Make You Ill, 4/5. NC-17.
It's my birthday today, and I'll be out tonight at a holiday party. So here's the chapter a few hours early. :)
Title: Make You Ill
Series: #13 in Ready For The Siege
(#1 - Look Over Your Shoulder, #2 - Armed Up To The Teeth, #3 - Misery Inspires, #4 - Broken Underneath, #5 - Change Is Coming Soon, #6 - Lick Your Wounds, #7 - Bitter Sparks, #8 - Father's Will, #9 - To Feel Safe Again, #10 - Hit Your Prime, #11 - Open Your Eyes, #12 - Can't Be Ignored)
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Loki/Natasha, Natasha/Yelena, Natasha/Winter Soldier
Disclaimer: Not mine! Some comic backstory is incorporated into characterizations, but this is still primarily movieverse.
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-movie. Read the other stories before this one, because it does refer back to events in them. Additional warning for underage sexual situations, drug use (with and without consent), dubcon, noncon, mindfuckery of various flavors (hello, Red Room!) and detailed descriptions of violence.
Title and series title from "The Royal We" by Silversun Pickups
Special thanks to phoenixrising06/
romanovasledger for plotting and characterization discussion. :)
Summary: Natasha's past is starting to haunt her and Loki refuses to leave well enough alone. Unfortunately, the Red Room never did take no for an answer.
Prior chapters:
One - Evaluating Threats
Two - Smoke and Mirrors
Three - Hazy Shadows
Four - Beyond Numbers
Loki had been just as horrified and disgusted by the deaths in Ophelia's home as Clint had been, which oddly enough helped him feel better about calling him in. Natasha had told him that Loki didn't always see death up close, which made it easier to justify his actions to himself. People were just numbers then, abstract concepts that didn't mean much. That allowed him to slaughter without blinking or feeling remorse. He didn't kill for the sake of killing and wasn't a mercenary for some kind of terrorist group. Loki simply existed now, and it was disheartening to see what a lack of purpose did to Loki.
Beneath the bloody footprints around the groups of victims had been chalked markings and remnants of herbs. Clint hadn't noticed those before, but saw it now that Loki pointed it out to him. "So what does it all mean?" Clint asked him once they were back out in the hallway.
"One set was working on a binding spell of some sort," Loki began with a frown. "Those nearest the door were working on protection. Not of themselves, but to be sent out elsewhere."
"The ones in the back, what about them? The scribes and director?"
"I would guess that the one you call director was sending the energies created elsewhere. The two were writing in a bastardized runic script. They could have been attempting a runic spell of some sort."
"Of some sort?" Clint asked.
"Bastardized runic script," Loki enunciated. "It wasn't a true spell."
Clint put aside the urge to hit Loki with some effort. "Maybe not to you, but what did they think they were doing?"
"Another binding spell."
"Then I guess the real question is, who where they binding? Because it wasn't Ophelia. The one that killed the mages killed her, too."
"Why do you think it was one individual?"
"Only one pair of bloody footprints in that room."
Loki paused; he hadn't noticed that detail and didn't want to be impressed with Clint. Well, the feeling was mutual. "If this is why I can't feel Natasha…"
"These people have been dead for weeks."
Though his jaw worked, Loki said nothing. After a moment, he strode back into the room and started speaking in Alltongue, occasionally making complicated hand gestures. As he did so, some of the victims began to develop a shimmering afterimage of themselves next to their bodies. They began to move around as if alive, and Clint could only guess that they had been created to reenact the victims' final moments.
Clint would be impressed if he allowed himself to be. As it was, he squelched down any admiration and forced himself to remain impassive at the sight.
The images moved backward from the time of death; they lay still on the floor for a long time, then shifted into the sprawled position of someone that collapsed from standing. The ghostly images moved to the standing positions they had been in, though they seemed to be coughing and choking. Loki stared intently at each group as time continued to flow backward for the shadowy figures.
The binding spells appeared to be applied to something that was moved from one group to another, almost like an assembly line. "A spell proxy," Loki declared suddenly, pointing at the room overall. "A series of spells cast on an object, to be released at a later time," he explained when he saw Clint's blank look. "Then the slaughter occurred once it was complete. That was likely done to mask the purpose of the spells and nature of the proxy."
"Yelena, then," Clint said, looking away from the room. "Small feet, hooked up with the Sarkissians and their mages, disappeared around the time these people were killed."
"But the death of a caster does not require this level of savagery." Loki frowned at Clint for a moment. "Could this be why Natasha was afraid? She knew this woman could be capable of such viciousness and cruelty?"
Clint sighed. "I hate to break it to you, Loki," he said heavily, "but so is Natasha."
***
Bleary-eyed, Natasha watched Yelena expertly swab down her arm in the antecubital fossa, the veins evident thanks to the tourniquet on her upper arm. She was starting to look like a heroin addict from the track marks, and Yelena had similar marks on her own arms. "You need your medicine," Yelena chirped, a grin on her face. But it didn't look right, and everything swam dizzyingly in front of Natasha's eyes.
"I'm not sick," Natasha tried to say, but the syllables were garbled and nausea hit her hard.
"It'll make you strong," Yelena continued. "The best anti-aging elixirs and neural reconditioners that Hydra could develop. We don't have the chair, but we won't need it. No need to scrub Winter clean. They always do it before he goes on ice." Was that right? Natasha had thought it was done after he woke, if he was too unstable. Too many erasures could be dangerous. "He's clean, our darling Winter is," she crooned, sliding the needle into Natasha's arm. "We're already scrubbed clean, and I'm putting in the trigger fail safes that we need."
No, no, no. SHIELD got rid of her triggers. Didn't they?
Natasha tried to say something, though her words fell away from her, skittering like stones across a linoleum floor. Nadia had grown up in a small council flat in Brixton, everything worn away and nothing new. She was pretty, sure, but not too bright. She knew she would wind up in an estate system, if not the same one she was born in. Only the clever ones got away...
No, wait. She wasn't really Nadia. That had simply been a cover identity she had used when she was thirteen.
Pushing herself up to a seated position, the room swam. Natasha opened her mouth, only to be violently ill. Yelena clucked in a maternal manner, pulling her hair away from her face. "Yes," she said sympathetically. "They couldn't eliminate that side effect. The dopamine and serotonin balance, they said."
She looked at Yelena, tears in her eyes from the force of vomiting. Speaking wasn't working well, but pulling away the sorry excuse of a shirt made her understand. Natasha was bundled into the shower, under the hot water and pressed against the cold tiles once completely naked. She shivered violently, crossing her arms over her breasts when she saw Yelena's possessive gaze. Something wasn't right here, but her thoughts were too confused to figure out what it was. Seeing Yelena strip out of her clothes didn't help clarify matters, either. They'd done this before, hadn't they?
"It's time to get clean," Yelena chirped, her eyes almost glassy.
Conditioning. Triggers. Yelena's mind was still full of fucking landmines.
Yelena stepped into the shower with her and started wiping at her body with a washcloth. "I remember this, don't you?" she purred. "The one corner in the showers without cameras. The one place we knew we could have privacy in there."
"Yes," Natasha whispered shakily. "I remember."
Once Natasha's body was scrubbed clean, Yelena tossed the washcloth aside. The grin on her face was almost predatory. "Good."
Crowding into Natasha's space, Yelena kissed her hungrily, mouth open and tongue sliding along her lips. Natasha held onto Yelena's shoulders for balance, sliding her tongue against Yelena's. It had happened before, and her memories were fuzzy, blending in together. Years ago, Natasha had returned from a mission, but it had been a near thing. Though the outer layers of clothing had been clear, the blood had been on the inner layers and smeared across her skin. She had been calm, but had retreated to scrub the filth from her skin as soon as possible. Yelena had seen her, and followed her into the showers. Tenderly, she had helped scrub Natasha clean. Their lips met, a tangle of tongues and arms around each other.
