Chapter Text
In the depths of his solitude, he was shackled not by the chains but by the weight of every anguished soul he had condemned.
His solitude. How long had he been without contact, with only his reflection in the window as company? Day? Weeks? Months? Pacing anxiously back and forth in his cell desperately hoping for some sort of communication. When was the last time he had even seen a person?
But... he wasn't anymore.
There was light. Infiltrating all of his senses, overwhelming them. Blinding. Stifling. Suffocating. He couldn't move his arms, as though they were underwater. Everything was heavy, his eyelids begging to close again.
"Good morning, Sir. How are you feeling?" A cheery voice spoke up, it tasted like honey, the voice. Sickeningly sweet, like nails on a chalkboard.
Then he felt his lips. Actually felt them. Probably for the first time in months. This had to be an illusion, a hallucination of sorts. He shot his tongue out of his open mouth. Tracing it over the cracked lips that had the texture of sandpaper. His tongue was heavy too, after months of misuse.
Blood, there was blood racing down his throat. Taste, he could taste the blood. As gross as it was he relished every second of the metallic flavor, savoring it.
"Sir?"
He snapped his head up, ignoring the pounding pain radiating throughout his mind. Looking up at the voice. A petite woman with copper hair just above her shoulders, wearing an all-teal shirt and pants, a mask wrapping across her ears, gloves on her fingers.
"We're grateful that you're awake, Sir," her screeching-sweet voice spoke, but muffled, "I have to recommend you don't try talking immediately. Based on the scar tissue around the... wounds, it appears that the injuries have been around for several months," the woman trailed off, unsure of how to describe his injuries.
He attempted to roll his eyes, only sending a wave of nausea and dizziness throughout his body. Vaguely aware of the woman stepping closer to him, he looked away, only to notice the tube running up his nose.
His eyes widened, and his heavy arms clawed at the tube, trying to pull it out only to make a strangled gagging sound.
"Hey, hey, hey," The woman said gently, pulling down her mask as she sat on his bed, revealing an equally sweet smile, "You don't have to panic, those are only there to help you, how many fingers am I holding up?"
He ignored her, continuing to thrash and attempt to pull the tube out of his nose. It wasn't there to help him. Only hurt. She didn't want to help him. It didn't matter.
That was until she actually grabbed hold of his hands, stopping them from moving, the sweet gentle look in her eyes even more prominent, "How many fingers am I holding up?" It was a distraction, he knew it was a distraction. Just so that they could keep putting the poison down his throat. But he decided to play along anyway.
So he held up a trembling two fingers, watching as her eyes lit up, "Very good! How about now?" She asked, showing four of her plump fingers, grinning in delight as he gave the correct answer.
He wasn't sure how long it continued on for. The mindless questions, as if she took him for a toddler. He needed to get up, to do something. He was stuck, trapped, imprisoned.
Just as he was about to try and make a break for it, the door swung open, and a man wearing a long white coat stepped in. It took all of two seconds for his face to pale, the sound of a dying horse coming from his mouth, and then turning to the woman who was still holding up her fingers, "Come with me, now," his voice warned, clearly trying to keep the fear out of his words, and failing miserably.
Had he been slightly more coherent, he might have realized that perhaps the man had recognized him. But instead, he only watched in confusion as the woman cocked her head, giving him a sympathetic look before following behind the white-coated man.
It only took a couple of seconds for the honey voice to shriek in fear, "LOKI?" promptly followed by a loud shushing noise.
Loki sat up immediately, panic and bile rising up his throat. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
He had to get out of here. Now.
Then the white-coated man stepped in again, holding a large object in his hand that made the god's blood run cold. It was a tube with a clear liquid inside, a needle on the top.
He needed to say something, for his silvertongue to come and save him from the syringe. But he could not speak. His tongue was coated in lead and unmoving in his mouth.
So like an idiot, he stood up from the cot he had been lying in. Tripping over his own feet as stepped away from the needle. That was a bad idea, especially when the world tilted dangerously to one side. He crashed back into the wall, his lungs refusing to work. His vision blurred as nausea overcame him. Just before he dropped to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the floor.
•••
"Glad to see you've joined us again," somebody said. Loki could somewhat recognize who was speaking, someone he had conversed with before, but as his eyes remained closed, he couldn't identify who they were.
Loki inhaled sharply, trying to remember what had happened. His eyebrow contorted as he thought. Sweet voice, tube, fingers, mouth, needle-
He shot his eyes open desperately, fingers brushed on lips, a small sigh of relief when he found he could still open.
"What are you doing here?"
The god turned, trying to keep an impartial face when he saw who it was. A bald, dark-skinned man, with a notorious eye patch over his face.
He paused, tongue trailing over teeth subconsciously as he thought. He couldn't talk. The words fizzled and dried up on his aching tongue after months of misuse. But Fury couldn't know that. He couldn't know that the villain who attacked New York was vulnerable.
"Let me ask again. What are you doing here?" Fury growled, his arms folded over his chest.
