Author's Note: Howdy, howdy. Welcome to another (probably) 60+k of trauma, Loki and the Avengers bonding fic. This is the first big one that I've done since Stygian, I think. Like, in the base Loki and the Avengers and just the Avengers. Huh. Anyway. I hope you all enjoy it. Love you, fam. *heart*

Warnings: Implied/Referenced torture, violence, PTSD, horror, anxiety attacks, graphic descriptions of violence, gore, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced self-harm, and Thanos, who is his own warning, lol. Further warnings will be posted to individual chapters. No smut, gen, no non-con/rape. Language is all K.

Pairings: Tony/Pepper, Natasha/Clint*, Thor/Jane.

*While I love Laura Barton, Natasha/Clint is my comfort pairing. I'm lovingly going to pretend she doesn't exist for the duration of this fic.

For your information, this story is cross-posted on Archive Of Our Own under the pen name of "Galaxy Threads".

Summary: Five months after Thor drags his half-dead brother to Earth to plead asylum, things take a turn for the worse. With the older Asgardian out of commission and a sizeable threat overshadowing them, Clint becomes aware of two facts: One: Loki was tortured, mind-controlled, and manipulated into attacking Earth. Two: Loki knows none of this.

"Everyone wants to hit rock bottom, some Icarus [crap].

But the truth is some holes keep going, yawning, heady, one mistake becomes three.

There's always a dark darker than the dark you know."

-Hala Alyan

Chapter One:

When he first met Jane Foster almost three years ago in Puente Antiguo over the Mjolnir incident, Clint hadn't thought she was the paranoid type. She'd struck him as small, vaguely terrifying in an amusing way, and deeply intelligent. She was the sort of woman he would have found attractive before his relationship with Natasha got serious, but now he's wondering that if, in the long months that he's actually known her, Jane has somehow hidden the fact that she's a glass half empty, the world is ending in twenty seconds because of XYZ omen kind of girl.

A healthy dose of anxiety is good for survival.

That's not what this is.

"He's just gone, and I don't know what to do," Jane confesses to him on the phone one dull, unassuming Tuesday at the end of November, sounding a mix between having a breakdown or gritting her teeth and traveling cross country in search to find her missing fiancé overturned rock by overturned rock. She would be successful, too, Clint has no doubt. Jane can be just as much a force of nature as Thor is when she wants to be.

"Have you tried calling him?" Clint asks carefully, trying to sound polite but knowing that he's probably not coming across that way. He scrapes his thumbnail along the edge of an arrow he's holding with his right foot's toes, shifting his awkward pretzel-bent-between-the-desk-and-chair position to try and relieve strain on his lower back. He's been here for a while, avoiding everyone else in the building; though admittedly he has no conscious recollection of deciding to take off his shoes and socks.

There's a minute pause, then Jane says, layered with sarcasm. "No. Oh my gosh, that didn't occur to me at all. Why on earth would I have called his teammates if I could just contact him directly? I'm an idiot."

Clint's lips quirk. Point taken. "No answer on his part, then?"

"No," Jane says, releasing a sharp breath. "I don't know. It's just weird. I feel like I'm maybe overreacting, but at the same time, I don't? Darcy says that I'm overreacting, but it's just really weird. He's never been this late before. Three days is…huge. I could understand a day or two, but…"

Clint sighs, glancing up, wondering again since this conversation started why Jane called him. He wouldn't say that they're close. They're friends from a distance more than anything else. He would have expected this call to get directed at Tony, who actually has more than a tentative friendship with her. He feels a little trapped in the phone call if he's being honest with himself.

Part of him is quietly hoping that something will come up so they'll have to end it, which is all levels of terrible.

Another, louder part, that picked up the phone in the first place, hopes she talks to him forever.

Clint chews on his lower lip, then tilts his head back to stare at the gray, musty ceiling. Somewhere else in the building there's a loud smacking sound of pipes rattling together. Someone probably turning on a sink. If you get here at the right time of day, there's a weird scratching sound, too. Almost like mice desperately seeking a way out. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York field office is about seventy years old and it's easy to tell. Clint's pretty sure that the last time the building was to code was maybe the late 1950s.

In S.H.I.E.L.D.'s (weak) defense, the Helicarrier has a tendency to hang out around the New York coastline, or they'll wean space out of the FBI's office, so Clint guesses that Fury considers that good enough. It's probably for the best. Being in here makes Clint feel like it's in danger of collapsing on top of him at any given moment.

Which…honestly wouldn't be that bad. Being in the hospital means he wouldn't have to be at Avengers Tower, ergo, he could avoid everything and everyone inside.

