Hello everyone! Hope you had a wonderful Christmas season and a Happy New Year! Consider this my late Christmas gift, although I am less than happy with the way things went in this chapter. I don't know…that conversation/interaction scene between Loki and the Avengers just feels off to me. Let me know what you think in the comments!
I'm still trying to figure out how to separate the sections of the story so that Barton and Loki's storylines don't get bunched together. I apologize again for any confusion!
That said, enjoy the chapter!
Disclaimers: I have never read a Marvel comic in my life. I have watched only a few of the Marvel movies. Therefore, I apologize if I inadvertently go against canon in some way.
I own no characters…except the Colonel
Constructive criticism appreciated. Please, no offensive language!
Please review!
Bringing with it the Horror of Familiarity…
The tiny electric lamp that sat on the table between Clint and his captor was dull and seemed to delight in throwing out small, sputtering bursts of dust-filled, smothered light. Clint suspected that it had been chosen on purpose—to aid in the mysterious, vintage atmosphere that seemed to be the play for tonight. The Colonel, as Clint had learned his name was, had certainly done his part. There was a timed quality to his clothing, to the way his hair was so neatly combed back in wet, furrowed rows. Even his voice, the words he chose, the way he carried himself, and the gestures his hands made—Clint had come to the conclusion that the Colonel was a foreigner—either from a remotely cultured island, a distinct moment in real historic time, or a far-off and uniquely populated realm. Clint Barton had seen enough wonders in the past year to set all three possibilities on equal probability with one another.
After their initial meeting, the Colonel had left Clint abruptly, only to return on the estimated following day to have Clint unchained and escorted to the other side of the apparently large room where a table and two opposing chairs awaited them. The Colonel took one and nodded Clint to the other. A steaming pot of coffee and two ceramic mugs sat between them.
"Please," the Colonel urged, nodding at the pot. "I am certain you must be thirsty."
Clint was, and although the last thing he wanted was to have this man satisfy that thirst, he managed to shove his pride below his need and pour himself a cup—only a half. The Colonel reciprocated the motion for himself.
"I may have asked this already, and I apologize if I am repeating myself, but you do not recognize me?"
"And what would it matter if I did?" Clint replied, ignoring both the initial disclaimer and the actual question.
"It may not. It is only that I have been met with surprising answers when I have put that question to others."
"So, what are you: a travelling trivia show?" Clint shot back with unbelievable sarcasm. No one had ever said that Tony Stark had to rule supreme in that talent.
"No, nothing so trivial," the Colonel replied with a soft, almost appreciative smile. "Although—I might perhaps intern enough information to host such a performance as you suggest." He paused abruptly, something between desire and sorrow hovering in his gaze. "But there is always more to gain, is there not?"
There it was again. That voice, that accent.
"Where are you from? Really? Nice try on the English accent, by the way."
The Colonel pushed his chair back and stood abruptly, and there was admiration mingled with something unreadable in that motion.
"You are more intelligent than I took you for." The last words were swallowed in a breath. "They warned me."
"What do you want? Why am I here?" Clint demanded, his tightly strung patience nearly depleted.
"A moment ago, you wanted to know where I was from—"
"I don't care where you're from. What do you want from me?"
The Colonel took a step closer to the table, leaned forward, and rested a finger on Barton's forehead before the latter could jerk himself away.
"This. What I want is all in there—"
Clint's words came out in a tightly ground hiss. "Never. Who do you think I am? You've got the wrong man if you think I'm going to sell out my soul for a couple of your archaic German Reichsmarks."
There was a moment of silence. The Colonel's blue gaze continued gazing unmoved into Clint's, but there had been a waver, a startled waver of acknowledgment. Clint stared right back, his jawline setting his lips thin and tight, his eyes narrowed and condemning. The Colonel lifted a hand.
A guard stepped in from a shadowed portion of the room, and Clint stood before he could be pulled to his feet. He was escorted back to the corner; the chains were fastened around wrists and ankles. The guard bowed his head and left, taking the tiny electric lamp with him. The Colonel started to leave as well, and paused, just within the far reaches of the thin, flickering electric rays.
"You may change your mind, Agent Barton. I think you will. Sometimes, those things that are the most familiar to us are the most horrible."
