Author's Note: Sorry. Delayed because of mental health issues on my part. Last week was hell. :)

Disclaimer: No.

Warnings: Implied/referenced torture. Anxiety attacks, dissociative episode.

I'm terrified of this dark thing that sleeps in me.

-Unkown

Chapter Four:

Moving far too quickly for Clint's—admittedly weak—emotional stability to handle, Fury is angrily sweeping them out of the conference room a few minutes later to go meet with the Chitauri. Clint has exactly zero memories of any of the Avengers agreeing to babysit or even be present in the room, but it's happening all the same. Maybe Steve said something. Who knows? The annoying part is that Clint doesn't not want to be there as Loki goes and chats up his once-allies. But still.

There are exactly two places that the Chitauri are located according to Fury, and that's the NY Helicarrier and some base in the middle of Kansas that Clint thinks is probably fake. The Kansas base supposedly holds the corpses of the actually dead-dead ones, so they won't need to go there anyway, but that doesn't make its existence any more believable to Clint. Fury thought it was best, after the Chitauri escaped the first time, to keep them close to home just in case.

Unfortunately, this means there's no preparation time. No long drive or plane ride, just them being herded from the room, swarmed by the security team again and then striding into the depths of the Helicarrier to go talk with the aliens. Like this is a normal thing they do every other Saturday for fun.

Clint's not really sure he's thinking anymore. He's certainly not feeling. His entire body has numbed out, or, if not that, it's so dull that sensation is practically not there. He breathes out tightly, air feeling trapped inside of his lungs like he can't exhale enough to get it all out. He keeps his hands securely stuffed inside of his jacket's pockets, determined not to freak out.

He feels stupid and childish because it's very unlikely that the Chitauri have the scepter stuffed under a pillow and plan to hand it to Loki right then and there and watch him raise hell. But his brain has latched onto the idea of a long, complicated plot where Loki gains their trust only to betray and control them and refuses to let it go.

Loki can barely stand up. He's not plotting our collective murder.

He's not getting into my head again.

(He already has. What else are those dreams?)

Around him, he notices that the rest of his team doesn't look any happier to be down here. Steve in particular looks like the maximum effort he should be pouring into anything is making his way toward a chair so he can sit down. His entire body weight is rocking dangerously against his crutch. Bruce and Tony, on either side of him have to keep reaching over to grab him so he won't fall over.

That makes Clint angry, but he refrains from glaring at the back of Fury and Hill's heads solely because of their escort.

All too soon, they're entering the cell block. The entire area reeks of precautionary security. Cameras, guards, guns, and general mistrust of everyone's intentions are spread throughout the hall. The door is several inches of thick metal, behind yet even more security via fingerprinting and passcodes, and Clint realizes that this is one of the cell blocks that are normally used to hold enhanced humans.

Makes sense. The Chitauri aren't human and won't be stopped by normal methods of imprisonment.

Clint isn't really paying much attention, too busy prepping himself for an anxiety attack in the middle of an anxiety attack, but Loki somehow manages to convince Fury that the conversation would go over better if he wasn't wearing handcuffs, which Clint thinks was definitely a bit of manipulation on the Asgardian's part, but it's fine. Loki (sarcastically, mind you) says that they can shoot him if he does something they don't agree with, so.

Clint has time to take one deep, ragged breath before they enter the cell block. The long hall is about ten cells on either side with no door at the end of it. There are no windows anywhere. The only way in and out of this room is through the door they entered through. The cells aren't large, maybe ten by ten, separated by thick metal sheets. Everything—beds, sinks, furniture—has clearly been stripped from the room, leaving them bare and awkwardly spotty from peeled paint. There are no bars, just glass.

Two helmeted S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stand at the end of the block, armed to the teeth with large, heavy guns Clint recognizes, but he doesn't know from where. Maybe the weapons that the Tesseract was supposed to fuel? No, they're not bulky enough. They're the Chitauri's weapons, probably gathered up with the other couple hundred when they were cleaning up the city.

Great.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is nothing if not paranoid and thorough about their paranoia.

Clint bites at the inside of his cheek to brace himself, then forces himself to look up.

Chitauri, alive, moving, breathing Chitauri are standing or sitting in the cells, grouped in as many as fifteen to about seven. As the eight of them slowly descend into the hall, leaving the security team behind them, the Chitauri take an interest, rising to their feet and approaching them. There's pointing and hands pushing up against the glass, fingers spread wide as if attempting to take up as much surface area as possible.