He blows out a breath, then answers Jane's question. "He's probably just needed to clear his head a bit. Thor and Loki aren't talking right now," Clint explains, tapping his finger anxiously against the head of the arrow.

There's a small, but not insignificant beat before Jane intones, "Ah." Clint doesn't know whether to laugh or groan. Jane sighs heavily, resigned, "Is he okay?"

Clint snorts, dark humor washing through him for a moment. "Has he been since he dragged Loki back from Asgard with him?" he mutters.

Have any of them? Honestly?

Clint met Thor for maybe a minute in New Mexico before he came back for the Battle of New York, which isn't a good basis for how he was before all this crap happened, but he's pretty sure that Thor hasn't been okay since before he was exiled from Asgard. Even then. There's a desperation in the masks he wears to keep himself together.

But honestly, since the Battle, Clint is beginning to think that nobody he knows is okay. Especially those around and inside the Avengers. It's like they're all clinging to a normality that no longer exists since Thor dragged his mostly-dead brother back to New York with him in late June.

Jane sighs again, softer this time. "I think that he's trying, but I know that he's really unhappy right now. I wish that I knew how to help. Is it normal for him to disappear for a few days after he and Loki get into one of their fights?"

No. It's not. Clint would say a few hours is within the range of normal. The max was maybe ten? He can't remember anymore. But Thor straight-up vanishing without any contact with anyone is a little weird, as far as Clint knows him. "No. I'll ask anyone if they've heard from him, but I wouldn't worry." He reassures.

He's probably fine. Just…doing a great Asgardian sulk or something. That's a little insensitive, but Clint can't quite draw up enough energy to care.

Jane, however, completely ignores that advice and carries on worrying, "Should I do something? I just…I'm really worried about him. It's really isn't like him to flake like this. Something must have happened—beyond him and Loki getting into another, um, argument."

Okay, but see.

That's the thing.

Because the thing about Loki and Thor, Clint has decided after weeks of being trapped with them in Avengers Tower, is that there's nothing worse than their fighting until they stop. Which is a level of irony Clint doesn't think should be legal. You'd think that once the two Asgardian's got done verbally beating the crap out of each other, everyone would breathe a sigh of relief. But it's worse when they don't because then they're not talking.

And it's stupid because it's not actually arguments, that's just what everyone calls them. Clint can count on one hand the number of times that it's dissolved into actual yelling. Loki and Thor don't fight like he and his brother used to, with appraised fists and shouting loud enough the whole street could get in on the drama. It's hissed arguments layered with passive-aggressive comments and nasty looks until someone tries to pull a knife or a punch.

Which is why, in the long scheme of things, Clint isn't surprised that Thor is late for his scheduled time off of Loki babysitting to be with Jane.

Because Thor and Loki stopped fighting sometime mid-last week which means that it's been a muted, angry silence on both ends, and that means that Thor is wandering around with this pissed, kicked puppy look because Loki is nasty in ways that Clint can't fathom sometimes, always digging the verbal blades in exactly where he knows it will hurt. And that, in turn, means that Thor needed some time away from the Tower to breathe so he wouldn't strangle his younger sibling.

Good times.

Clint remembers feeling that way a lot with Barney when they were still talking.

So yeah, he's not surprised, he's not even worried that Thor is late. Why would he be? Thor is taking a moment to himself so he won't get to Puente Antiguo and dump all his frustrations with his brother into his relationship with Jane. Clint wouldn't want to take out all his frustrations with Barney on Natasha. Thor's probably the same. He respects Jane too much to treat her like his emotional dumping ground.

Jane, however, doesn't believe him. No matter how many times Clint has insisted that the Asgardian is fine and she doesn't have a reason to worry in the last ten minutes.

Clint really doesn't think she does. If anything, she should be more worried by the fact that it took this long before Thor finally reached his breaking point and retreated. Clint's gotta hand it to the guy, he's got the patience of a saint most of the time when it comes to Loki. If it had been up to him, Clint would have stabbed the sorcerer in the eye and kicked him out the back door to follow. Then he would have gone to sleep for the first time in months without batting an eye.

Jane taps her fingers against something, "He hasn't talked to any of you since he left on Saturday?"

Patiently, Clint repeats, "No."

"He was only going to be here until Friday," Jane says, and Clint can almost see her anxiously chewing on her lower lip. It's a habit that he's pretty sure everyone is aware of but her. Darcy seems to have an endless supply of chapstick on hand to give to the astrophysicist when she inevitably bites her lip bloody. Thor's started carrying them on his person, too. Which is kind of cute yet gross at the same time. "I don't know. He's never done this before. I just…I don't know when I need to start worrying."