It was different now, yet the same; two timelines were superimposed over each other. Yelena stroked Natasha's breast, flicking the nipple enough to make her gasp with need. That was enough of an invitation for Yelena to slide a hand down Natasha's stomach. Then she curled her fingers up against Natasha's clit and started stroking, the running water giving her a bit of lube to get it going. Natasha clung to Yelena's shoulders and let her head fall back against the tile; years ago, Yelena had bent her head to suckle a breast as she brought off Natasha with her fingers the first time.
From there, memory and reality meshed exactly. Dropping to her knees after Natasha came with a muffled cry, Yelena looked up Natasha with a mischievous grin on her face. She leaned forward to kiss her mons, then lifted one leg. Putting it over her shoulder, Yelena now had access to Natasha's sex. She leaned in enough to get her mouth right there, holding her open with both hands, then licked into Natasha. Crying out at the sensation, Natasha grasped the back of Yelena's head with one hand and braced herself against the tile with the other. The running water muffled the noise that Natasha made, which was rather the point in the Red Room. In the motel room it didn't matter, but it was best not to attract attention.
Natasha let go of the back of Yelena's head and shoved that fist into her mouth to muffle her cries as she came. She slowly slid down the wall, legs trembling and unable to support her weight. Yelena helped ease the way, crooning "My darling girl, my darling Natasha," the entire time. "I'm here, I'm here. I've got you. I'll keep you safe."
Only, there was no way to fulfill that promise in the Red Room. No one was safe. No one was ever safe, it was simply a question of how damaged they would be at the end of it, if superior officers would order them to their death. But years ago, the two of them had promised to look out for each other, to protect each other if they could.
Seated on the floor, Natasha watched as Yelena approached her. This was different from the Red Room; both girls had wound up sprawled on the floor, mouths and arms tangled together, rutting against each other's thigh. Now, Yelena straddled Natasha, lifting one leg top rest her foot on the edge of the tub. She smiled expectantly at Natasha, who understood and leaned forward to lick into Yelena, grasping her hips with both hands to keep her steady.
"Better," Yelena gasped, grasping a fistful of Natasha's hair at the base of her skull, holding her in place. "God, I've missed you so much, Natalia. My Natalia, our Natashenko. We won't be apart again," Yelena moaned. "They're dead, they're dead," she sing-songed, hips jerking as she approached orgasm. She started to laugh and shake, her hand clenching Natasha's hair so tightly that there was real risk of it being pulled out of her scalp. "They're all fucking dead. Darling, all enemies of the Red Room are dead. And if they're not, they will be."
Once Yelena came, she let go of Natasha and allowed her to fall back against the sides of the shower stall. She was dizzy from holding her breath as she worked on Yelena, as well as from the earlier bout of vomiting and side effects from the drugs. Closing her eyes, Natasha focused on her breathing, on maintaining it as evenly as possible. Yelena didn't even notice, she merely wrapped herself up in towels and left the bathroom. Natasha shut off the water with her toes, keeping her eyes shut and working from memory where the faucet was.
Her sense of time was off. Perhaps she even fell asleep. But she was next aware of being lifted out of the shower stall, of freezing metal on her back. Startled awake, Natasha's eyes flew open and she stared at the Winter Soldier. "Winter," she gasped, shivering.
"There are always side effects," he intoned.
"Tell her to stop giving me these drugs," she insisted, grasping his shirt front. "The triggers were taken out of my head, I promise you. I got wiped clean. All she's doing is making me sick."
But the Winter Soldier merely carried her out of the bathroom and laid her back down on the bed. Yelena was sitting at the desk, working on something in a folder. An array of small glass vials was on the desk beside her, as well as the 24 gauge needles and syringes. She was humming a jaunty tune, something vaguely familiar.
Then Natasha remembered why it was so familiar. It was Starkovsky's favorite song, something he hummed to himself as he perused the Black Widow dossiers, the tune he had hummed when he was "judging" Natasha's skills. The fucking pervert.
"Yelena," she managed to say. "Don't give me those." She pushed herself up to a sitting position and swung her legs off of the bed. At that point, the Winter Solider placed his metal hand against her sternum and pushed, sending her sprawling across the bed again. "They're making me sick and I don't have any triggers. The overlays are gone, Yelena."
It was obvious Yelena wasn't listening, and had instructed the Winter Soldier to stop her. He kept his hand on her chest and moved so that he could sit beside her. Obviously, he had been instructed to do this prior to waking her up. Yelena continued humming that damned song, a vacant smile on her face.
Good God, echoes of Starkovky's face were etched into her expression.
The Winter Soldier grabbed her arm and laid it flat on the bed. "You will lie still, Natalia," he told her without inflection. She had heard that plenty of times before, and had been punished when she didn't follow directions. But she couldn't follow these directions, she couldn't listen, she had to escape somehow. It couldn't be now, not when she was pinned to the bed as Yelena drew up more of those fucking drugs and didn't explain a damn thing. They did something terrible to her mind and body; she could feel it and knew that it was worse than the injections she had received in the Red Room. These injections burned as they went in, made her violently ill and screwed up her sense of time and continuity. There was no way to tell if her reaction time was slowed or her reflexes diminished, because she was constantly in and out of consciousness. Or altered states of consciousness.
Loki must have been going out of his mind. Natasha couldn't feel the bond that existed between them, and wasn't sure if it was all of these injections interfering with the spells. Normally, she could tell in a general sense where Loki was. Right now, she felt nothing at all.
More injections, more burning-stinging-nauseating-pain. More shimmering memories blending in with the present moment.
The Winter Soldier was holding her down. He watched her closely as she writhed and gasped in pain, nearly screaming, Natasha could feel the tears streaming out of the corner of her eyes, though she couldn't remember when she had started crying again.
"The pain passes," he told her with absolute certainty. "You've only forgotten what it feels like, but you know how it is."
Because he knew what pain was like, he knew how good intentions were always the excuse given when it cost blood and bone and pain. The Winter Soldier was nothing if not resilient; he had to be. The chair. The freezing. The bite guard and electricity and injections. Oh, she had seen it all at one point, her beautiful Winter strapped in and screaming around the bite guard. Her horror had been unparalleled, gorge rising when she realized just what Department X was willing to do to its prized agents.
Natasha looked up at him in desperation, trying not to scream, her body bucking beneath his. It gets better, he told her once, his eyes told her now. He held her down when she convulsed, his body pressed all along hers. Yelena laughed and made notes, sounding like Starkovsky when she talked about adjusting doses.
"Help me," she begged Winter before passing out.
"We are," he assured her.
But there was something like doubt in his eyes, too.
***
It was easier getting out of Austria than in thanks to Loki's portal back to Avengers Tower. Clint packed up all of Natasha's things with a heavy heart, and felt like a creep putting them away in her suite. Everyone could hear him muttering, even from down the hall. Loki hung about the edges of the Tower for the first few days, then went to the Brooklyn VA. He actually liked that much better than the soup kitchen that Steve went to. While it was good work there, Loki didn't feel comfortable. Too many cloying people, too many needy mouths. It was a reminder of just how not good he was, how unnatural it was to sacrifice himself for another. He had to be the best, had to succeed at all costs.
Clint had to work within SHIELD parameters, which meant their agents in a field office, Interpol agents and Austrian intelligence agencies. That led to unbelievable amounts of posturing, paperwork and grandstanding. Normally, Loki could tolerate that sort of thing. In fact, he reveled in it, for diplomatic interactions were really just controlled chaos. That wasn't a contradiction in terms: every diplomat worked within their preconceived parameters and protocols, and all Loki had to do was pull the strings and watch them all dance. He sat back and enjoyed the show, letting complaints that he was a manipulator slide right off his back. All the best diplomats and advisors were master manipulators, after all.