Clint can see several dozen eyes pin onto Loki, who's standing next to him, and there's a chorus of what sounds like throaty laughter. Unease twists in Clint's stomach and he tries not to flinch away from the sound. Clint feels like he's some sort of exhibit for the creatures to look at. Like he's the one behind glass.

Around him, his team seems to collectively grow tighter. Shoulders draw up, hands sliding toward weapons. The creatures can't hurt them, not like this, but it doesn't seem to matter. They all remember what those hands felt like.

Bruce's hand reaches out silently to grip Tony's shoulder, and Clint realizes then that the engineer's face has lost any color to it. His brown eyes are blown wide and he looks like he might be sick. He doesn't move away from Bruce's hand or try to shove him off, which is somehow worse than any protesting would be. Because if Tony was aware enough to start shoving off obvious signs of comfort, then he wouldn't be floating off into whatever anxiety spiral his brain has cooked up.

They shouldn't have let him come in here. Tony's PTSD around New York has gotten better, but throwing yourself headfirst at potential triggers is always a stupid idea.

Clint's teeth grit, and he forces his gaze away from the man. Bruce will take care of him. Clint can smack Tony over the head later for being an idiot, but for right now, Bruce will make sure Tony makes it to the smacking. A quick look at Nat and Steve reveals that, though they're uncomfortable, neither is in danger of passing out. Except maybe Steve, but that's for injury-related purposes.

Fury and Hill's eyes are boring into the side of Loki's head as if trying to dare him to do anything they don't like. Their hands are resting on their weapons pointedly.

Clint's jaw bunches tighter, but his gaze snaps back to the Asgardian when Loki takes a step forward. His posture is radiating tension, and he's not breathing deeply. To an untrained eye, Clint would say he almost looks relaxed, but Clint has grown more familiar than he would like with Loki's body language in the last five months. This agitation is obvious.

And strange.

Because Clint would have bet good money that Loki would be happy to see his Chitauri buddies. Clint's not going to make the claim that Loki likes them very much, but they were his allies at one point. That's how this works, isn't it? Loki comes to them with a new deal, they break him out from under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s thumb and whisk him away to somewhere Odin can't get to him. Or make him so powerful Odin wouldn't want to.

Loki's hands fall to his sides, and he keeps them there, rigidly. Fists clenched, it almost hides the shaking. Then he exhales softly and says, "Na'axik, you're not looking well. Prison hasn't done you any favors."

Names.

They have names.

Why didn't it occur to him that the Chitauri would have names? Or that Loki would know them? Looking at the Chitauri, they seem to be carbon copies of each other. Mindless and disgusting in appearance, lusting for blood because that's what they do. But they're living creatures. With names and histories.

One of the Chitauri slaps the palm of their hand against the glass in anger. Loki withdraws visibly. There's a heavy-looking shoulder plate across this Chitauri's right shoulder that has heavier designs than the others. Clint assumes this is some sort of commander or captain. This was an army at one point he reminds himself, as weird as it is to think about that. This, Clint assumes, is probably Na'axik.

Clint shifts his feet, resisting the urge to pick at his fingernails or anxiously touch his hearing aids. He forces himself to remain calm and imposing, non-reactant. He's not going to put on a show for these freaks. He can see Tony openly staring at one of the other Chituari, fixed in a stare-off, the Engineer apparently not sharing his attitude. Clint doesn't know how he stands it. He's doing his utmost to desperately avoid any eye contact. He watches as Na'axik opens its mouth, completely prepared for the gibberish clicking that he remembers from before and—

"Ha! Prison! As if these petty walls could hold us." Na'axik snarls. The hand pressed against the glass curls into a fist. "If your intent is to mock, try harder."

Clint's brain stumbles over itself.

They—

It—

What the heck? Since when do they know English? Hill said their linguists hadn't had any luck. Fury just said that they couldn't let Loki talk to them because they wouldn't understand what was being said. Clint stops, eyes wide, shooting Natasha a bewildered look. But she doesn't return it, focused intently on the creatures. Her mouth is pushed into a thin line and her gaze keeps jumping between Na'axik and Loki.

"At yet," Loki's voice is silk, "they've yet to yield to you."

Na'axik hisses. A deep, throaty warning sound. Loki draws back a fraction from it. "As if you are one to talk, lost creature," it growls, "you stand here with no less than seven guards ready to kill you. Aren't these the very beings that brought you low? And now you bend to their mercy. Pathetic."

Na'axik's voice is familiar. Clint has heard it before, but he doesn't know where and it terrifies him. (It's Loki leaking into his brain. Loki knows who this is. I know him because Loki knows him and this whole thing is so messed up and oh my gosh what is HAPPENING—)

Loki waves a shaking hand nonchalantly, "Merely a setback, I assure you."