Aren't you already? Clint thinks, annoyed, but doesn't say.

Clint sets the arrow down on the desk and finally submits, shifting his position to a less pretzel-y butterfly so his lower back and hamstrings will stop whining so much. Immediately, without his thighs pushed up against his chest and lightly constricting his breathing, his ribs stop aching so much, too. He runs a hand through his hair. "Jane, he's fine. I promise. The worst thing that could possibly happen is some sort of emotional desecration, and Loki's done a fine job of doing that for anyone else."

Jane is quiet, not willing to poke at that statement. But she doesn't, Clint notices with dark amusement, argue with him. She starts to say something else, but Clint hears a muted, muffled voice on the other end that he assumes is either Dr. Selvig or Darcy.

Jane listens for a few seconds then swears frantically. "I forgot! Crap! I've gotta go. There's a lecture I'm supposed to be at in twenty minutes. I should be in the car right now. Thanks for, um, listening to me. Sorry. I don't know. Let me know if you hear from him, please? I've gotta go. Bye."

"Bye," Clint says, "break a leg, or whatever I'm supposed to say to encourage you."

Jane laughs, says goodbye again, and then hangs up. Clint slowly lowers the phone from his face to his lap and then buries his face in his hands and breathes out stiffly. Crap, haha, he'd forgotten why he'd been so desperate to talk with her in the first place. Phone calls are immensely distracting.

There is a reason that he's hiding out in a run-down field office at nine in the morning and pretending that he's doing something important.

Clint swears under his breath, rubbing his hands across his face. His eyes feel raw and tight from sleeplessness. They're exhausted, but the rest of him isn't. All his attempts at sleeping last night had ended in the same violent round circle it's been doing since Loki got dropped within his general vicinity long-term again. He doesn't know what it is. The nightmares weren't this bad before. They weren't as vivid.

If he didn't know that Loki's magical prowess was resting at pretty much squat right now, he would assume that the Asgardian was playing with his head. But it's not Loki directly. Maybe it's just some stupid PTSD thing.

The restlessness is rubbing at him, like a slow-acting poison. It's gotten worse as the months have passed until Clint is practically begging Fury for more assignments because out in the field is the only time that he feels normal. He can sleep out there without his head feeling like it's on a horror reel.

But he can't do that long-term, which pisses him off more. Somebody's got to babysit the psychopath, and since none of the Avengers want to do that, everyone has to. Sometimes he wonders if this hassle is even worth it. Thor should have just let his brother keel over. Would've been better for all of them.

Clint holds his phone against his lips for a moment, breathing against the glass and trying to convince himself that he wants to stand up. He was supposed to meet Tony fifteen minutes ago for another briefing with Hill, who's running point on operation Don't Let Loki Die or Murder Anyone. All major decisions get passed through the Director, but Hill has more time to make sure they're doing this properly than Fury does.

He should have just hung up the phone with Jane and left when he was supposed to, instead of hiding in this cramped, abandoned office from Loki, Bruce, and Tony. But no. Clint is, at heart, a coward. Steve and Natasha should be getting back today from their mission in France, which Clint is immensely grateful for. All he wants to do is hide in Natasha's arms and pretend that everything isn't a mess. Afterward, he can jump ship and take an assignment. Someone else can be stuck in Avengers Tower per protocol.

This is great. Clint is going to miss the entire briefing at this point, which means Hill's probably going to do that thing where she insults your general existence but you have to think about the insult in order to understand it. She's good at those. It seems like just a general frustrated statement at first, but it stings later the more you think about it.

Clint opens his phone and ignores the two texts from Tony and the one from Bruce in favor of opening his and Nat's messages and scrolling up. She hasn't replied since last Thursday when they got into Bordeaux, but it's a dull, empty comfort to read through their previous messages. It reminds him that he's real. He's not a product of the nightmares.

He chews on his lower lip before typing out miss u. Rdy to kill smbdy. Jane thinks T is mia. Prblby just hiding from Fabricator.

It's pretty much a repeat of previous messages from the last few days, and Tasha will probably just roll her eyes and send him a man up in response and then a :) to indicate that the text isn't hostile. He misses when things were normal. He wishes he'd never taken that stupid New Mexico assignment and got wrapped up in all this crap in the first place. Things were a lot simpler when he and Tasha did work they were trained for. Not…this.

But would have mattered in the end? He would have gone wherever Natasha did.

And Natasha would have ended up in this mess anyway. Fury had her name written down in the Avengers Initiative the moment Clint brought her in. Clint was just an accident. If not for the media latching onto the heroes, Clint probably would have been dropped from the program he was never considered for in the first place.