But now he was on the receiving end of such a dance, and he didn't like it at all.
The Red Room was considered a defunct training arm of the KGB and then the FSB, which would have dissolved when the Soviet Union fell apart. Interpol wasn't interested in them, not like they were in Hydra, the Hand or Black Spectre. There were individuals that they watched carefully, never able to find anything leading to official charges. That was the sort of thing that used to annoy Natasha and her SHIELD compatriots to no end. Now Loki understood.
Yelena Belova had kept an extraordinarily clean profile over the last ten years, and was only known as a model in Europe. In fact, she had met Ophelia Sarkissian during a Milanese lingerie fashion show, and had scandalized the designer when she pulled Ophelia on stage wearing nothing more than a white lace teddy and thigh high black boots. In front of the entire audience, she had given Ophelia a filthy kiss, then spun her around in a pirouette before sending her back off the runway and blowing a kiss to the rival designer. Apparently, the stunt had been enough to get her into Ophelia's good graces and increase her viability as a model.
Ophelia was dead now. Loki didn't want to admire the long game Yelena had played. She knew that Ophelia would have been there to meet with financiers. The Hydra director fancied women and bold moves, so Yelena gave her both. As quickly as she came onto the modeling scene, she backed out and stayed with Ophelia. That was it for her public persona, but there had to be more to the story. After all, Ophelia also had Emilia, who helped broker the sale and purchases of properties for her. Loki couldn't help but wonder if Yelena had a hand in that as well.
What else did she do or not do?
The Brooklyn VA actually had three campuses for its tertiary care center, located in three boroughs: on the East Side, in Bay Ridge and St. Albans. There were also other outpatient locations for the veterans to get their care. Sam worked at their specialized outpatient PTSD center, which was tightly affiliated with their substance abuse center. Far too many vets relied on some kind of substance to get through the day, whether it was legal medication from their psychiatrists or the illegal ones they found easily on the street. Sam was proud of his program, which he helped to build from the ground up.
The help that Sam needed was generally easy to do. Loki rearranged chairs, set up the table of refreshments, put out the pamphlets and flyers and signup sheets, and kept an eye out for the attendees that seemed particularly unstable.
One of the men in attendance stared at him a little too long and a little too harshly. "You fucked up the city four years ago," he accused suddenly, interrupting someone else's talk about their nightmares and difficulty expressing them. "It's you, isn't it? You're the asshole that brought the aliens in, aren't you?" Without waiting for confirmation, he launched himself at Loki, bringing his hands up to choke him. "You killed my sister!"
Loki could have easily thrown him back, killed him or maimed him. Instead, he simply peeled the man off of his person and held him out at arm's length until Sam could get to them. The others in the room were suddenly very quiet, eyes wide and judging.
Though their gaze felt uncomfortable, as if he was being found wanting, this time, Loki didn't retreat to try to cut apart his skin. "Yes," he told the man simply. "I am Loki of Asgard." A low murmur spread throughout the room. "I am... It's unfortunate about your sister," he said stiffly, giving the man a formal nod. "I am sorry for your loss."
"Fuck you!" the man cried, pushing against Sam's restraining arms. "You don't even care. Why are you here?"
Balancing a ledger for someone that probably could never love him back.
"Atonement," Loki said finally. "My crimes on both our realms have been great."
"I'm not your pet project!" someone cried angrily.
"No, you are not," Loki said gravely. He turned and pointed at Sam. "You're his."
Sam raised an eyebrow at Loki. "Rude," he said mildly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Loki lifted his chin in challenge. "Oh? Even on Midgard, there is no place for those that cannot fit in precisely. Those with fears or nightmares or difficulty being… If they're not labeled mad and forgotten about, they're shunted aside to be fixed." Loki couldn't keep the snarl from his voice. "And if you don't comply with shifting expectations, you're a monster."
"Oh yeah? What was your expectation, then?" someone sneered.
Rage flared in his chest, white hot and nearly uncontrollable. These mortals would dare?
Of course they would. Mortals were stubborn creatures, veterans even more so.
"To conquer. To rule. To always succeed, no matter the cost. To never get caught appearing less than expectations. Not to boast of using magic."
"Why not?"
"It is not a warrior's art."
The simmering rage in his voice was only too evident to everyone in the room, and he couldn't control it. As opposed to speaking with Frigga or Thor, no one in the room was frightened of it, having their own rages to deal with.
"Are you sorry?" a different veteran asked.
"I don't know," Loki answered honestly. "Better me than the alternative."
"What alternative?" another called out from across the room.
Loki crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall beside the refreshment table, jaw set. "Surely you heard of tumult in Asgard?" A few heads nodded reluctantly. "This realm was the original target of Thanos, who would have slaughtered the billions of lives here in his quest to worship death. I managed to extract the promise of ruling this realm. Thousands may have perished, but that is fewer than the billions he wanted. So when taking over this realm failed, he turned his attentions to Asgard."
"We only have your word on that," one veteran scoffed, leaning back in his chair.
"You still killed thousands," a veteran said, her cheeks suffused with a blotchy redness due to her anger. "Good people died in this city!"
Loki shrugged. "It may sound callous, but is it any different from the leaders that send any of you into battle? You're not individuals to them. You're numbers to balance against defeating the enemy. All generals think in that manner. Controlled losses, acceptable risks, nameless rank and file members of the warrior class..." He uncrossed his arms. "When it is war, you cannot count the cost of individual lives."
"God, listen to you!" another veteran called out. Her entire body vibrated with tension, hands clenched into fists. It was impossible to tell if her complexion grew blotchy due to her dusky skin tone, but her eyes flashed in a manner that reminded Loki of Natasha. Her hair was braided tightly to her scalp, and she wore clothing that was formfitting yet not suggestive in the least, as if she didn't want her clothing to impede her ability to defend from attack. Loki recalled that this was PTSD support group, that many of these veterans had difficulty functioning as a civilian, when the threat of war was not something they should respond to. This woman looked ready to pick up a heavy weapon and fire at an enemy combatant.
"Yes?" Loki asked, eyebrow raised and expression cool. "What is it about that statement which troubles you? I assure you, I've studied tactics longer than you've been alive."
"You just don't give a shit about life in general. People don't matter to you. It's all about what you want, isn't it? Fuck everyone else, you're the only one that matters?"
"I didn't say that," Loki replied, though he didn't think she was wrong, exactly. It was more that the people who mattered were far too few in number.
The woman wasn't listening, however, giving Loki the impression that his presence merely tipped her over into a rant she had suppressed for far too long. "Never mind the individuals dying because of someone's shitty judgment call. It's just war, and you almost like killing, don't you? It comes too easy, us vs. them, kill them before they shoot you." Her voice wavered and a reverent hush fell over the group. "Then you get back, and that's a horrible thing. You're not supposed to kill anymore, or talk about it, or like it. You're supposed to act grateful you got back at all, and not talk about killing children and blowing apart villages or watching an IED take out your squad because your CO can't read a fucking map. Or the nightmares and flashbacks when you get back, so you can't stand a backfiring car or the Fourth of July. You can't even watch a movie without diving for cover, without needing to watch your back, people staring like there's something wrong with you when it's the whole world that's fucked up. That it takes everything not to take your service weapon and just blow off the top of your head to make it all go away, make the dreams stop, make the screaming of the dead just shut up, so you can stop thinking about all this bullshit while you're waiting for your life to begin again."
Everyone in the room watched as she crumpled in on herself, crying without tears.
"Generals don't care about that," Loki said quietly. "I don't know about your world, but on mine, many generals never step foot on the battlefield. The good ones do, the brave ones do, but not all of them. Those are the ones that lose more, that call it an acceptable risk."