Na'axik laughs, and the other Chitauri follow. It sounds like loud, hoarse clicking. Clint's tongue pushes against the back of his teeth, his stomach muscles tightening. Beside him, Natasha's face grows wary.

"A setback, it says!" Na'axik snorts, "What a game you play with yourself, lost creature!"

"Fantasy has always been the favorite of the lost one." A different Chitauri says, snickering. "Always had to pretend."

"I'm not here to trade barbs." Loki snaps, seeming irritated. But the tension has only grown worse in his hands, and his body is rigid. "I—"

"Pretend that the Master cared for it," another Chitauri pipes in. And then there's a chorus of them, mocking with pointed jabs. Overlapping and working around each other, as if every creature within the glass encasement needed to say something.

"Pretend that it would be found."

"Pretend that it's not-family wanted to find it."

"Pretending to be strong."

"Pretending not to bow."

And Clint would be the first to admit that out of everything he expected the Chitauri to do...this wasn't even on the list. Did he expect a little backtalk? Maybe. But he hadn't counted on being able to understand what was going on. And honestly? This? This isn't something he would say to his superiors without fear of being beheaded. And Loki was, wasn't he? He was at the head of the army when they came flaunting into Manhattan. He was the one that was the figurehead. It was his plan. His war. His idea.

And yet…

Loki's just standing there. He's not angry like Clint would have expected him to be if this was the first time this happened. He's avoiding eye contact like it will physically harm him, but he's not silently seething. He just seems resigned.

"What are they doing?" Natasha whispers. Clint opens his mouth before realizing that the question is directed at Loki, not the universe in general. Doesn't she—they're speaking English, suddenly, because they can do that conveniently, so why is she asking—?

Loki takes a second to answer, as if the effort to speak is considerable, "Talking amongst themselves. Terrible gossips. They need a second to focus."

Clint shoots the back of his head a confused glance. That's not what they're—

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hits him like a physically painful, brutal blow. It makes his stomach tighten and his tongue stick in his dry throat. Clint's body numbs out in a rush as if the rush of anxious energy that washes through it is too much to process and his brain has simply crashed in response.

In the privacy of his mind, Clint swears. Loud and darkly, as if it would actually help or offer any relief. Clint feels like laughing. Laughing hard and bitterly, because of course. Of course. It's not enough that his sleep schedule has been warped, played with, and turned into something monstrous. It's not enough that he sometimes gets a reflection of his eyes and shudders back from it. Not enough that what little he does remember from those days haunts him.

No.

Because the Chitauri aren't speaking English. And neither is Loki. They're talking in the creature's mother tongue, and Clint understands what they're saying anyway. Like he's some sort of instinctive polyglot, picking up the language just by hearing a few sentences.

This is some sort of cosmic joke. And yet, he knows that if he opened his mouth to talk, he'd be able to speak it without a problem.

This is—

It—

Why—?

This is just another fun side effect of Loki's staff on top of everything else. A gift that keeps on giving. That is, a soft voice reminds in the back of his head, if you were ever let go in the first place. You could still be tethered to him.

Clint digs his fingernails into his palms. The world feels like it's spinning. Loki is saying something else to the Chitauri, but Clint's deaf to it. He's watching them talk and not understanding and that's what it should be, instead of...of this. Of Loki's staff leaving lingering stains all over his mind and, oh, man, is it ever going to be mine again?

Natasha's hand is on his elbow suddenly, and he flinches at the contact. His eyes jump to her, off of Loki, off of them, and he inhales sharply as if remembering to breathe for the first time in hours. Natasha's green eyes hold his gaze for long seconds. With her other hand, she makes a quick o shape and then brings her thumb up between her middle and pointer finger making a sideways V and raises her eyebrows in question.

O-K?

Clint realizes then that he's signing no, over and over again like a nervous twitch, and forces his fingers to stop moving. His lips push together tightly. He shakes his head as if it wasn't already clear enough that he's not.

Natasha squeezes his elbow in reassurance.

It doesn't help.

"—do you intend to sit here and deride me?" Loki asks, voice thin. Clint can see that his eyes are tight around the edges, gaze fixed just above Na'axik's head. He seems calm. He's not calm. Now that Clint's paying attention, he notices that Loki also speaking with a thick accent, one that he didn't have when he was speaking English and that the Chitauri don't share.

Freaking—I shouldn't be able to understand any of this. I shouldn't be able to—

Na'axik snickers, then asks casually, "Shouldn't we?"

