Chapter 2
As soon as Thor had disappeared, the Captain took no time in discussing with the Man of Iron what should be done with Loki to be considered an “ally.”
Ultimately, they decided it was too late to set up any “fixing New York City” operations.
Then:
“Should we tell SHIELD?” the man with the green beast asked.
“Yes,” both Hawkeye and The Widow answered automatically.
“Absolutely not,” Stark said at the same time.
Loki glanced between the members of the group, and at the Captain, who had yet to say anything.
“Not yet,” he said finally, “We don’t know how this is going to work yet, or how Fury would react.”
“I don’t like it,” the Hawk relented, glaring at Loki, “but Steve’s right. Fury’d just throw him in a cell.”
Until then, they agreed that Loki would just have to help out around the tower.
Whatever that entailed.
They ended up in the dining room, eating breakfast.
Loki stood a ways from the table, eying the Avengers warily for most of the meal.
That is, until Stark suddenly scooted a chair back with a loud screech, and waved him over.
“Come on, sit down,” he said, patting the seat, “You’re creeping me out.”
He sat down.
Someone set a plate in front of him. He didn’t touch it.
When they’d finished eating, Stark stood up, rubbing his hands together.
“So who’s turn is it to do dishes?”
The Captain sighed and started to stack the dishes, clearing them away.
“Loki, there’s your first task,” Stark continued as the rest of the team migrated to the living room or some other space in the tower, “You can help him out. Do whatever he tells you to.”
Loki hated the relief that washed over him at that. At last, he had something to do besides watch and wait for punishment.
Dishes, he could handle, but there was no telling what else they would have him do. After all, they had all the time in the world to come up with ideas.
Nothing that hasn’t already been done, he told himself. He could handle whatever the Avengers decided to throw at him.
Stark seemed to have no problem telling him what to do.
The Captain, on the other hand, diligently avoided him as he gathered up the last of the dishes to bring to the kitchen. Loki followed behind him, keeping a careful distance.
The Captain turned on the faucet, and watched as the sink began to fill. The rushing of water only served to emphasize the uncomfortable silence.
Finally, the Captain shut off the water and grabbed a towel.
“Here,” he said as he handed the towel to Loki, without much of the authority he normally possessed, “You can, uh, dry the dishes, I guess. I’ll wash.”
He started washing the dishes, and without a word, Loki started drying them.
After a few long, silent minutes of this, Steve picked Loki’s plate up, the food on it still untouched.
“Not hungry?” He said as he washed it off and handed it to him.
Of course he was, but the Captain didn’t need to know that.
Loki shook his head.
The Captain furrowed his brows at that.
Wrong answer, Jotun runt!
His grip on the plate slipped, and it fell to the ground with a loud crash, fracturing into pieces.
Panic washed over him in a tidal wave, and before he knew it, he was on the ground, arms wrapped over his head, knees drawn up to his chest.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he muttered, over and over, trembling uncontrollably, “Sorry.”
He waited for the Captain to sneer, to kick him, to punish him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, the Captain crouched down next to him.
“Hey, hey,” he murmured, touching a hand to his shoulder, “It’s alright, you didn’t do anything wrong. It was an accident.”
Loki flinched away from the hand, curling tighter into himself.
“Jarvis?” The Captain spoke uncertainly, “What should I do?”
“He does not seem to realize you mean no harm,” the AI’s response barely registered, “My advice would be to leave him alone for now.”
Loki didn’t move until the Captain left. He couldn’t.
He wasn’t sure when he managed to uncurl himself and sit up, but by the time he did, the sea of panic had turned to a pool of anger and embarrassment.
He’d shattered just as easily as the plate had.
Pathetic.
No one would ever take him seriously again.
With a sigh, he started plucking the glass from the floor to throw away.
“Don’t!” The Captain's voice startled him.
As if they’d burned him, Loki flinched, dropping the shards.
“Sorry,” the Captain apologized, “I can clean that up. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”
Loki blinked.
What should he do?
He found his question answered when the Captain’s communication device buzzed.