Before anyone could speak, Loki continued, staring at the distraught woman. "The Chitauri were not my people. They meant nothing to me or to the generals that were of their race. Those soldiers were born and bred only for the purpose of fighting, to earn a glorious death. Their death would help Thanos court Death, and he certainly didn't care for them. I didn't know much about your realm. Why should I, when Asgard is the golden city, the shining example of all that is good in the Nine Realms?" Loki shrugged, indicating the disinterest he once held for Earth and its inhabitants.
"I didn't know or care about your world, so a few thousand deaths instead of seven billion seemed like an acceptable loss. I'd sweep in like a benevolent god and save you from yourselves, show you that free will is only an illusion."
"It's not!" someone said as another shouted "The Avengers beat you!"
The woman looked at him for a long time, distress still evident. "Then who saves you?" she asked finally. "You have nightmares, I can tell. You're just like us, aren't you? Isn't that why you're here?"
"What's to stop us from killing you for what you did to our city?" another veteran asked.
Loki lofted an eyebrow as he stared down that veteran. "Try, if you are so inclined. Even on this realm, I may defend myself from assault. Unfortunately, you would not survive such a thing."
And if that only added to the red in his ledger, they didn't need to know that. His ledger was already drowning in blood.
The woman's lip wobbled a bit and she let out a bark of bitter laughter as she brought the back of one hand to her mouth, rubbing it almost nervously. "You're like us," she said finally. "Look at you. You're at home here. It doesn't bother you if someone threatens to kill you, you threaten right back. It doesn't bother you to talk about wartime and killing and decisions that destroy thousands of lives. You enjoy it, don't you? And I bet Asgard doesn't. I bet that's why you're here and not there. They threw you out, didn't they? You don't fit there, you don't belong. Then you came here and fucked up our city, but even that was a goddamn shit show. Nobody wanted you and you had nowhere else to go, did you? So you're here now and you're with us, because you're just like us."
Something snapped in Loki's chest at her words. They threw you out, didn't they? hit a nerve, still raw and exposed. He couldn't help it, his hands were fisted at his sides, the crackle and static of magic building there from the spike in rage. He leaned forward a little, teeth bared in a grimace, rage evident for all to see. Let them fear him, let them cower and quiver and kneel down before him, let them fear what he would do.
"I am nothing like you!"
But that only made her laugh, bitter and pained and oh so familiar. "Oh, yes, you are. You're exactly like us, like every one of us in this room."
Sam stepped up finally, hands raised in a placating gesture that clearly was meant to also show he wasn't a threat. No weapons in his hands, no fear in his eyes or expression. He was moderator here, mild mannered and infinitely calm. "That's enough, everybody. Time's up. Same time next week, guys." He looked over at Loki, no censure in his expression. "If you show up, you show up." He looked back over the crowd, some of whom stared at Loki in loathing. "All of you, you know the drill. We do what we can, we keep on going."
Some of the vets shuffled out of the room, glaring at Loki as they left. Some pointedly ignored him, an insult in every aspect of their posture. The woman came up to him, and she was no taller than Natasha, with a very similar defiant stance as she stood there. "You're a veteran," she declared, staring at him boldly.
"I have not fought in your wars," Loki scoffed.
"You move like a fighter," she said. "You've been on the ground. On the front lines." The look she sent him was one of pure appraisal. "If you studied tactics as much as you say, then you did a shitty job of taking over Manhattan. Maybe you did that on purpose."
"And why would I do that?" Loki sneered.
"Because taking over our world wouldn't have gotten you away from the asshole that sent you here to kill us. You would've been his bitch for the rest of your life."
She was perceptive, and he hated that.
"Therese," Sam said warmly, approaching her slowly without looking wary at all. "Good to see you here. Anything I can do to help?"
Therese gave him a blank stare. "No," she said flatly before turning on her heel and leaving.
Loki was pathetically grateful that Sam had intervened, and also resented that he had needed that intervention at all. When they were the only two in the room, Loki leveled a glance at Sam, who seemed as unperturbed as ever. "I'm sorry I ruined the session," he began stiffly. "I will remain at the tower next time."
Sam turned around from where he was collecting pamphlets he had left out. "Aw, man, it wasn't so bad. It turned out pretty damn good, I think."
"What?"
"Yeah. See, Therese there at the end? Well, it's been... Oh, almost seven months that she's been attending group. But in all that time, she's never said a word. Sits there, looks angry, looks ready to hit somebody, but never talked. So you got her to open up. Thanks."
Nonplused, Loki managed not to gape at him. "That was hardly a good talk."
"On the contrary," Sam corrected. "Talking isn't there to make you feel comfortable in a place like this. It's to get it all out. Venting, sharing, seeing you're not alone. That's what this is about, Loki. It's not to make it pretty and palatable. War is dangerous and hard and cruel. Good men and women don't come back, and there's no rhyme or reason to it. Good people, bad people, it doesn't matter. Dead is dead."
"To say such things on Asgard is treason."
"Yeah, well, here in America, we got the First Amendment." At his blank look, Sam pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. "C'mon. Library time. If you're going to live here a while, you better know about the Constitution and laws and stuff like that."
Loki gave him a disdainful look. "Why would that matter?"
"'Cause you don't have diplomatic immunity," Sam replied flatly. "And you'll know where we're coming from, and what applied to you while you're living here."
He thought of Natasha and the ledger she had foisted on him. "Too many blasted rules."
"Yeah. Sucks sometimes, sure. I mean, why is the speed limit in the City 55 but you cross over into Nassau and it's 65? Stupid, right?" Sam gave him a good natured smile, as if he was in on the joke, though it made no sense to Loki. "But the law's the law. Break too many, what you've got is chaos."
"So?"
"So, people don't do well in chaos. Too much worry, too much stress, too much fear. You need structure. Limits. Knowing how far you can go and still be safe."
Loki was perfectly still as Sam spoke. Natasha. She was his limit setter. She kept him safe. Not these laws, not others. Somehow, she was the only one who could do it, because she could never break. No matter how hard he had tried, she did not break.
But perhaps if he let them, her friends could help show him where limits were.
***
"This isn't working," Natasha said, managing to swat at Yelena's arm. She also tumbled off of the bed, which finally made Yelena frown in concern. "What's in that shit?"
"I had all of the top biochemists, pharmacists and mages work on it..."
Mages. No wonder her connection to Loki seemed to be severed.
"All of the research from our location was gone, of course, and whatever was salvaged from other Department X locations were corrupted. Ophelia's people at Hydra did what they could, and we convinced Ekaterina to help, but she was a bitch and thought it was a bad idea." Yelena sounded disgruntled, but still reached for another of the clear glass vials.
"It's not working. It's making me sick. It's fucking up my reaction time," Natasha insisted. For once, her thoughts were clear and linear. She didn't feel about ready to throw up, but knew it was coming as soon as that injection came.
"There's a protocol to follow."
"You're not Starkovsky, so stop acting like him," Natasha insisted. She didn't feel triumphant when Yelena flinched at the accusation.
"I'm going to fix you," Yelena said stubbornly. She drew up the contents of the vial and looked over to where Natasha was bound to the bed. "It's going to be like it was."
"If what it was worked, I wouldn't have burned down the fucking place," Natasha replied with a snarl of anger. "They hurt you. They beat up and froze Winter in front of me just to make a point. We were expendable, Lena. They didn't care about us, about the horrors we had to put ourselves through to get the job done. Do you remember? Your test? The one you warned me about? That boy from Department X and then afterward, reporting to Starkovsky? Do you remember? They didn't care what he did to you. They didn't care how hurt you were..."
Yelena's hand trembled. She must have remembered the trauma of that day. But the syringe was full, and her eyes were distant.
"I won't let them hurt you, Natalia," Yelena whispered, much as she had that day she crawled into Natasha's bed in the dorms, shivering and bruised, lip cut and swollen. "We're going to be better than they ever were."