"Don't be a baby, Barton," Clint mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. "Things will be worse if you don't go now."

Things will be bad either way. And he really wants to avoid going back for as long as possible.

But it doesn't matter.

He doesn't have a choice. He's delayed as long as he can.

He blows out a slow breath then forces himself to start moving. He puts his socks back on and shoves his feet inside of his well-worn sneakers, then pulls on his jacket. His quiver goes on last, along with his bow, both of which he only dragged out here with him for show. Tony had been in the communal room when Clint had gone to get coffee there three hours ago, so he'd needed some sort of excuse as to why he was leaving.

Ergo: he was suddenly in desperate need to find some of the prototype arrows one of the engineers said was in the New York field office. Unfortunately, when he goes back, Clint will have been unable to find them.

Tony would make him a new type of arrow if he asked anyway.

And this was easier than admitting that he, a grown man and an adult, needed to hide from his dreams.

Clint quickly makes his way out of the field office, barely seeing a glimpse of one of the sorry sods stuck in the building permanently. Clint thinks that there are maybe twenty employees total, if that, and all of them have a questionable relationship with this plane of reality. Clint thinks he's only seen three and a half fully in the five years he's been coming here. He knows they're here and he can smell their coffee or perfume, but he couldn't pin one down to save his life.

He exits the building and breathes in the dry, smoggy air. The sky is overcast with thick, ugly gray clouds promising snow and lots of it. Great.

Maybe he can pick up a bucket of it and then dump it on Loki's head. Would serve him right for keeping them all here in the first place.

The field office and Avengers Tower are about ten minutes apart as the crow flies. By car, it takes Clint a little over twenty-five. It would have been worse if this was rush hour, but, of course, as traffic does when you're dreading something, the roads were moving smoothly.

When Clint has pulled into the garage, he turns off the engine and just sits there for long seconds. Breathing. The garage is dimly lit with strip lights along the edges of the large room that cast awkward shadows from the cars across the floor. It smells like oil and cold.

What he would give for anything cold…to take away this burning heat that's turning his skin to leather…anything…quarter please, please…

Clint opens his eyes and breathes out sharply, clenching his hands around the steering wheel painfully. He breathes out harshly, his throat tasting faintly of blood. It's getting worse, and Clint knows it is. The dreams are bleeding into the day now, not just haunting his sleep.

When he feels like he can move without dissolving into hysterics, Clint presses his palm into the bridge of his nose, groaning, then swears under his breath. It's fine. He's okay. It's fine. He's awake and he's alive and he's not being slowly burnt to death.

Thank God his mandated therapy sessions are over, he's certain that the therapist would have had a field day with his reemerging dreams. Not that these are the same. After the mind control, Clint dreamt about the memories he forgot in garbled, muffled pieces. This is different. It's…he doesn't know what it is. Which is why he's not talking to them about it. They'd pull him out of the field, and that's the only thing that helps.

Clint opens his eyes and breathes out slowly, collecting himself.

Just as he's convinced himself that he can make it to the elevator, there's a soft rap on the car window. Clint doesn't startle, but he jerks, looking up at the figure outside and scowling immediately. He grabs the handle and pushes the door open, forcing Tony to move out of the way so he won't get smacked in the chest.

The multi-billionaire isn't dressed for being out here, in a black long sleeve with white printing declaring NEW YORK across the front, the arc reactor sitting like a beaming, rigid flashlight in the center of his chest. His dark jeans and unlaced shoes are practically a stamp across his forehead declaring Tony wouldn't be out here if Clint wasn't.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Clint appreciates the gesture. In the forefront, he can only dredge up tired annoyance.

Clint's legs hold his weight as he gets to his feet, but he still clings to the rim of the door with one hand. "What are you doing down here?" he demands, his voice more clipped that he means for it to be.

Tony's grinning, but it's a plastic, useless gesture. His eyes are dark and there's something almost haunted in them. Looking at his face too long makes Clint ache sometimes. "Aw, Barton, don't be a spoilsport," Tony chides lightly, "if you're going to have a brooding session in the garage, I'm entitled to join you."

"Haha," Clint intones dryly. "You bring any snacks?"

"No."

"Then you're not invited. Get out," Clint says and points toward the door with complete seriousness.

Tony makes a mock-wounded noise then waves a hand. "You really want snacks, we'll make JARVIS get them. So what are you doing? A hand holding session, listening to the radio as you think about life kinda deal? Call Natashlie and ask for hugs?"

Clint sighs, closing the car's door with a loud smack. He leans back against the vehicle and folds his arms across his chest, looking at the engineer expectantly. Tony breathes out evenly, his breath pluming before he lets the smirk drop.