The insubordination alone. This doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense. Clint shifts his feet, trying to force himself to breathe, but it feels like an impossible weight has settled onto his chest. He can't release it. Natasha's hand starts to pull him back, but he stands his ground. The thought of leaving is horrifying. It's worse than being forced to stay here and pass out. He can't leave. If he leaves, then they'll never know what Loki and the Chitauri were talking about. He has to stay here. He has to.

"Are you not curious why I'm here?" Loki's tone is tense. "You and I both know after the battle was completed I had every intention of never seeing any of you again."

Na'axik hums with clear false agreement then smirks, "We were going to be your law, lost one, even then. There is no way for you to escape us."

Escape them?

This is not an insubordinate talking to their superior. This is—Clint doesn't know what this is. It sounds like someone mocking their captive. But that doesn't make sense. Loki was working with them. By choice.

(But did he ever tell them that? Directly?)

Loki folds his arms across his chest. Subconscious self-comforting gesture. The words are getting to him, then. Fantastic. In a tone short of patience, Loki asks, "What have you done with my brother? Where is he?"

"Oh, so you have a brother now? Who would that be?" Na'axik is amused.

"Stop playing games with me!" Loki snarls. He takes a step forward and Clint can feel a drop in the temperature of the room in response to his anger. Breath escapes Clint in a harsh, faint plume. Natasha's fingers are making his forearm go numb now. It's probably the only thing keeping him from completely dissociating.

"Loki." Fury says in warning, hand on his .45. When Clint looks at him, he can see that Fury's face is tense. "We agreed no magic."

Loki ignores him entirely, staring furiously at the lower half of Na'axik's face.

Na'axik isn't even phased, relaxed, yes, even a little jovial, but not scared. "Lost one, we have been playing games with you since you fell into our world. Do you think simply because the Master pulled you from our clutches for a greater purpose that it makes you more worthy than us? You are no better than these sniveling Terrans." Na'axik gestures at them with his chin.

Fell into their world? The Master? What are they talking about? Maybe they're just—no. They don't have any reason to lie. As far as they're concerned, Loki is the only one who can understand them. This…oh, man. How much do they genuinely understand about what happened during the Battle? Because Clint is beginning to think that what they know is shoddily matching up with reality.

"So you took my brother as punishment?" Loki asks, aghast.

Is he still breathing? Clint doesn't know anymore. This is fine. Get it together, Barton. He forces in a rattling lungful of air between clenched teeth. He can't focus on anything else. He can see his team moving around him, breathing, shifting, staring, but his attention is fixed on Loki and the Chituari. Steve keeps staring at them though. Clint starts to look at him, confused, noticing that Steve's skin is almost white, but Na'aixk tilts its head and Clint's attention snaps back on the threat.

Na'axik stares at Loki for a long second, challenging him. Loki still refuses to meet his gaze, even as Na'axik challenges, "Did we?"

"You're the master of lies, tell us." One of the other Chitauri motivates. There's a following chorus of taunting encouragement. They're making him guess? Clint doesn't know what he would say in response to that. He can't tell. He doesn't know if the Chitauri are taunting Loki or they legitimately took Thor. He looks at Loki's back, a desperate sort of gnawing horror sitting in his chest.

Loki hesitates, then, reluctantly, "I am uncertain."

He's…just…telling them that?

Why didn't he just lie?

Na'axik nods, apparently having expected that answer. "Hm. Disappointing. You're never living up to your potential. Your brother, however..." Na'axik snickers, "Well, the Odinson has ten times the strength that you will ever hope to achieve. You are weak, like a mewling, crawling baby animal. But don't worry, because where you failed, your not-brother will succeed."

Loki's temper flares, "If you hurt him—"

Na'axik gestures around itself, "What will you do? What? We are the ones protected in this Terran cage. You are defenseless with your enemies surrounding you."

"Their security will mean little in the face of my wrath," Loki says lowly.

Na'axik scoffs. "Child, if you were worth being afraid of, we would all be trembling. You are but an annoying insect. But don't worry, because the Master intends to squash you himself. I'm sure he'll let me get a few hits in before we return you to the Sanctuary."

Loki's eyes drop, locking onto Na'axik's for the first time. "Return—?" Loki starts to repeat, his voice breathless and filled with such open terror that Clint takes a half step forward, almost reaching out for him. Part of him is terrified that if he does, the Chitauri will use this against the Asgardian.