Before she could ask what Yelena meant by that, the needle slid into her arm.
***
***
To Chapter Five - Memory
Title: Make You Ill
Series: #13 in Ready For The Siege
(#1 - Look Over Your Shoulder, #2 - Armed Up To The Teeth, #3 - Misery Inspires, #4 - Broken Underneath, #5 - Change Is Coming Soon, #6 - Lick Your Wounds, #7 - Bitter Sparks, #8 - Father's Will, #9 - To Feel Safe Again, #10 - Hit Your Prime, #11 - Open Your Eyes, #12 - Can't Be Ignored)
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Loki/Natasha, Natasha/Yelena, Natasha/Winter Soldier
Disclaimer: Not mine! Some comic backstory is incorporated into characterizations, but this is still primarily movieverse.
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-movie. Read the other stories before this one, because it does refer back to events in them. Additional warning for underage sexual situations, drug use (with and without consent), dubcon, noncon, mindfuckery of various flavors (hello, Red Room!) and detailed descriptions of violence.
Title and series title from "The Royal We" by Silversun Pickups
Special thanks to phoenixrising06/
romanovasledger for plotting and characterization discussion. :)
Summary: Natasha's past is starting to haunt her and Loki refuses to leave well enough alone. Unfortunately, the Red Room never did take no for an answer.
Prior chapters:
One - Evaluating Threats
Two - Smoke and Mirrors
Three - Hazy Shadows
Four - Beyond Numbers
Loki had been just as horrified and disgusted by the deaths in Ophelia's home as Clint had been, which oddly enough helped him feel better about calling him in. Natasha had told him that Loki didn't always see death up close, which made it easier to justify his actions to himself. People were just numbers then, abstract concepts that didn't mean much. That allowed him to slaughter without blinking or feeling remorse. He didn't kill for the sake of killing and wasn't a mercenary for some kind of terrorist group. Loki simply existed now, and it was disheartening to see what a lack of purpose did to Loki.
Beneath the bloody footprints around the groups of victims had been chalked markings and remnants of herbs. Clint hadn't noticed those before, but saw it now that Loki pointed it out to him. "So what does it all mean?" Clint asked him once they were back out in the hallway.
"One set was working on a binding spell of some sort," Loki began with a frown. "Those nearest the door were working on protection. Not of themselves, but to be sent out elsewhere."
"The ones in the back, what about them? The scribes and director?"
"I would guess that the one you call director was sending the energies created elsewhere. The two were writing in a bastardized runic script. They could have been attempting a runic spell of some sort."
"Of some sort?" Clint asked.
"Bastardized runic script," Loki enunciated. "It wasn't a true spell."
Clint put aside the urge to hit Loki with some effort. "Maybe not to you, but what did they think they were doing?"
"Another binding spell."
"Then I guess the real question is, who where they binding? Because it wasn't Ophelia. The one that killed the mages killed her, too."
"Why do you think it was one individual?"
"Only one pair of bloody footprints in that room."
Loki paused; he hadn't noticed that detail and didn't want to be impressed with Clint. Well, the feeling was mutual. "If this is why I can't feel Natasha…"
"These people have been dead for weeks."
Though his jaw worked, Loki said nothing. After a moment, he strode back into the room and started speaking in Alltongue, occasionally making complicated hand gestures. As he did so, some of the victims began to develop a shimmering afterimage of themselves next to their bodies. They began to move around as if alive, and Clint could only guess that they had been created to reenact the victims' final moments.
Clint would be impressed if he allowed himself to be. As it was, he squelched down any admiration and forced himself to remain impassive at the sight.
The images moved backward from the time of death; they lay still on the floor for a long time, then shifted into the sprawled position of someone that collapsed from standing. The ghostly images moved to the standing positions they had been in, though they seemed to be coughing and choking. Loki stared intently at each group as time continued to flow backward for the shadowy figures.
The binding spells appeared to be applied to something that was moved from one group to another, almost like an assembly line. "A spell proxy," Loki declared suddenly, pointing at the room overall. "A series of spells cast on an object, to be released at a later time," he explained when he saw Clint's blank look. "Then the slaughter occurred once it was complete. That was likely done to mask the purpose of the spells and nature of the proxy."
"Yelena, then," Clint said, looking away from the room. "Small feet, hooked up with the Sarkissians and their mages, disappeared around the time these people were killed."
"But the death of a caster does not require this level of savagery." Loki frowned at Clint for a moment. "Could this be why Natasha was afraid? She knew this woman could be capable of such viciousness and cruelty?"
Clint sighed. "I hate to break it to you, Loki," he said heavily, "but so is Natasha."
***
Bleary-eyed, Natasha watched Yelena expertly swab down her arm in the antecubital fossa, the veins evident thanks to the tourniquet on her upper arm. She was starting to look like a heroin addict from the track marks, and Yelena had similar marks on her own arms. "You need your medicine," Yelena chirped, a grin on her face. But it didn't look right, and everything swam dizzyingly in front of Natasha's eyes.
"I'm not sick," Natasha tried to say, but the syllables were garbled and nausea hit her hard.
"It'll make you strong," Yelena continued. "The best anti-aging elixirs and neural reconditioners that Hydra could develop. We don't have the chair, but we won't need it. No need to scrub Winter clean. They always do it before he goes on ice." Was that right? Natasha had thought it was done after he woke, if he was too unstable. Too many erasures could be dangerous. "He's clean, our darling Winter is," she crooned, sliding the needle into Natasha's arm. "We're already scrubbed clean, and I'm putting in the trigger fail safes that we need."
No, no, no. SHIELD got rid of her triggers. Didn't they?
Natasha tried to say something, though her words fell away from her, skittering like stones across a linoleum floor. Nadia had grown up in a small council flat in Brixton, everything worn away and nothing new. She was pretty, sure, but not too bright. She knew she would wind up in an estate system, if not the same one she was born in. Only the clever ones got away...
No, wait. She wasn't really Nadia. That had simply been a cover identity she had used when she was thirteen.
Pushing herself up to a seated position, the room swam. Natasha opened her mouth, only to be violently ill. Yelena clucked in a maternal manner, pulling her hair away from her face. "Yes," she said sympathetically. "They couldn't eliminate that side effect. The dopamine and serotonin balance, they said."
She looked at Yelena, tears in her eyes from the force of vomiting. Speaking wasn't working well, but pulling away the sorry excuse of a shirt made her understand. Natasha was bundled into the shower, under the hot water and pressed against the cold tiles once completely naked. She shivered violently, crossing her arms over her breasts when she saw Yelena's possessive gaze. Something wasn't right here, but her thoughts were too confused to figure out what it was. Seeing Yelena strip out of her clothes didn't help clarify matters, either. They'd done this before, hadn't they?
"It's time to get clean," Yelena chirped, her eyes almost glassy.
Conditioning. Triggers. Yelena's mind was still full of fucking landmines.
Yelena stepped into the shower with her and started wiping at her body with a washcloth. "I remember this, don't you?" she purred. "The one corner in the showers without cameras. The one place we knew we could have privacy in there."
"Yes," Natasha whispered shakily. "I remember."
Once Natasha's body was scrubbed clean, Yelena tossed the washcloth aside. The grin on her face was almost predatory. "Good."
Crowding into Natasha's space, Yelena kissed her hungrily, mouth open and tongue sliding along her lips. Natasha held onto Yelena's shoulders for balance, sliding her tongue against Yelena's. It had happened before, and her memories were fuzzy, blending in together. Years ago, Natasha had returned from a mission, but it had been a near thing. Though the outer layers of clothing had been clear, the blood had been on the inner layers and smeared across her skin. She had been calm, but had retreated to scrub the filth from her skin as soon as possible. Yelena had seen her, and followed her into the showers. Tenderly, she had helped scrub Natasha clean. Their lips met, a tangle of tongues and arms around each other.