"What's wrong?" Tony says after a moment. He seems almost hesitant about the question, as he often does. Clint put together a while ago that Howard's crappy parenting and Tony's questionable upbringing gave the Avenger a lot of scar tissue to work through when it comes to communication. Most of the time, Clint does his best to work with Tony in that regard.

He just…can't today.

"Who said anything was wrong?" Clint dodges. If he had more energy, he'd already be moving to the elevator to try and shake Tony's concern off. But he doesn't, so he stands there, leaning against the car and pretending he's not cold.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "You left at six in the morning to visit a building that should have been condemned before Steve was born and stayed there for three hours. And now you're hiding in the garage and brooding. Something's wrong."

Point.

Clint's jaw tightens. "I don't know. It's just…"

"Loki?" Tony guesses.

Clint shakes his head, and for once it's actually true. He rubs at his forehead. "No. It's not just him. It's…I don't know how to explain it." Or maybe, a dark voice slinks in the back of his mind, you just don't want to admit it out loud. How embarrassing to be overcome by dreams. "I'm just not sleeping."

Tony frowns. "Still?"

Clint shrugs, but he's made his bed and now he has to sleep in it. "It's like I lay down and then everything just spins. I think it's just residual anxiety. I don't know. I'll see if I can get an appointment with a doctor, maybe they'll have some suggestions."

Nope. They'll tell him to use melatonin or drug him up with sleeping aids until he's so drowsy he can't walk straight. Then he'll be trapped in nightmares, which is worse.

Tony's eyes narrow a fraction like he can see through all of Clint's BS, and for a moment Clint's convinced he's going to say something, but he doesn't. His mouth twists unhappily, and that's it. He folds his arms across his chest in a manner that's tight enough Clint has always privately wondered if it's painful. He can't imagine applying that much pressure to the arc reactor is comfortable.

"I used to take something after the Battle, but I didn't think it helped that much." Tony admits.

"They never really do when it comes to sleep." Clint agrees.

"Ha."

Clint blows out a breath, then tries to subtly change the subject. "So on a scale of one to ten, how pissed is Hill?"

Tony snorts, reaching out a hand to pat Clint's shoulder twice in consolidation. "Let's just say you should probably prep your resignation letters. And the rest of us will start planning your funeral. Do you want a plot that overlooks a river or something?"

Clint rolls his eyes, pulling away from the car so he can open the door to the backseat and retrieve his bow and quiver. "I don't want to be buried. Cremate me." He instructs, swinging his quiver across one shoulder. "Or drop my body from the sky for the dogs to pick at, I don't really care. I'll be dead."

Tony clucks his tongue. "By your own supervisor. Such a shame."

Clint punches him in the arm playfully and Tony smirks, but this time it's genuine. The banter helps a little, soothing him in places that hiding from the Tower couldn't. As he and Tony get into the elevator and start the trek up to the communal floor, he looks at his teammate.

"Jane called me today." Tony's eyebrows raise, but he says nothing, indicating that Clint should continue. "I know. I thought it was weird, too. Apparently, Thor hasn't shown up in New Mexico yet. She wanted to know if we'd heard from him."

Tony shakes his head. "No. I haven't. That's weird. I wouldn't think there'd be a single second that man would miss with her. He's kinda…clingy."

Tony hasn't heard from him either? Something twists in his stomach. Worry.

Clint huffs. "One word for that."

"I'll text him." Tony shrugs, but the creases of his eyes have gotten tighter. "You think he's hiding out from Sunshine?"

"I can't think of a single person who doesn't want to hide from Loki." Clint deadpans, and Tony laughs. Clint shrugs, scraping a hand through his hair anxiously. "It's just kind of weird he wouldn't tell her beforehand. He's usually a lot better with that sort of thing."

Tony nods. "He is. Maybe something came up."

Clint rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, and blurts out, "You think that some sorry Asgardian councilman or whatever got stuck on 'Let's ask Thor to come back to Asgard' duty again? Or the 'Where's Loki?' questionnaire?"

"For three days?" Tony asks dubiously.

It used to annoy Clint in the beginning that Thor was so adamant that no one could know where his brother was. Yeah, he saw how mostly dead the younger Asgardian was, but what was the worst that Asgard was going to do to him, honestly? Is Odin knowing where his child is such a death sentence?

But after time, Clint has started to get a kick out of how oblivious and stupid Thor can act when he wants to. No, he has no idea where Loki is and why would he, he's in prison; no he's not going back to Asgard, Earth's protectors are useless without him; no, he hasn't seen Loki since New York. Clint's favorite excuse so far has been when Thor stared the Warriors Three dead in the face and asked Who's Loki? in complete seriousness. He then spent the rest of their conversation convincing them that he'd banished all thought of his brother from his mind by necessity.