Na'axik slams a hand against the glass and it cracks loudly, causing Loki to violently flinch and stumble back as all of them draw weapons and brace for impact. Natasha releases him to grab her .45 and Clint unsheathes his knife, both of them a half-step ahead of Loki. They wait, breathless, waiting, baited, but Na'axik only laughs, making no move to continue slamming against the glass. It was only meant as a jump scare, not an escape attempt.

"Look how the lost one trembles. He does remember us, then, even after all that the Master did." Na'axik says, and the Chitauri laugh. The chortling is sharp and painful to listen to. Clint doesn't move, keeping his weapon appraised, watching.

"Loki," Natasha says, cautious.

Clint's not sure that he heard her. Loki's face is almost white. His entire body is rigid. "What—" Loki swallows hard. "What did he—?"

Na'axik stares at him for a moment before laughing hard. "You don't remember? He doesn't remember!"

"I—" Loki intones weakly.

"Perhaps the Master gave him one too many sessions with the Stone. We'll have to bear that in mind for the Odinson," a different Chitauri says. Oh man. Thor.

This seems to dredge up some last reserves out of Loki as he breathes furiously, "I will not let you keep my brother."

"Perhaps you'd like us to take you to him." One of the other Chitauri suggests in a sing-song tone, "We'd be all too happy to show you."

"N-no—I—" Loki protests, taking another step back. Clint raises his knife.

One of the Chitauri toward the back of the pack snaps its head in a sharp, jerking movement. Beside Clint, Tony releases a hoarse, wheezing sound and collapses. Bruce makes a violent grab for him to stop him from smacking against the floor. His armfuls of limbs and fists of clothing only slow the descent rather than delay it. Tony is trembling, his skin so white it's almost glowing. Clint starts to move toward him, swearing under his breath, but Steve apparently decides to follow Tony's lead and starts to go down as well.

What the—?

Natasha's defensive position drops to grab for the Captain, Clint only a second behind her. Between both of them, they manage to keep Steve mostly upright.

Like Tony, his face is chalky, the super soldier's bare skin uncomfortably warm to the touch and his face is creased with pain. His breath is coming out in thin, wheezy pants. "What?" Steve asks, confused. He's not supporting himself, shaking softly in their grasp, heavy and uncoordinated.

Natasha swears in Russian.

Na'axik snickers behind him. "Oh, lost one," he sighs, "are we having a bit of trouble?"

"Shut up." Loki snarls and Clint turns slightly to see him making his way on unsteady legs toward Tony. The Asgardian is rigid as he drops beside the multi-billionaire and taps at his face with his palm. Bruce watches helplessly, catching Clint's eye for a moment, looking slightly desperate. He has no idea what's wrong.

Loki, however, apparently does. He swears softly in Asgardian, muttering something under his breath that they're all probably better off not understanding before he lifts up shaking hands. He spares a brief glance up toward Fury, eyes blown wide before he says in an awkward slur of English with some mixture of a Norwegian and Chitaurian accent, "I swear, if you shoot me for helping him..."

What?

"Loki—" Hill starts to protest, but it's too late.

Loki grabs at Tony's skull. There's a sharp sensation of the air drawing in harshly around them before Tony jerks upward with a violent gasp. Loki leans in to study his face for a moment before he's getting up on shaky legs and making his way toward them. Tony's eyes rapidly jump across the room and he breathes out in a gust, trembling. Bruce squats down beside him and grips his wrists in silent support.

Clint turns a fraction, but Loki is already there, grabbing Steve's face in the same manner. Up close, Clint watches as faint greenish-yellow pushes underneath Steve's skin. Steve jerks, tumbling back into himself. He gasps sharply, groaning, his head snapping down toward his leg with desperation. His voice is a trembling gasp, "make it stop, it's burning. Oh g—Make it stop, make it stop, make it—"

Steve screams, starting to fight them desperately, attempting to reach for his injury as if he intends to tear his hand through his thigh. Tony jerks violently in response to it.

Clint fights Steve, his body jerking against the desperate motions, swearing sharply.

What the heck is going on?

"You're always leaving out the important details," Na'axik says, laughing quietly. "Really thought the Master had broken omissions from you, but...well, perhaps there's more work for us in the future."

Clint has never been more tempted to deck something. Cause honestly, screw you, buddy. With his back to the Chitauri, Loki allows himself a moment of weakness, breathing out raggedly and pushing the back of a clenched fist against his forehead for a moment, soundlessly chanting some sort of curse over and over. He looks like he's a second from teetering off the edge of a panic attack.

That is if the Chitauri don't just shove him over first.