It was different now, yet the same; two timelines were superimposed over each other. Yelena stroked Natasha's breast, flicking the nipple enough to make her gasp with need. That was enough of an invitation for Yelena to slide a hand down Natasha's stomach. Then she curled her fingers up against Natasha's clit and started stroking, the running water giving her a bit of lube to get it going. Natasha clung to Yelena's shoulders and let her head fall back against the tile; years ago, Yelena had bent her head to suckle a breast as she brought off Natasha with her fingers the first time.
From there, memory and reality meshed exactly. Dropping to her knees after Natasha came with a muffled cry, Yelena looked up Natasha with a mischievous grin on her face. She leaned forward to kiss her mons, then lifted one leg. Putting it over her shoulder, Yelena now had access to Natasha's sex. She leaned in enough to get her mouth right there, holding her open with both hands, then licked into Natasha. Crying out at the sensation, Natasha grasped the back of Yelena's head with one hand and braced herself against the tile with the other. The running water muffled the noise that Natasha made, which was rather the point in the Red Room. In the motel room it didn't matter, but it was best not to attract attention.
Natasha let go of the back of Yelena's head and shoved that fist into her mouth to muffle her cries as she came. She slowly slid down the wall, legs trembling and unable to support her weight. Yelena helped ease the way, crooning "My darling girl, my darling Natasha," the entire time. "I'm here, I'm here. I've got you. I'll keep you safe."
Only, there was no way to fulfill that promise in the Red Room. No one was safe. No one was ever safe, it was simply a question of how damaged they would be at the end of it, if superior officers would order them to their death. But years ago, the two of them had promised to look out for each other, to protect each other if they could.
Seated on the floor, Natasha watched as Yelena approached her. This was different from the Red Room; both girls had wound up sprawled on the floor, mouths and arms tangled together, rutting against each other's thigh. Now, Yelena straddled Natasha, lifting one leg top rest her foot on the edge of the tub. She smiled expectantly at Natasha, who understood and leaned forward to lick into Yelena, grasping her hips with both hands to keep her steady.
"Better," Yelena gasped, grasping a fistful of Natasha's hair at the base of her skull, holding her in place. "God, I've missed you so much, Natalia. My Natalia, our Natashenko. We won't be apart again," Yelena moaned. "They're dead, they're dead," she sing-songed, hips jerking as she approached orgasm. She started to laugh and shake, her hand clenching Natasha's hair so tightly that there was real risk of it being pulled out of her scalp. "They're all fucking dead. Darling, all enemies of the Red Room are dead. And if they're not, they will be."
Once Yelena came, she let go of Natasha and allowed her to fall back against the sides of the shower stall. She was dizzy from holding her breath as she worked on Yelena, as well as from the earlier bout of vomiting and side effects from the drugs. Closing her eyes, Natasha focused on her breathing, on maintaining it as evenly as possible. Yelena didn't even notice, she merely wrapped herself up in towels and left the bathroom. Natasha shut off the water with her toes, keeping her eyes shut and working from memory where the faucet was.
Her sense of time was off. Perhaps she even fell asleep. But she was next aware of being lifted out of the shower stall, of freezing metal on her back. Startled awake, Natasha's eyes flew open and she stared at the Winter Soldier. "Winter," she gasped, shivering.
"There are always side effects," he intoned.
"Tell her to stop giving me these drugs," she insisted, grasping his shirt front. "The triggers were taken out of my head, I promise you. I got wiped clean. All she's doing is making me sick."
But the Winter Soldier merely carried her out of the bathroom and laid her back down on the bed. Yelena was sitting at the desk, working on something in a folder. An array of small glass vials was on the desk beside her, as well as the 24 gauge needles and syringes. She was humming a jaunty tune, something vaguely familiar.
Then Natasha remembered why it was so familiar. It was Starkovsky's favorite song, something he hummed to himself as he perused the Black Widow dossiers, the tune he had hummed when he was "judging" Natasha's skills. The fucking pervert.
"Yelena," she managed to say. "Don't give me those." She pushed herself up to a sitting position and swung her legs off of the bed. At that point, the Winter Solider placed his metal hand against her sternum and pushed, sending her sprawling across the bed again. "They're making me sick and I don't have any triggers. The overlays are gone, Yelena."
It was obvious Yelena wasn't listening, and had instructed the Winter Soldier to stop her. He kept his hand on her chest and moved so that he could sit beside her. Obviously, he had been instructed to do this prior to waking her up. Yelena continued humming that damned song, a vacant smile on her face.
Good God, echoes of Starkovky's face were etched into her expression.
The Winter Soldier grabbed her arm and laid it flat on the bed. "You will lie still, Natalia," he told her without inflection. She had heard that plenty of times before, and had been punished when she didn't follow directions. But she couldn't follow these directions, she couldn't listen, she had to escape somehow. It couldn't be now, not when she was pinned to the bed as Yelena drew up more of those fucking drugs and didn't explain a damn thing. They did something terrible to her mind and body; she could feel it and knew that it was worse than the injections she had received in the Red Room. These injections burned as they went in, made her violently ill and screwed up her sense of time and continuity. There was no way to tell if her reaction time was slowed or her reflexes diminished, because she was constantly in and out of consciousness. Or altered states of consciousness.
Loki must have been going out of his mind. Natasha couldn't feel the bond that existed between them, and wasn't sure if it was all of these injections interfering with the spells. Normally, she could tell in a general sense where Loki was. Right now, she felt nothing at all.
More injections, more burning-stinging-nauseating-pain. More shimmering memories blending in with the present moment.
The Winter Soldier was holding her down. He watched her closely as she writhed and gasped in pain, nearly screaming, Natasha could feel the tears streaming out of the corner of her eyes, though she couldn't remember when she had started crying again.
"The pain passes," he told her with absolute certainty. "You've only forgotten what it feels like, but you know how it is."
Because he knew what pain was like, he knew how good intentions were always the excuse given when it cost blood and bone and pain. The Winter Soldier was nothing if not resilient; he had to be. The chair. The freezing. The bite guard and electricity and injections. Oh, she had seen it all at one point, her beautiful Winter strapped in and screaming around the bite guard. Her horror had been unparalleled, gorge rising when she realized just what Department X was willing to do to its prized agents.
Natasha looked up at him in desperation, trying not to scream, her body bucking beneath his. It gets better, he told her once, his eyes told her now. He held her down when she convulsed, his body pressed all along hers. Yelena laughed and made notes, sounding like Starkovsky when she talked about adjusting doses.
"Help me," she begged Winter before passing out.
"We are," he assured her.
But there was something like doubt in his eyes, too.
***
It was easier getting out of Austria than in thanks to Loki's portal back to Avengers Tower. Clint packed up all of Natasha's things with a heavy heart, and felt like a creep putting them away in her suite. Everyone could hear him muttering, even from down the hall. Loki hung about the edges of the Tower for the first few days, then went to the Brooklyn VA. He actually liked that much better than the soup kitchen that Steve went to. While it was good work there, Loki didn't feel comfortable. Too many cloying people, too many needy mouths. It was a reminder of just how not good he was, how unnatural it was to sacrifice himself for another. He had to be the best, had to succeed at all costs.
Clint had to work within SHIELD parameters, which meant their agents in a field office, Interpol agents and Austrian intelligence agencies. That led to unbelievable amounts of posturing, paperwork and grandstanding. Normally, Loki could tolerate that sort of thing. In fact, he reveled in it, for diplomatic interactions were really just controlled chaos. That wasn't a contradiction in terms: every diplomat worked within their preconceived parameters and protocols, and all Loki had to do was pull the strings and watch them all dance. He sat back and enjoyed the show, letting complaints that he was a manipulator slide right off his back. All the best diplomats and advisors were master manipulators, after all.
But now he was on the receiving end of such a dance, and he didn't like it at all.