He left, and Clint Barton was alone in the dark with those chilling words to ponder over…and that strange, almost familiar air to breathe in.
"Barton is not alone. There is someone else there—someone that he knows—and I know."
The words burst from Loki before he had a chance to properly focus them. The half dozen other occupants of Tony Stark's crystalline and monotone-furnished living room turned at the abrupt entrance of Steve Rogers and the anticipated Asgardian. Thor stood from his seat. Tony turned from where he was dropping the finishing touches on a cocktail.
"Wow. He does know how to make an entrance. What did he take, Thor, Drama 2.0, or something? Or is that even a thing in Asgard? College I mean?"
"Stark," Steve broke in a sharp, warning tone. "Not now. Loki, why don't you have a seat?"
Loki did. He was already heavily regretting his words. He had never meant them to come out so—desperate. The vision had terrified him. It had been more real than anything he had experienced before, and the realization of who it actually was that was standing before Barton, interacting with the man so causally, so—almost gentle and guiding and brotherly—rankled Loki's divine blood more than he ever imagined it could. That, almost more than anything, set Loki's nerves on edge with his perceived image of himself.
He took the seat with a deliberate effort to ignore the poignant stares of the other five Avengers, scattered at random intervals across the opulent space. Yet he knew them—all of them—enough to understand that it was not truly random, but they were just acting out of a natural instinct to their innermost self. Thor was seated on the only hard-backed chair in the room, in a position where he could see everyone, and with no effort to conceal himself. Thor—never afraid of taking the spotlight, yet never ready to accept the easy, the comfortable, the position where his senses might lure him into a false sense of security. Natasha Romanoff, poised on the arm-rest of a leather couch, arms crossed, eyes flicking in continuous movement over the room, ready to place herself in the heart of any conflict that might arise—the sign of a trained assassin who breathed the air of fear. Tony Stark, too restless to take a seat, standing by the mini-bar, that aura of smug sarcasm emitting in annoyingly heavy doses from his being, yet under all of that, another man who fought with every last ounce of himself to cover the pain and the fear and the past. Bruce Banner, arms crossed, standing slightly behind Romanoff, his head slightly tilted as if to catch a single breath out of place, alert, yet not from a trained sense of duty but rather a forced sense of fear. So much hidden in that quiet mind of his….
And then there was Steve Rogers. Of all the Avengers, beside Thor, of course, Loki felt the most at ease with Rogers, and the innermost portions of his mind that sometimes tried to allow himself vulnerability said that he even felt safe with Rogers. There was something about the man—even now, the way he stood almost directly central to the range of personalities and emotions about him, letting his gaze speak more than his words ever could, commanding all with a silent, pure presence. There was no guile in his person, no regret in his eyes. He had seen horrific things in his life; he had braved the unspeakable and lost a very part of himself in doing so—yet those deeds of horror were not accounted to his hands, and that loss was not by his choice. If the earth had gods, Loki felt certain that Steve Rogers would be one of them.
The room was a heavy pall of silence for only a moment. Rogers broke it.
"Thank you all for coming here. Obviously, we know why we're here, and I believe most of us are aware of why Loki was asked to come."
The silence and the few brief nods affirmed Rogers's words. The latter went on briskly.
"Good. Loki, is there anything you would like to say before I get into the full details?"
With the force of the initial fear and stress waning away, Loki felt a sudden sense of reluctance to repeat his revelation, helped in no wise by Stark's sardonic reaction to it. Yet he swallowed the wavering sense of stubborn pride and lifted his head.
"Barton's not alone. There's someone else with him—I do not think a fellow prisoner."
"His captor?" Banner prompted.
"More than that. I would say that he was the mastermind behind the whole of this—thing."
"Why would you say that?" Romanoff pressed, genuine question in her voice.
Loki's gaze swung to her. "Because I know him."
Someone inhaled sharply. Stark set his glass down on the black granite counter.
"Who is he, Loki?" Thor broke the stiff silence with his low, soft voice.
Loki shook his head slowly. "I do not know his name. I only saw him from a distance—"
"Where?" Stark asked.