"Alright, that's it. Interrogation over," Fury says, seeming to have regained control of his voice. "We need to get those two to medical."

Oh, thank God.

Loki turns to face him, wobbling obviously. If Clint wasn't wrestling with Steve to keep him from trying to claw his leg off, then he would have reached out to steady him. Loki sounds desperate, his voice still doesn't sound like his own, "It's nothing that can't wait, and I'm close to something—"

"No, we're done. You got your five minutes. The Captain and Stark need to be in medical." Fury says sharply. His face is tight, unsettled. "Get up. We're getting them there before their hearts give out."

Steve fights them desperately, pleading with them to stop it; Tony hasn't said a word, eyes slightly glassy and far away. Loki looks between the two before finally relenting and letting his shoulders drop. He was going to continue to fight the Chitauri for information about Thor. Despite the fact that the Chitauri clearly petrify him, Thor is more important to him.

Clint has no idea what to do with this realization, so he doesn't do anything and throws it into the back of his mind to contemplate later with all the other things he doesn't want to think about.

Clint and Natasha start to carefully help-fight-Steve out of the room as Bruce helps a silent, wordless Tony. Clint can feel the eyes of the Chitauri on their backs, watching.

"Sanctuary is waiting, lost one," Na'axik warns, tone soft. "You'll be back."

Clint looks back at the Asgardian for a moment. Loki, for as long as Clint has known him, has always kept his emotions carefully kept tucked away behind walls and walls of masks. Any emotion that Clint has seen he knows Loki let him. Loki is always in control. But as he looks at him, Clint sees as the masks break, shattering and leaving behind raw, unadulterated panic to slip across his features. Clint is tempted, right there, right then, to demand answers. To demand what the heck is going on. What they missed the first time around because obviously, it was something.

Loki is barely holding himself together. Clint doesn't say anything. He bites his cheek and ducks his head instead, pretending he didn't see.

000o000

Tony and Steve are both carted over to medical, where Clint fully expects them to have contracted some sort of horrible disease you only catch from making eye contact with aliens. Surprisingly, that's definitely not a thing. After a few body scans and a quick CT, thank God for S.H.I.E.L.D. tech, both are declared unharmed from the whole ordeal, but "they'll keep an eye on it" and "run a few more tests later."

For right now, Steve is given an ungodly amount of painkillers and a sedative. The staff keep shooting Fury annoyed looks throughout the whole process, which makes Clint more convinced that Steve's escapade was probably his own idea at first that was then goaded on by the director.

Tony, who's barely said maybe four or five sentences since they left the cell block, asks for a sedative. The attending doctor says that's probably for the best and has the nurse go get one for him. While Fury, Hill, Nat, and Bruce are standing around Tony, Clint slips out of the room and goes to find where Loki is sitting in the waiting room. Security protocol wouldn't let Loki any closer than this. Putting someone who's a threat near all the sharp pointy objects? Yeah. No thanks. Medical is practically an arsenal in the right hands.

The security team, only nearly one dozen now instead of two, is still standing around the room, waiting for Loki to do something stupid, and Clint nearly rolls his eyes. Paranoid buggers.

Loki's hands are back in cuffs again, but Loki doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are staring forward listlessly, mind obviously very far away. Face ashen, lips bloodless and the faint, almost undetectable scratches on the sides of his cheeks from his flashback yesterday (oh, man, was that only yesterday?), Loki looks like a gaunt, tired, traumatized college student.

He's not young, but at that moment, he looks the part.

Clint swallows hard, inwardly debating with himself for a long moment. Part of him is tempted to let everything go and pretend as if nothing happened. No way, man, I totally did not understand the conversation you just had in a language I couldn't speak yesterday. That's ridiculous. Why would that happen unless your brain is leaking into mine? Haha, great talking with you. Please leave me alone forever.

Clint drops into the chair beside the Asgardian heavily. Loki twitches, but the reaction seems instinctive rather than conscious. That doesn't comfort Clint in the slightest. The Asgardian smells like blood.

His brain is scrambling now, trying desperately to put together the random puzzle pieces Thor has told him about Loki's time with the Chitauri. Or at least, what Thor knows. Loki fell into the Void. Loki came back close to a year and a half later, mad, and attempted to conquer a planet with the Chitauri as his allies. Thor's entire family was convinced that Loki had died.

Thor didn't recognize Loki.

He had the most gentle soul, Thor said, which Clint had thought was absolute crap at the time, but this was within the first two weeks of Loki being on Earth, I don't know what happened to him, but I suspect it wasn't pleasant.