The Red Room was considered a defunct training arm of the KGB and then the FSB, which would have dissolved when the Soviet Union fell apart. Interpol wasn't interested in them, not like they were in Hydra, the Hand or Black Spectre. There were individuals that they watched carefully, never able to find anything leading to official charges. That was the sort of thing that used to annoy Natasha and her SHIELD compatriots to no end. Now Loki understood.
Yelena Belova had kept an extraordinarily clean profile over the last ten years, and was only known as a model in Europe. In fact, she had met Ophelia Sarkissian during a Milanese lingerie fashion show, and had scandalized the designer when she pulled Ophelia on stage wearing nothing more than a white lace teddy and thigh high black boots. In front of the entire audience, she had given Ophelia a filthy kiss, then spun her around in a pirouette before sending her back off the runway and blowing a kiss to the rival designer. Apparently, the stunt had been enough to get her into Ophelia's good graces and increase her viability as a model.
Ophelia was dead now. Loki didn't want to admire the long game Yelena had played. She knew that Ophelia would have been there to meet with financiers. The Hydra director fancied women and bold moves, so Yelena gave her both. As quickly as she came onto the modeling scene, she backed out and stayed with Ophelia. That was it for her public persona, but there had to be more to the story. After all, Ophelia also had Emilia, who helped broker the sale and purchases of properties for her. Loki couldn't help but wonder if Yelena had a hand in that as well.
What else did she do or not do?
The Brooklyn VA actually had three campuses for its tertiary care center, located in three boroughs: on the East Side, in Bay Ridge and St. Albans. There were also other outpatient locations for the veterans to get their care. Sam worked at their specialized outpatient PTSD center, which was tightly affiliated with their substance abuse center. Far too many vets relied on some kind of substance to get through the day, whether it was legal medication from their psychiatrists or the illegal ones they found easily on the street. Sam was proud of his program, which he helped to build from the ground up.
The help that Sam needed was generally easy to do. Loki rearranged chairs, set up the table of refreshments, put out the pamphlets and flyers and signup sheets, and kept an eye out for the attendees that seemed particularly unstable.
One of the men in attendance stared at him a little too long and a little too harshly. "You fucked up the city four years ago," he accused suddenly, interrupting someone else's talk about their nightmares and difficulty expressing them. "It's you, isn't it? You're the asshole that brought the aliens in, aren't you?" Without waiting for confirmation, he launched himself at Loki, bringing his hands up to choke him. "You killed my sister!"
Loki could have easily thrown him back, killed him or maimed him. Instead, he simply peeled the man off of his person and held him out at arm's length until Sam could get to them. The others in the room were suddenly very quiet, eyes wide and judging.
Though their gaze felt uncomfortable, as if he was being found wanting, this time, Loki didn't retreat to try to cut apart his skin. "Yes," he told the man simply. "I am Loki of Asgard." A low murmur spread throughout the room. "I am... It's unfortunate about your sister," he said stiffly, giving the man a formal nod. "I am sorry for your loss."
"Fuck you!" the man cried, pushing against Sam's restraining arms. "You don't even care. Why are you here?"
Balancing a ledger for someone that probably could never love him back.
"Atonement," Loki said finally. "My crimes on both our realms have been great."
"I'm not your pet project!" someone cried angrily.
"No, you are not," Loki said gravely. He turned and pointed at Sam. "You're his."
Sam raised an eyebrow at Loki. "Rude," he said mildly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Loki lifted his chin in challenge. "Oh? Even on Midgard, there is no place for those that cannot fit in precisely. Those with fears or nightmares or difficulty being… If they're not labeled mad and forgotten about, they're shunted aside to be fixed." Loki couldn't keep the snarl from his voice. "And if you don't comply with shifting expectations, you're a monster."
"Oh yeah? What was your expectation, then?" someone sneered.
Rage flared in his chest, white hot and nearly uncontrollable. These mortals would dare?
Of course they would. Mortals were stubborn creatures, veterans even more so.
"To conquer. To rule. To always succeed, no matter the cost. To never get caught appearing less than expectations. Not to boast of using magic."
"Why not?"
"It is not a warrior's art."
The simmering rage in his voice was only too evident to everyone in the room, and he couldn't control it. As opposed to speaking with Frigga or Thor, no one in the room was frightened of it, having their own rages to deal with.
"Are you sorry?" a different veteran asked.
"I don't know," Loki answered honestly. "Better me than the alternative."
"What alternative?" another called out from across the room.
Loki crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall beside the refreshment table, jaw set. "Surely you heard of tumult in Asgard?" A few heads nodded reluctantly. "This realm was the original target of Thanos, who would have slaughtered the billions of lives here in his quest to worship death. I managed to extract the promise of ruling this realm. Thousands may have perished, but that is fewer than the billions he wanted. So when taking over this realm failed, he turned his attentions to Asgard."
"We only have your word on that," one veteran scoffed, leaning back in his chair.
"You still killed thousands," a veteran said, her cheeks suffused with a blotchy redness due to her anger. "Good people died in this city!"
Loki shrugged. "It may sound callous, but is it any different from the leaders that send any of you into battle? You're not individuals to them. You're numbers to balance against defeating the enemy. All generals think in that manner. Controlled losses, acceptable risks, nameless rank and file members of the warrior class..." He uncrossed his arms. "When it is war, you cannot count the cost of individual lives."
"God, listen to you!" another veteran called out. Her entire body vibrated with tension, hands clenched into fists. It was impossible to tell if her complexion grew blotchy due to her dusky skin tone, but her eyes flashed in a manner that reminded Loki of Natasha. Her hair was braided tightly to her scalp, and she wore clothing that was formfitting yet not suggestive in the least, as if she didn't want her clothing to impede her ability to defend from attack. Loki recalled that this was PTSD support group, that many of these veterans had difficulty functioning as a civilian, when the threat of war was not something they should respond to. This woman looked ready to pick up a heavy weapon and fire at an enemy combatant.
"Yes?" Loki asked, eyebrow raised and expression cool. "What is it about that statement which troubles you? I assure you, I've studied tactics longer than you've been alive."
"You just don't give a shit about life in general. People don't matter to you. It's all about what you want, isn't it? Fuck everyone else, you're the only one that matters?"
"I didn't say that," Loki replied, though he didn't think she was wrong, exactly. It was more that the people who mattered were far too few in number.
The woman wasn't listening, however, giving Loki the impression that his presence merely tipped her over into a rant she had suppressed for far too long. "Never mind the individuals dying because of someone's shitty judgment call. It's just war, and you almost like killing, don't you? It comes too easy, us vs. them, kill them before they shoot you." Her voice wavered and a reverent hush fell over the group. "Then you get back, and that's a horrible thing. You're not supposed to kill anymore, or talk about it, or like it. You're supposed to act grateful you got back at all, and not talk about killing children and blowing apart villages or watching an IED take out your squad because your CO can't read a fucking map. Or the nightmares and flashbacks when you get back, so you can't stand a backfiring car or the Fourth of July. You can't even watch a movie without diving for cover, without needing to watch your back, people staring like there's something wrong with you when it's the whole world that's fucked up. That it takes everything not to take your service weapon and just blow off the top of your head to make it all go away, make the dreams stop, make the screaming of the dead just shut up, so you can stop thinking about all this bullshit while you're waiting for your life to begin again."
Everyone in the room watched as she crumpled in on herself, crying without tears.
"Generals don't care about that," Loki said quietly. "I don't know about your world, but on mine, many generals never step foot on the battlefield. The good ones do, the brave ones do, but not all of them. Those are the ones that lose more, that call it an acceptable risk."