Inside that heart of gold is a wicked streak that runs hot and deep, and Clint's pretty sure there are precious few souls who know that.

Before Clint can come up with an answer to Tony's statement, the elevator doors open with an obnoxious ding and he and the other Avenger take a step out into the hall leading to the communal room. There's a soft, muted glow coming from the cloud-covered sun streaming into the room that makes it look soft and welcoming, but Clint can't drive up enough energy to care.

Instead, as it so frequently does now, Clint searches out the room for Loki.

At one point, this would have been done in self-preservation; the need to see where his enemy was so he wouldn't turn his back on him. Now, it's habit. He can't remember the first time he turned his back on Loki, but he knows he hasn't stopped since. Even on the days he feels more anxious about it, which is rare now, his pride refuses to let him stop.

He wasn't really expecting him to be there, but Loki is. Which makes sense in retrospect, he's not supposed to be in a room without one of them present, and Bruce is going over some sort of stack of papers at the table. He looks exhausted and worn, dressed in clothing Clint knows for certain he was in two days ago, his hair a mess.

Loki isn't much better. He's in baggy clothing—everything is baggy on him, despite Thor's best efforts, he's too thin for it to not be—and looking like he crawled out of a coffin. He's sitting on the couch with one of Bruce's books on his lap, intently staring at the pages. His gaze briefly slides up to meet theirs, but then drops. Which is fine with Clint, because it gives him free reign to scrutinize.

Loki's hands are tucked against his stomach, buried inside the confines of his black jacket. It hides the constant shaking pretty well, but Clint has learned to look for it. And just as it was yesterday and all the months before it, his hands are still trembling. When he'd first arrived on Earth in Thor's arms looking limp, bloody, and both his arms from the elbow down nearly severed off, Clint hadn't been sure he'd ever heal. But five months out, beyond faint scarring, Loki seems unblemished. The only permanence from his trip through hell is a lisp that shows up when he's tired, a faint limp, and his shaking hands.

Thor says that all will improve with time.

Clint doesn't believe him.

He doesn't think that Loki does, either.

Tony gives him a significant look then pointedly ignores Loki's existence and goes to stand next to Bruce and verbally poke him into taking a break. Or eating something. One of the two. Bruce has been consumed with public reports of the last Hulk incident a week ago, and Tony is about the only person who can slap some sense into him at this point.

With both of them otherwise occupied, Clint does what he's gotten relatively good at the last few months, which is to metaphorically poke at the angry snake with a stick. He drops his equipment on the other side of the table before sauntering over to the couch. He leans over the seat beside Loki, clasping his hands together.

He has no desire for conversation, he just wants to lay down. Clint has never wanted to sleep more in his life. But he can't. He can't go to sleep and submit himself to those dreams again.

"Question for you," Clint says in a voice more chipper than he feels, "if Thor decided to run out on the family, would you be relieved or is this some sort of passive-aggressive move on his part to jump-start the non-existent affection he assumes you have for him?"

Loki sighs, but doesn't answer.

Clint keeps poking. "Personally, I think that it's a lost cause. Thor's hoping for the wrong dead heart to start beating again."

Loki flips a page in the book with a trembling hand. It's some sort of science fiction from what Clint can glimpse of the pages. He's kind of surprised that Bruce owns it, but the scribbling all over the margins assures Clint that it's the chemists.

"Really though. Three days," Clint blows out a breath, "gotta be a record for him. Even if it is hiding from you."

Loki's eyes raise to look at his face, and there's something in his stiff expression that makes Clint inwardly flinch. But he holds his ground, meeting the gaze with equal vigor. "Have you quite made your point yet?" Loki asks without humor.

Clint shrugs. "Dunno. I guess we'll see."

"Ha." Loki intones and drops his gaze. His posture remains tight and unbalanced, indicating his exasperation.

Clint, taking the hint this time, stops poking at him. He licks his lips, unsure how to even start asking this question. Then he decides that he doesn't really care about being gentle with Loki and says bluntly, "Jane hasn't heard from Thor in three days. Is that normal? You guys kind of got at it last week. She's pretty worried, and I am, too, admittedly."

Loki's eyes raises again, cold and calculating. For a moment, Clint thinks he sees the barest edge of something in the green irises, but then it's gone. "Thor is an idiot," Loki says after a moment as if that explains everything. "If he chooses to hide from his beloved then it's none of my concern. He always had a flair for the dramatic."

