy, so he had no fear. But Natasha had nearly been crushed by the beast, and the fear of it still lingered in her mind. The sight of her wide blue eyes and her drawn, taut face made him berate himself unmercifully.
Come, now, thought Loki, gritting his teeth as he propped himself up with one elbow, trying to draw the beast's attention. The beast growled and stamped its foot, causing cracks to trickle across the floor. Loki suppressed a wince. Come on, don't lose your focus, show your worth—
He raised his sickly arm off the ground toward the beast. The Hulk turned swiftly toward Loki, his face distorted with its permanent anger. He bared his teeth, slamming a fist against the wall and showering Loki with plaster.
"Loki, get out of there!" said Natasha. "Get away from him, I'll hold him off!"
But my dear, that would be terribly counter-productive.
Loki edged away from the Hulk, keeping his hand steady. The Hulk took a bow-legged step closer, his muscles swelling in his arms as if trying to force down the pent-up desire to destroy. Loki swallowed hard, hoping that the Hulk did not forget the reason why he came forth through Bruce.
In one last act, Loki squeezed his eyes shut and twisted his mouth in a silent cry, falling back and holding up his arm in a way that pointed all fingers of blame to the black curse upon it. He forced himself to seize up as if in an epileptic fit of pain, and judging by the indignant cries from Natasha, he was admirably believable.
The Hulk gave an outraged roar before reaching out and grabbing Loki roughly by the blackened forearm. Loki sucked in sharp intake of breath, the fear that his plan had gone awry racing through his mind. He braced himself for the counteraction, to be lifted off the ground and flung out the window.
Instead, the Hulk wrenched the black tar from his arm in such a brash movement that it slicked right off and nearly popped Loki's arm out of its socket in the process. He fell back as the Hulk's fingers stuck together from the resilient curse, roaring with frustration as the curse would not fall from his hand. Loki prayed that he was not wrong about the Hulk—and ultimately Bruce—having immunity to the curse.
The Hulk swung his hand, trying to shake off the stubborn curse that clung to his hand. Loki gritted his teeth before conjuring a fiery jet of magic, shooting it toward the Hulk's hand. It landed against the black sludge, searing it until it screamed like hot oil. The Hulk bayed in pain and he thrashed about, slamming against the wall and threatening to topple the ceiling. Loki swallowed hard, trying to edge away from the Hulk's reach.
The curse on his hand shriveled, shrinking in size, but it still lived on. There were scorch marks on the Hulk's wrist, but that was little compared to the potential damage the curse could place on anyone should it be given the chance. Scraping dregs from his magic reservoir, Loki flung a desperate surge of power at the Hulk's hand until it consumed the curse from his hand, taking a layer of skin in the process. With a last sputter and screech, the curse dissipated from existence.
The Hulk gave a thunderous yowl of pain. Hot burns splotched his fingers, but no trace of black lingered. Loki gave a sigh of relief and dug the one healing stone left in his pocket. Climbing to his feet, he reached out to the Hulk, but before he could crush the rock and heal his hand, the Hulk—in a fit of indignation and pain—struck Loki in the chest and sent him flying against—through—the wall.
Loki was no stranger to heavy blows. Heaven knows how many times Thor swung Mjölnir and hit him in the chest, sending him many leagues across the field. But to be punched in the chest and breaking through a heavily built wall before crashing against the heavily laden bookshelf of a study room was not a feeling he was ever going to get used to. The air was completely knocked out of him and he could barely gasp for breath as he fell against the floor, heavy tomes raining down on him.
Perhaps this wasn't one of his brightest ideas.
"Loki?" Natasha's voice cried out from the other room. "Loki, are you okay?"
Loki swallowed down a groan of pain as he rolled onto his back, his chest and back throbbing. The stone was still intact in his palm, at least.
He heard the roar of the Hulk in the other room and his eyes shot open immediately. Did he truly just leave Natasha and Clint in the other room defenseless with the beast (albeit unwillingly)? He pulled himself off the ground, gasping as his bruised bones refused to move properly for him. Bracing himself for the onslaught of aches, he rushed through the hole in the wall to return to the room.
The Hulk, gingerly holding up his burned hand, was towering over Clint and Natasha. Clint was still nursing his half-healed shoulder, but had pushed Natasha away from the Hulk's dangerous attention. The Hulk roared, swiping blindly to avenge his injury, nearly knocking Clint to the ground.
"Loki, throw the stone!" said Clint, raising a hand.
Loki immediately flung the stone over the Hulk's shoulder. Clint reached out and caught it, crushing it swiftly in one hand and slapping the powder on the Hulk's burns. The Hulk gave a screech at Clint's contact, but as the healing stone covered his burns and soothed the hurt, he quieted, beholding his hand astonishingly. The burns smoothed over and the angry red faded, leaving his hand as green as ever.
"Oh, thank God," Natasha said, her voice breathless.
The Hulk backed away, running his other thumb over his fully healed hand, his anger disintegrated into confusion. Loki expected the transformation before it happened; the Hulk's bulk began to skim away, his towering form shrunk, his features softened and his skin paled, until Bruce Banner stood before them, slightly disoriented but full and whole, still cradling his hand bemusedly.
"Oh God," said Clint, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I am so done."
Bruce was at a loss of words. He looked back at his hand, then to Clint and his half-healed shoulder, to Natasha who looked as if the world was just at Ragnorak's front door before miracles saved it from ultimate destruction, then to Loki, who was somehow still holding himself upright on both feet.
"The curse—that sludge monster—" said Bruce.
"It's gone," said Natasha. "Loki burned it off of the other guy."
Bruce turned reproachfully to Loki.
"You brought out the other guy on purpose, didn't you?" said Bruce.
Loki gave a weak smile.
"You son of a bitch," Bruce said before giving a groan of exasperated relief.
Loki nearly laughed, except his ribs suddenly ached and he stumbled back, falling against the wall. Natasha was at his side immediately, supporting him on his feet. Her hands pressed against his injured ribs and for a moment Loki forgot that they hurt.
"Oh damn, I'm sorry," said Bruce. "Shit—oh my word—I ruined this whole place. Are you okay? Did I break bones? Natasha? Clint?"
"I am a thousand percent done with the wackos in this tower," Clint said, rubbing his forehead.
"I'm so sorry," said Bruce. He helped ease Loki to the ground, feeling his battered ribs. "There isn't anything broken—thank goodness you Asgardians have bones of steel—my word, Loki, couldn't there have been any other way of going about this without all the risk?"
Did Bruce think that Loki was known to be the difficult trickster for no reason?
"You guys are freaking crazy," Clint said, his voice muffled with his hand. "Holy shit, I can move my hand. I can—oh my God."
He raised his arm, wincing when the still sore muscle twang uncomfortably. The look on his face was a mixture of jubilation and shock as he rubbed his intact shoulder. He looked at Loki, eyes wide.
"You—Holy crap," said Clint.
Loki couldn't help but smile wryly. Clint's way of expressing thanks was amusing. He wished he could laugh.
"How the hell does no one come around with the other guy smashing about?" said Natasha, pulling Loki's arm around her shoulders. Loki tried to pull away (he was bruised, not paraplegic) but her grip was iron-tight as if to punish him for putting himself on the line.
"Soundproof walls, remember?" Clint said.
"New rule," said Bruce, still distraught. "Never—ever—try to bring out the other guy on purpose again."
Loki shook his head and grinned. So much for a soft side.
(In his chest, Loki did not notice. Underneath his ribs, where the Hulk's fist collided, the Mind Gem shuddered. A hair-thin ridge trickled down its surface, as long as a splinter.
A crack)