It took little to raise Loki's defenses. A wrong word, a wrong tone, at the wrong time, a wrong glance—anything could snap him from quiet, willing, and compliant to distrustful and aggressive, those blue eyes suddenly hard and cold. Stark was an ideal candidate for creating this transformation.
"Is that all you care about?" Loki snarled, half rising from his chair as he whirled to face the billionaire. "Am I nothing but a plaything to you? To sit here in your expensive chairs and answer questions at your whim? I don't even want to find Barton! I care not what they do to him; he is better off dead!"
"Loki!" Thor's voice shattered Tony Stark's reply. The tall immortal was across the room, his blue eyes tumultuous in their anger, gazing down at his younger brother in stark, stern disapproval. The latter shoved himself to his feet, seemingly unfazed by the towering height Thor held over him.
"I am not his prisoner, Thor," he hissed, low and tight. "I have no intention of being held here and interrogated and accused and used like a toy!"
"They have no intention of doing that—"
"Then why are they?" He lifted a hand rather limply. "They would love to see me dead, Thor, so why do you think—"
His words were cut short by Thor's hand on his shoulder, pulling him around so that their voices were further masked by distance.
"They're scared, Loki." His voice was so low that mortal ears would not catch it. "What if you were lost? Taken captive by someone whose whereabouts only Tony Stark knew? Do you not think that I would interrogate him mercilessly until he told me everything he knew? Not because he's an enemy, but because you're my brother."
Loki did not answer at once, but there was a softening acceptance to his features. He swallowed once in lieu of a nod and started to turn back. His eyes flicked back to Thor again.
"But I was lost, and I was taken."
He breathed the words out, sharp and low and bitter, as he turned back to his seat and retook it with that haughty, lofty air that he tended to revert to when he knew he was beaten. Thor stood quietly behind him, the reality of Loki's words playing in acknowledging waves across his face. Loki spoke.
"There is a place—not a part of any realm. It was nothing but darkness and void and silence. Then—one came and claimed it as his realm, and it became known as Sanctuary." He paused, drew a deep, sharp breath. "I laugh to hear that name, for there is no greater lie in the history of the realms than Sanctuary. I know. I was there for a time—I do not know how long—I do not think time is measured there. But I was there in the hands of its lord, and I saw the one with Barton. I do not know his name," he added almost as if he expected someone to immediately ask that question.
"So—he is not of earth?" Natasha pressed.
Loki shook his head. "I do not know. He was dressed alike to how your men of war dress."
"Military," Stark surmised immediately.
"American, Loki?" Rogers queried.
Loki shook his head again. "He had an accent. German."
Stark and Rogers both started at the same time, and Natasha turned her gaze from the glass table to the Asgardian god. Banner was already gazing intently at him, and Thor had never removed his gaze since he had pulled his brother aside.
"German?" Rogers repeated softly. "You are—sure?"
"Of course I am," Loki rather scoffed. "I was there—in Germany—for quite a while, I'm sure you'll recall."
A long, heavy moment of silence fell over the room. Loki sat stiffly, his fingers playing against a loose thread on the cushioned chair. Stark released a held breath. Rogers spoke rather swiftly as if he feared what kind of a quip might be forthcoming from the billionaire.
"Thank you, Loki. I think we should adjourn as of now and see what we can come up with based on what you've told us. Natasha, I'd like to see you for a few moments. Stark—"
"Right after I figure out how this door shuts with all these glasses in it," Tony called. "No wonder it's usually Pepper doing this—"
"Stark, Loki has free rein of the tower?"
"Of course," Tony waved a hand. "Anywhere your heart desires. Just holler if you need anything. Jarvis is always nearby."
"If you can think of anything else—anything that might be of use to finding Barton—don't hesitate to let us know," Rogers added, and his blue eyes were almost severe in their sincerity. Loki nodded and started for the door, and Thor, after a brief nod to the others, followed.
Loki stopped at the door, rather suddenly, turned, and beneath the mask of indifference, there was worry clear in his ice-blue eyes.
"Barton knew him. Or was known by him. I do not know how. I assume he's never been to Sanctuary…"
Rogers shook his head. "I do not know, Loki. I'm going to speak to Agent Romanoff—she knows of his contacts and acquaintances more than the rest of us."
Loki turned and left.