The Captain clicked a button and answered, “What is it?”
“Enhanced Individuals. Two,” Natasha’s voice crackled, barely loud enough for Loki to hear, “Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.”
“Hostages?”
“Uh . . . One. Not in any immediate danger, but . . . ”
“What do they want?”
“To talk, apparently.”
“What are their abilities?”
“Magic and Speed.”
“Loki, we might need you,” The Captain stated, waving him over, “Just stay invisible, alright? If Wanda tries anything, be ready to neutralize it.”
Loki nodded.
“Should we really trust him with that?” The Iron Man asked as Loki followed them to the quinjet.
The Captain hesitated, and answered, “We don’t really have a choice.”
“Worst case scenario, he steps out of line,” Hawkeye stated plainly, as if Loki wasn’t standing right there, “And I get an excuse to hunt him down and kill him.”
They arrived at the rendezvous point at the edge of some isolated forest just as it started to rain. Three figures, half-hidden by the shadow of the treeline, walked out to meet them.
Loki followed behind the Avengers, keeping invisible as the Captain had commanded to watch.
One figure, Loki assumed the one that had the power of magic, had her hand held close to the neck of the hostage as they approached the group.
The other figure, presumably the one with the speed, opened the discussion, demanding that they needed a private audience with Stark.
Their names were Wanda and Pietro Maximof.
By force of habit, Loki scanned the surroundings even as he watched the twins out of the corner of his eye, searching for any signs of an ambush.
He spotted the sniper a moment too late.
He called out a warning to the Avengers a split second before the first shot rang out, but to his shock, Pietro crumpled to the ground, dead. Not one of the Avengers.
“No!” The hostage was all but forgotten to Wanda, who tried to rush to her brother’s side.
Another round of shots rang through the air.
The hostage dropped dead.
Wanda cried out, clutching her side, fell to the ground. Wounded, but still alive.
The Captain whisked her back into the jet, out of the open.
The Widow raised her gun back towards where the shots had been fired from, but the sniper had already disappeared. She followed behind the Captain into the jet.
Loki reappeared in the jet as the Captain laid Wanda on the floor.
“First Aid Kit,” the Captain called, frantically getting up and rushing to accept the item from the man with the green beast.
Loki beat them to it, kneeling next to her to better reach her.
“What are you doing?!” Stark demanded, at the same time Hawkeye nearly leapt toward him. Natasha held him back as Loki stopped mid-flinch.
“I’m trying to heal her!” Loki answered harshly.
“My brother,” Wanda whimpered, trying and failing to sit up, “What about my brother?”
Blood pooled around her, spreading across the floor of the jet, but she didn’t seem to care. Her arms flailed at Loki’s attempts to heal her, weak trails of scarlet magic building up around her palms.
He grabbed her arms, and locked eyes with her.
“Your brother is dead,” he said, blunt, “And you will be too if you don’t quit struggling.”
He knew it sounded harsh, but the reality of it was inescapable.
Wanda fell back against the floor, her magic dispelled in a final, dying pulse.
“Now,” he said, his voice a little softer as he pressed his hand to the open wound, “Stay still. This may feel strange at first.”
His hands glowed warmly with a burst of thrumming magic. She gasped at the sensation, but fell silent after the glowing faded, unconscious and recovering in a deep sleep.
He looked up to the shocked gazes of the Avengers.
“She’ll need a few days to recover,” he explained to no one in particular, sitting back on his knees, “but she’ll be fine.”
Aside from the whipping of the wind and rain against the jet, everything fell silent.
“Did anyone see the sniper?” Tony asked finally, his voice solemn.
“I did, barely,” Loki admitted, standing up, “Long, dark brown hair. Metal arm.”
“Hang on,” Natasha said suddenly, “What did you say Pietro was shot with, Steve?”
He told her.
“I know who killed him,” she bit her lip, her eyes jumping from one Avenger to the next, “Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier.”
For the first time, the Widow seemed hesitant, almost ashamed, her gaze flicking away from her team, “I trained under him for a while.”
No one spoke after that.