Irritation spikes through Clint, and his chest feels hot with defensiveness squirmed in around the knot of worry. Clint likes Thor. Thor is one of the few genuine people that he knows. Clint trusts Thor. "Says the man who decided to conquer a planet because daddy didn't love him enough." Clint points out dryly.

Loki's hands snap the book together with a thwack and he gets to his feet, his balance immediately beginning to fail. Loki plants both his feet firmly to stop himself from falling over, his jaw gritted, but his balance secure. Clint's hands move automatically to grab at him, but he forces his hands to stop and curl back against his chest, burying any and all urges that struck in the brief moment the Asgardian wavered to help him. The dizzy spells used to be longer, and Clint would have had to step in before the Asgardian collapsed.

"Enough," Loki says sharply and then stalks off, limping the whole exhausting journey of about ten steps to the other side of the couch. Clint rolls his eyes, but checks to make sure Loki gets there without an incident anyway, much to his private irritation. Habit now. There are too many times Loki didn't make it for Clint not to be wary of it happening again.

Loki buries himself behind the book again and Clint watches him for a few more seconds before deciding to take pity on him and turning away. That was vague and unhelpful, as usual. Loki is awash with intelligence that Clint is dumbfounded by sometimes, but he rarely chooses to use it for their benefit. He prefers to antagonize or ignore them. Which is normally fine.

Just not when it comes to Thor. Or Thor's—maybe—safety.

Clint leans his back against the couch, rubbing tired, gritty eyes and breathing in slowly, trying to convince himself he's not going to succumb to exhaustion. Not that it would matter anyway. He can sleep all he wants, but with the dreams, he's never going to rest.

He's so tired.

He thinks this is day four of less than two hours. He's going to pass out soon.

Maybe…he can just lay down for a few minutes…

Clint checks visually on Bruce and Tony again, deeply engaged in a discussion, but seeming visually okay, before he submits with a sigh. He hauls himself over the edge of the couch and collapses dramatically against the cushions. Loki makes a slight sound, looking at him, then sighs and makes no verbal protest to Clint's invasion of his space.

Which. Hey. There's like a good foot between Clint's sneaker and Loki's knee.

Clint releases a heavy breath. "You stab me, I'll return the gesture," he warns halfheartedly, but his eyes are already closed. He knows that Loki won't do anything. Which is a thought almost as disturbing as thinking he would. How long they've been stuck together that Clint can reasonably think that and know that it's the truth?

This whole thing is messed up.

God curse Asgard and all its stupid, torturous ways. Look. Clint will admit that he was hoping Loki would get banged up a bit when he returned to Asgard, but not to that extent. If Asgard had just kept all its sharp, acidic hands to themselves, Clint wouldn't be in this mess. None of them would. Thanks a lot, Odin.

Clint's starting to drift off, landing somewhere in that place between sleep and awake when Loki nudges his shoe, hard. Clint groans, but doesn't move it, refusing to open his eyes. "What?"

"Thor has not contacted any of you since he left?" Loki asks, jabbing his shoe again with the edge of—book, yes, it's a book when Clint slivers open an eye to look—a book to prevent Clint from going to sleep. Somewhere, Clint wonders what it says about him. Loki used to be terrified of touching them as if they'd reach out and stab him in the eye socket.

"No." Clint says with bite, "We already went over that. He's been MIA. Sin contacto. Razocharovaniye v obshchenii."

There's a long beat. Loki doesn't even give him a slight huff, which is disappointing. Tony would have laughed.

"That is unusual," Loki concedes, his voice careful. Clint frowns. He thought as much, but Loki would know better long-long term. "Thor doesn't make a habit of this. He's typically terrible with communication, but not for this long. And," Clint can hear Loki's lip curling slightly, "his beloved Jane has birthed a pattern of letting others know where he is."

Clint shrugs, keeping his eyes closed. He's tired, he wants to sleep. He can deal with the Thor Problem in an hour or two. It's not like an hour will make that much of a difference after three days. What's the worst that could happen anyway? He's an Asgardian.

Clint mumbles tiredly in response to Loki's comment, "You'd know better than me…y'know, I can't decide if it's funny or not that you're annoyed. Thor actually wants to keep in contact with someone, period, and it's not you. Little brother jealousy is flaring up there, Lokes."

"Very mature," Loki says icily.

"I try." Clint shifts his position on the couch, getting more comfortable, resting his head on his arm. "No more poking. Read your book. I'm trying to sleep. Thor can wait."

He can feel Loki's heavy stare on him for several more seconds before it moves away. Privately, in the recess of his mind where he doesn't have to put up a front, Clint exhales in relief. Loki, thankfully, doesn't say another word about Thor, even though Clint gets the sense he wants to. Clint doesn't care.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to project no dreams into his subconscious as a plea.