Before anyone could speak, Loki continued, staring at the distraught woman. "The Chitauri were not my people. They meant nothing to me or to the generals that were of their race. Those soldiers were born and bred only for the purpose of fighting, to earn a glorious death. Their death would help Thanos court Death, and he certainly didn't care for them. I didn't know much about your realm. Why should I, when Asgard is the golden city, the shining example of all that is good in the Nine Realms?" Loki shrugged, indicating the disinterest he once held for Earth and its inhabitants.
"I didn't know or care about your world, so a few thousand deaths instead of seven billion seemed like an acceptable loss. I'd sweep in like a benevolent god and save you from yourselves, show you that free will is only an illusion."
"It's not!" someone said as another shouted "The Avengers beat you!"
The woman looked at him for a long time, distress still evident. "Then who saves you?" she asked finally. "You have nightmares, I can tell. You're just like us, aren't you? Isn't that why you're here?"
"What's to stop us from killing you for what you did to our city?" another veteran asked.
Loki lofted an eyebrow as he stared down that veteran. "Try, if you are so inclined. Even on this realm, I may defend myself from assault. Unfortunately, you would not survive such a thing."
And if that only added to the red in his ledger, they didn't need to know that. His ledger was already drowning in blood.
The woman's lip wobbled a bit and she let out a bark of bitter laughter as she brought the back of one hand to her mouth, rubbing it almost nervously. "You're like us," she said finally. "Look at you. You're at home here. It doesn't bother you if someone threatens to kill you, you threaten right back. It doesn't bother you to talk about wartime and killing and decisions that destroy thousands of lives. You enjoy it, don't you? And I bet Asgard doesn't. I bet that's why you're here and not there. They threw you out, didn't they? You don't fit there, you don't belong. Then you came here and fucked up our city, but even that was a goddamn shit show. Nobody wanted you and you had nowhere else to go, did you? So you're here now and you're with us, because you're just like us."
Something snapped in Loki's chest at her words. They threw you out, didn't they? hit a nerve, still raw and exposed. He couldn't help it, his hands were fisted at his sides, the crackle and static of magic building there from the spike in rage. He leaned forward a little, teeth bared in a grimace, rage evident for all to see. Let them fear him, let them cower and quiver and kneel down before him, let them fear what he would do.
"I am nothing like you!"
But that only made her laugh, bitter and pained and oh so familiar. "Oh, yes, you are. You're exactly like us, like every one of us in this room."
Sam stepped up finally, hands raised in a placating gesture that clearly was meant to also show he wasn't a threat. No weapons in his hands, no fear in his eyes or expression. He was moderator here, mild mannered and infinitely calm. "That's enough, everybody. Time's up. Same time next week, guys." He looked over at Loki, no censure in his expression. "If you show up, you show up." He looked back over the crowd, some of whom stared at Loki in loathing. "All of you, you know the drill. We do what we can, we keep on going."
Some of the vets shuffled out of the room, glaring at Loki as they left. Some pointedly ignored him, an insult in every aspect of their posture. The woman came up to him, and she was no taller than Natasha, with a very similar defiant stance as she stood there. "You're a veteran," she declared, staring at him boldly.
"I have not fought in your wars," Loki scoffed.
"You move like a fighter," she said. "You've been on the ground. On the front lines." The look she sent him was one of pure appraisal. "If you studied tactics as much as you say, then you did a shitty job of taking over Manhattan. Maybe you did that on purpose."
"And why would I do that?" Loki sneered.
"Because taking over our world wouldn't have gotten you away from the asshole that sent you here to kill us. You would've been his bitch for the rest of your life."
She was perceptive, and he hated that.
"Therese," Sam said warmly, approaching her slowly without looking wary at all. "Good to see you here. Anything I can do to help?"
Therese gave him a blank stare. "No," she said flatly before turning on her heel and leaving.
Loki was pathetically grateful that Sam had intervened, and also resented that he had needed that intervention at all. When they were the only two in the room, Loki leveled a glance at Sam, who seemed as unperturbed as ever. "I'm sorry I ruined the session," he began stiffly. "I will remain at the tower next time."
Sam turned around from where he was collecting pamphlets he had left out. "Aw, man, it wasn't so bad. It turned out pretty damn good, I think."
"What?"
"Yeah. See, Therese there at the end? Well, it's been... Oh, almost seven months that she's been attending group. But in all that time, she's never said a word. Sits there, looks angry, looks ready to hit somebody, but never talked. So you got her to open up. Thanks."
Nonplused, Loki managed not to gape at him. "That was hardly a good talk."
"On the contrary," Sam corrected. "Talking isn't there to make you feel comfortable in a place like this. It's to get it all out. Venting, sharing, seeing you're not alone. That's what this is about, Loki. It's not to make it pretty and palatable. War is dangerous and hard and cruel. Good men and women don't come back, and there's no rhyme or reason to it. Good people, bad people, it doesn't matter. Dead is dead."
"To say such things on Asgard is treason."
"Yeah, well, here in America, we got the First Amendment." At his blank look, Sam pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. "C'mon. Library time. If you're going to live here a while, you better know about the Constitution and laws and stuff like that."
Loki gave him a disdainful look. "Why would that matter?"
"'Cause you don't have diplomatic immunity," Sam replied flatly. "And you'll know where we're coming from, and what applied to you while you're living here."
He thought of Natasha and the ledger she had foisted on him. "Too many blasted rules."
"Yeah. Sucks sometimes, sure. I mean, why is the speed limit in the City 55 but you cross over into Nassau and it's 65? Stupid, right?" Sam gave him a good natured smile, as if he was in on the joke, though it made no sense to Loki. "But the law's the law. Break too many, what you've got is chaos."
"So?"
"So, people don't do well in chaos. Too much worry, too much stress, too much fear. You need structure. Limits. Knowing how far you can go and still be safe."
Loki was perfectly still as Sam spoke. Natasha. She was his limit setter. She kept him safe. Not these laws, not others. Somehow, she was the only one who could do it, because she could never break. No matter how hard he had tried, she did not break.
But perhaps if he let them, her friends could help show him where limits were.
***
"This isn't working," Natasha said, managing to swat at Yelena's arm. She also tumbled off of the bed, which finally made Yelena frown in concern. "What's in that shit?"
"I had all of the top biochemists, pharmacists and mages work on it..."
Mages. No wonder her connection to Loki seemed to be severed.
"All of the research from our location was gone, of course, and whatever was salvaged from other Department X locations were corrupted. Ophelia's people at Hydra did what they could, and we convinced Ekaterina to help, but she was a bitch and thought it was a bad idea." Yelena sounded disgruntled, but still reached for another of the clear glass vials.
"It's not working. It's making me sick. It's fucking up my reaction time," Natasha insisted. For once, her thoughts were clear and linear. She didn't feel about ready to throw up, but knew it was coming as soon as that injection came.
"There's a protocol to follow."
"You're not Starkovsky, so stop acting like him," Natasha insisted. She didn't feel triumphant when Yelena flinched at the accusation.
"I'm going to fix you," Yelena said stubbornly. She drew up the contents of the vial and looked over to where Natasha was bound to the bed. "It's going to be like it was."
"If what it was worked, I wouldn't have burned down the fucking place," Natasha replied with a snarl of anger. "They hurt you. They beat up and froze Winter in front of me just to make a point. We were expendable, Lena. They didn't care about us, about the horrors we had to put ourselves through to get the job done. Do you remember? Your test? The one you warned me about? That boy from Department X and then afterward, reporting to Starkovsky? Do you remember? They didn't care what he did to you. They didn't care how hurt you were..."
Yelena's hand trembled. She must have remembered the trauma of that day. But the syringe was full, and her eyes were distant.
"I won't let them hurt you, Natalia," Yelena whispered, much as she had that day she crawled into Natasha's bed in the dorms, shivering and bruised, lip cut and swollen. "We're going to be better than they ever were."
Before she could ask what Yelena meant by that, the needle slid into her arm.
***
***
To Chapter Five - Memory