Clint releases a soft breath, then stops running his fingers across his left ear's hearing aid and looks at Loki's profile. "Are you okay?" he asks, quiet.

Loki seems to take several seconds to process the question. He's silent for a long beat before he pushes his fingers together. "I unraveled my stitches again."

Crap.

"Right." Clint says, rubbing at his face, tired, and withholding a stronger cuss. "You really need to stop using magic until those heal." Loki's arms are going to fall off from sheer annoyance one of these days, and then they'll just stare up accusingly at all of them for not trying harder to keep them attached to Loki's body. It's frustrating because the Avengers know and Loki knows that Loki using magic is not out of don't blow up the world but a necessity so the younger Asgardian doesn't hemorrhage, but Loki keeps using magic anyway.

It's instinctive, like using your elbows. You don't think about using your elbows until they're in pain.

Loki expels humorlessly. "Believe me, I'm trying."

Clint rubs at his forehead. "I know." He promises, relenting. "Can it wait? Unless you want someone here to do it—"

"No." Loki interrupts quickly. "I can wait."

That's definitely a lie, but Clint's going to let it slide for right now. He doesn't want to fight Loki on this. He's silent for a long few moments before repeating, quieter, "But seriously. Are you okay?"

Loki is silent for a long moment before whispering, "No."

Well. Okay. So that's probably a sign of Armageddon. Nice.

Clint shifts, leaning forward a fraction. If they weren't surrounded by ten agents, Clint thinks he would have told him right here. I know what you said. I know what you know. Clint strains for anything to say, but he doesn't think there's anything that he could without incriminating himself. He wants to tell Loki that he's not going back to whatever the heck Sanctuary is over Clint's moldering corpse, but again, security.

Clint settles for reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. Loki flinches badly, then looks at him. His brow is pinched, but his green eyes are wide. Clint gives him a tight smile, squeezing his shoulder again.

They're not going to get you again. I swear.

Feeling slightly awkward, Clint says reassuringly, "I know that you're worried about Thor. We all are. I'm sure that he's fine." The placation feels insincere. It isn't the one that Loki needs. But judging by the relieved tilt of his head, it's the one that Loki wants. And sure, Clint is sure, beyond positive, actually, that Loki legitimately is worried about Thor—for all their arguing, the two siblings still care for each other—but it's probably not what's on the forefront of his mind right now.

The despaired, empty look Loki gives him in return is almost painful to look at. "You don't know the Chitauri as I do," Loki says, still soft as if he's afraid of something listening in. "If the Chitauri do have him..."

"Not great, I'm guessing," Clint says thinly.

"No," That far away look reappears, and Loki drops his gaze down to his hands. "No."

Clint grimaces out of sight of the Asgardian, but Loki doesn't shove off his hand, so Clint doesn't move it. Even hidden beneath a jacket and a t-shirt, Clint can feel how cold Loki's skin is to the touch, but he doesn't move his fingers, keeping them against Loki's back in reassurance.

A few minutes later, Clint looks up from the floor as Fury sweeps into the room like an avenging angel dressed in a dramatic coat, Bruce, Nat, and Hill following after him. Loki tenses up beneath his hand, his back straightening up. Clint drops his hand, chewing on the inside of his cheek tightly. Fury looks ready to wage hell, and part of Clint is tempted to stand up and shoo him out of the room with a broom.

Not now. Not right now. Can't you see that Loki can't deal with this right now?

The director stares furiously at Loki for a long moment before he says, angrily, "What on God's name was that?" he gestures vaguely toward, well, everything. "You were supposed to be talking with them about Thor, not conspiring to get two of my agents—whatever that was!"

Clint's heart does a fluttery thump of panic with a sudden horrifying realization: Fury thinks that Loki did that to Tony and Steve on purpose. Clint opens his mouth, ready to fight, but Loki speaks before he can. "The Chitauri can establish rapid empathy links with the creatures around them, often used for heightening pain. It's—" Loki lifts up his bound hands, gesturing at his face, "eye contact. They can't do anything without eye contact and once they have it, most can only continue to utilize them without moving. It's why you didn't see any of this during the invasion. I apologize, I had...this is common knowledge on Asgard. I wasn't thinking."

Yeah. You were freaking terrified.

Fury scowls. The man gets more power out of his singular eye than most people can with both. Clint, who is well aware that Fury still has both his eyeballs, thinks this is why he chooses to wear a patch rather than show his scar. "That's nice and convenient."

"It is the truth," Loki promises, exhausted. "It leaves no lasting effects after a few days for the symptoms to wear off. They'll both be fine."