His brain doesn't care.

Clint can tell, sometimes, when he's in the dreams. This is one of those rare occasions, but it doesn't help. It's not any easier to know that his subconscious is messing with him than it is to be sucked down into the dream where reality becomes a blurry joke.

"...Mercy...please…"

The sound is ragged, a hiss of air being expelled by lungs abused and torn. Beneath restraints pinning him in suspension, he's trembling. The heat is making him sick, and his blood feels like it's boiling beneath his skin in thick, waving patterns.

The cord wrapped around his wrists is tight, and his ankles are beginning to swell.

He can't keep this up.

He's going to fall.

He's going to fail.

But he has to stay upright, he has to keep pushing...has to…can't...think. Too hot. His bones feel burnt to their center. He can't breathe. The air he inhales seers his throat as it passes to his lungs.

"What," the voice causes him to shudder, and he has to push his weight off his toes desperately to keep from falling, "makes you think that you have earned mercy?"

His eyes burn. A hand touches the side of his face, cold, and he yearns for it. The grip is rough and calloused, but it's the most kindness he's received in a long, long time, and he feels himself crumple. "Pl-pl-please." He stumbles over himself. "Can...t…"

The fingers slide from a caress to a brutal strike. The cord around his neck tightens as his feet slip out from under him, pulling on his hands, and he has to frantically shove up on exhausted, swollen toes to keep himself from being strangled. His feet feel like they're cramping, and a harsh sob escapes him despite his best efforts.

They're only dry sobs, and they hurt. Any water in his system fled him some time ago.

The hand comes back to caress his face, gentle, inviting, and almost sad. "Why do you continue to fight it, child? This is mercy. You're too shortsighted to see it." A long, weary sigh, "Stop fighting this, let me help you." The voice is calm, the tone even, and the despair that consumes him is unlike anything he's experienced before. It would have been better if he'd shouted it, instead of this quiet, almost sympathetic hiss.

"N-No," he whispers.

His stomach tightens. The looming figure in front of him gives a curt nod, and something smacks him in the back of the knees, and he goes tumbling into suffocation all over again, gasping, choking, oh, Gods, help me—

But nothing helps him. Nothing ever does. There is not a reprieve.

And Clint is left trying to stop himself from suffocating until he wakes up with a jolt, gasping. He blinks rapidly, feeling sick to his stomach and the phantom sensation of a cord wrapped around his wrists and throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forces himself to take several deep, even breaths. He's not going to fall apart. It's fine. It was a dream.

It felt like more than that.

It was a dream. Nothing happened. He's safe. He's fine. He's just as exhausted as before, but at least he tried.

Oh g—

"Barton?" there's a thin edge of what could be mistaken as concern in the tone. Clint swallows thickly, squeezing his hands together into white, painful fists before he looks up. Loki has leaned forward slightly, hunched over a new book, his thin face narrowed with…something. His gaze is studying Clint intently.

"Peachy." Clint snaps and gets up to his feet. He feels unsteady and has to plant his weight awkwardly in order to stay upright. He turns away from Loki and rubs a hand over his face, trying not to tremble and gather himself together. His hands are shaking. Looking at Loki doesn't make it any easier.

It was a dream.

There was something choking me.

He's okay.

I was going to burn to death.

I, I, I.

The biggest lie of all that he tells himself about this, though, Clint knows, has nothing to do with reassurance. It's the I. Because Clint is never certain if it's him who's being tortured or something else. Because in a feat of illegal, bitter karma, at times Clint recognizes the tortured voice in the dreams to be Loki's, not his.

Without knowing how or why Clint is, he's pretty sure, dreaming Loki's memories about what Odin did him after the Battle. Because God hates Clint Barton, and this is some sort of cosmic recompense.

"Barton?" Loki persists. Clint wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He wants to turn around and yell at him, why are you leaking into my head? Make it stop, stop, stop, stop

He wants—

He can't look at Loki. The room in the air feels stuffy and thick like he's breathing in soup. Clint shakes his head and breathes out shakily. He rubs his hands over his face and retreats from the couch without another word, stepping outside to stand on the landing pad, breathing in the sharp, bitter air.

I thought, he thinks angrily, tired, defeated, that it was over. Natasha gave him a concussion and that was that.

Clint forces out a tight breath and does his best not to fall apart.

Author's Note:

Next chapter: (pray and bug me and we'll all hope that God aligns the stars so I can get this posted): March 4th

Please leave your thoughts if you're comfortable with that. :)