Loki said nothing. Opt for the silent treatment. Pretend that he was going on a speaking strike. Do not let the enemy know that he is incapable of talking. The Liesmith without his words.
He let his eyes trail around the room, refusing to focus on any of the needles or medical equipment around him. Stiffening when he saw the man that sat in the chair in the corner.
The man had strawberry blonde hair, pale skin, and thick circular glasses on his face. Loki had seen him somewhere before, he remembered. He remembered how the man made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Stark had mentioned something to Thor about him being the man above Fury. What was his name?
"Don't look at him, look at me," Fury spat, forcing Loki to turn his gaze to the mortal, "Why? Are. You. Here?"
The Prince of Lies still remained silent. What could he say? How his most powerful, sharp, weapon had been stolen right from him? Leaving him helpless and weak. Worthless?
"Nick, maybe I can talk to him," the man in the corner said quietly, standing up from his chair. Fury just scoffed but obliged, taking a step back.
"Hi there, Loki," the man said. His voice tasted bitter. "My name is Alexander Pierce, I just want to help you,"
Help him? Nobody wanted to help him. Not even Odin Allfather himself, the so-called protector of the nine realms. So he kept his mouth shut.
"I understand that you might be a little... uncomfortable right now, but we want to help you," he reeked of false sympathy and lies. Loki, being the god of them, could tell.
"But we can't do that if you don't help us out a little bit. Can you tell me what you're doing here?" He asked, sitting down on the end of the cot, staring at him with cold blue eyes.
Loki just stared straight ahead, his tongue tracing along his mouth, poking through his teeth.
Fury cleared his throat, ignoring Pierce's protests, "We can do this two ways, either you can tell us what the hell you're trying to do, or we can send you back up to Asgard. And I'm pretty sure they won't be happy to find out their number one criminal tried to escape,"
He just swallowed hard, a bitter laugh burning in his throat. Good guy, bad guy, how ironic. Loki could hardly remember all the times that he and Thor had played that game before bashing enemies' heads together.
Thor... Norns how he missed him. But that was foolish. Why should he miss the Golden Prince? Who never visited him once in his cell, glad to be rid of the burden he was? He hadn't even spoken to him when Odin found out that- Nope, stop thinking.
Loki blinked, trying to keep the stinging of tears firmly behind his eyes. Why did he deserve to miss people? He who had murdered hundreds of innocents? He who was the very monster whom Thor and him had sworn to destroy? He didn't deserve anything.
"Nick, please," Pierce interrupted, looking at Fury with a disappointed sigh that sent chills down Loki's spine. "I'm sorry about him," he smiled, turning back towards the wary god, "He's still a bit bitter about New York,"
That prompted an eyebrow raise from Loki. Why shouldn't he? He had killed countless numbers of Fury's men. What gave him any right to feel obligated to treat him with the slightest ounce of sympathy?
"Loki, we want to help you. We really do. But if you're unwilling to work with us, we'll be forced to resort to... other methods," Pierce said hesitantly. As if any of the 'other methods' they could concoct would be worse than anything he'd already been through.
Pierce went to open his mouth again but was stopped short by the sound of a small black box in his pants ringing.
"Hello?" He asked, seeming to listen to somebody on the other end, lips twitching in amusement as Loki couldn't help but stare in wonder at the contraption. That stopped suddenly when his face dropped, a dark scowl taking over.
"What? You lost-" He stopped, apparently remembering that Loki and Fury still existed, "I- I need to go," he said to his partner, "Can you take care of this here?"
Fury raised an eyebrow but nodded stiffly, "Yeah, what's the problem?" He questioned, giving an exasperated sigh when Pierce just shook his head.
"I- just take him to the SHIELD headquarters, place him in a cell, can you take care of it?" Pierce said, more giving an order than actually asking. With that, he hurriedly marched out of the room.
Loki just stared at the closed door for a moment, puzzling over what had just happened before Fury regained his composure and started talking again.
"So, Ant," he glared while Loki just cocked his head. Was that a name of sorts? Back on their first encounter? If so, it wasn't very creative.
"Looks like I'm taking you to SHIELD," he announced, gesturing for him to stand up.
Loki sighed, slowly standing, ignoring the dizziness that overwhelmed him. He steadied himself on the cot frame before turning back towards the director with an impassive look in his eyes.
Fury just grimaced, grabbing a... handcuffs? Out of his back pocket, clasping them around his hands. Tapping on his gun in a subtle way to remind him who was in charge.
The god knew he should be feeling something. Fear, regret, anger, anything. But he didn't.
He just felt numb.
Numb as he ignored the withering looks that the people outside gave him. The white-coated man who ratted him out and the smiley copper-haired lady. The dozen guards that surrounded him and the director. As if Loki was currently strong enough to do any sort of magic at the moment.
Sitting in the back of a prison van, driving to the SHIELD facility where he would no doubt be locked up once more, chained and starved.
And yet, even though he had managed to escape from Asgard, why was he foolish enough to believe anywhere he ran to would be any different?