"Then what was with the magic?" Hill questions.

Loki discreetly pulls on the edges of his sleeves, trying to hide what is undoubtedly a bloody mass beneath them. "I removed the worst after-effects. They'll be functional tomorrow rather than in six or seven days." He hesitates, then adds, "I believe that they elevated Rogers pain perception. He believed he was in worse pain than he actually was. Watch him for that the next few days."

"And Tony?" Bruce asks.

"I don't know. Perhaps fear? I don't know," Loki picks at his palm, then mumbles again, "I don't know."

There's a faint, soft lull as if Fury is realizing the extent of how rattled Loki is then deciding he doesn't really care before: "Fine. So that happened. What did they say to you, then?" Fury demands. It's not a question.

Clint's jaw tenses. He glances at Loki, trying to be discrete, but almost certain that he looks shifty and sweaty instead. He's doing an excellent job at hiding this. Someone is going to notice.

The Asgardian picks more anxiously into his palm. He breathes out sharply before he speaks, his voice level, "Nothing terribly helpful. I couldn't get an exact answer from them about whether they had anything to do with Thor's disappearance. They inferred it, but that means very little in my experience."

That's…it? That's all he's going to say about everything? Not bringing up the taunting or the threats? Nothing about the "master", who's apparently pulling the strings on all of this? Just that they were a little unhelpful, yep, that's it, let's go home now? This—what? The urge to speak up and dump everything he can remember from the conversation is almost overwhelming. I know what you know.

Clint's teeth clamp down harshly on his tongue. Admitting that he understood means admitting that there's something wrong with his brain. Fury will pull him off the field, and Clint will be stuck going in circles with psychologists who have no idea what they're doing again. There isn't a college class or in-field training that can even begin to brace psychologists for trying to unravel mind control.

Clint is a study subject for them. Not a patient.

"They inferred it?" Natasha asks. "How?"

They were taunting him with it, Clint thinks, feeling slightly frantic. Over and over again.

"Admitting that they had captured him would have given me an edge to work with. The Chitauri are more careful than that." Loki says, sounding something other than blank for the first time since they left the cell block: annoyed. He completely evaded Natasha's actual question. Loki looks up at her, as if a thought suddenly occurred to him, "Was the Captain near any of their blood? It's poisonous."

"What?" Clint blurts. "Since when?" Battles are messy. Clint touched plenty of their blood during the invasion.

Natasha's brow furrows, but she glances at him quickly, "To touch?"

"No. To ingest. Your doctors wouldn't know to look for it, but that would also present as unbearable pain and fatigue." Loki explains. He looks...twitchy.

Clint does not want to know how Loki knows that. Nor does he want to even begin exploring that in his head, but his brain is tumbling into dark pathways now and selling him shady theories under capes. Everything he thought he knew about the invasion feels like it was distorted. The Chitauri were mocking Loki and threatening him. Loki knows what ingested Chitauri blood does to a body. Clint was expecting that sort of behavior from Loki, not the other way around.

Loki is not going back to whatever the heck Sanctuary is.

"We'll check for that," Natasha says after a moment. "But I don't think he would have ingested any."

"Probably not," Loki agrees, "but it's better to be prepared."

Loki seems collected, but he's not. His eyes are wide and his words have a choppy, breathy pattern to them in a way that isn't normal.

He can't just stand here, knowing what's wrong and why. Clint forces himself to lean forward. His voice sounds level, controlled; like he's slept a normal amount the last week and the PB and J sandwich he ate hours ago isn't churning unhappy, lost circles in his stomach. "Can we discuss this later? I'm exhausted."

Fury's eye narrows, but when he takes a look at all of them, he seems to realize that anything they do discuss will be relatively useless given their slug-littered brains. "Yeah," he finally concedes. "We'll meet up in a few hours after the sedatives have worn off and get Captain Rogers discharged to the Tower officially. Get some sleep and some food."

"Thank you, sir," Clint says. He gets up to his feet and turns to look back at his team. Bruce's tired, worried eyes, Natasha's pain-littered stance, and Loki's tight form all look at him, waiting for someone else to take charge. Clint's will to move falls a little, realizing that he's the only one who will. A desperate, pulsing squeeze grabs at his heart.

No. I don't want to.

Pull yourself together, Barton.

Clint moves forward anyway with a soft murmured word of encouragement, and Loki, Nat, and Bruce follow after him.

Author's Note:

Next chapter: April 29th. (*fingers crossed*)

I feel weird asking for this, but can I have some positive comments, please? The last two weeks have been really hard for me. :/