Archive of Our Own

He falls.

The movement is perpetual without frictions to stop his endless descent, without weight to his body to precipitate his downfall. It’s smooth; it could be soothing. There’s no air to breath or to carry the sounds he makes: sobs or laughter, he’s not sure.

It’s nothing but quiet.

“I could have done it, Father!” He hears. “For you! For all of us!”

The answer is like a drum in his mind, two words pounding their relentless rhythm against his eardrums. There’s no escape from it: an overfeeding loop.

He falls and stars and galaxies rush past him silently. His body grows hungry, then cold. It is painful until his nerves shut down, overdosed on too much agony. He does not raise his hands to his face. He fears they might be blue.

He hates that the last thing he saw was his brother’s face. His afterimage burns behind his eyelids, brighter than each sun he passes by. He watches them until his pupils are blown wide and dark, until his vision grows washed with white. Still, it’s not enough.  

He hates that the last thing he saw was his brother’s face. Anything else might have made his fall easier to bear. Anything else might have made it worse.

He falls and when finally he’s caught, his heart has burned down. In the ashes, he cannot imagine what remains.

He wakes up in a sanitized room with wires sunk into the back of his hand and a machine beeping steadily next to his bed.

Hospital, he thinks at first but when he tries to rub the grit from his eyes, the shackle that ties his right wrist to the bedpost informs him otherwise.

Ah, maybe not.

He lets his head fall back on the pillow and take deep breaths, willing the room to stop spinning.

After some time, the door opens and a woman enters, carrying a lean, expensive-looking tablet under her arm. Petite, blonde, curves barely hidden under her white coat, the kind of girl he would have liked twenty years ago. When she notices that he’s awake, she jerks to attention, like anyone trained to the precise art of discipline would do.

Definitely not a hospital.

“Good, you’re awake,” she says before she takes a quick look at the monitor, making a noncommittal noise. “You’ve been asleep for almost two days now.”

“Where—“ he tries, but his mouth is too dry to curl around the words.

Wordlessly, the nurse picks up a glass and suddenly there’s a cool straw between his lips. He sucks the water eagerly as if it was the richest wine against his parched throat. Too soon she takes it away and he barely muffles a whine.

“Where am I?” he asks again.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. central, New York City.” She tapers with his IV drip, pulls back his right eyelid in a practised movement to blind him with a white light, does the same for the other eye. “Everything looks normal, vitals are good. Well, it seems you’re on your way to a full recovery.”

She smiles at him, but it feels rehearsed and he finds he cannot quite return her effort. Instead, he raises his bound wrist, or at least, he tries too. His hand barely goes up before gravity throws it back down on the white cotton. But it’s enough: the shackle rattles against the metal of the bedpost.

“Why?” he rasps, unable to say more.

The woman gives him a considering look. “What’s your name?”

There are stars behind his eyes, a starlit sky with countless moons and unknown galaxies.

“Erik Selvig.”

He’s relieved when it does not feel like a lie.

The nurse nods once, lifting her tablet. She doesn’t look up as her fingernails make small, quick sounds against the screen. “You need to rest. You’ve been through hell of a bender, Doctor Selvig.”

Erik wants to say more but his body betrays him. He’s asleep within seconds.

He dreams of Jane. She looks beautiful draped in gold and crimson. His mother has woven the cloth of her attire; it’s a clear breach of tradition, but there was no one else. The runes of his house stand stark against the crimson garment, embroidered with expert craftsmanship and golden thread. His mother’s own hair, he suspects. She loves her already and he seethes to think that the human girl does not realize the incredible gift bestowed upon her.

There are jewels on Jane’s fingers, heavy gold around her neck. He can almost see the outline of a crown resting on her thick brown hair.

There’s a rank taste in the back of his throat. Jealousy, he acknowledges absently. He barely tastes anything else these days.

The girl is small, so much smaller than him, but she has earned the right to stand on the step above his own, and when their eyes meet, it is her who looks down at him.

His head spins with bitterness. It would easy to shove her and make her tumble down the steps. Her blood would not show against the crimson of her gown.

His brother is here, ascending the steps with easy assurance. His eyes go to Jane. His smile belongs to her.

Won’t you ask me how you look? I would tell you you’re beautiful, that you look like a King. I would tell you my heart is wrecked.

He watches Thor walk by him and his red cape swishes against his hands. He tries to grab it but the velvet it slips through his fingers like mist and his brother is free to sweep Jane into his arms. They laugh, then they kiss and there are no words to describe the feelings curling deep in his belly.

I am here, brother, he wants to say. Look at me, he wants to scream but his mouth won’t open. His lips are sewn shut, the leather thong thick through the tender flesh of his mouth. He gags, taking a step back but Eitri and Brokkr are here and they push him back, kicking and shoving him until he sprawls on his hands and knees.

At Thor’s feet. Worse, at hers.

Brokkr sneers. “Liesmith! Trickster! How will you cheat your way through challenges now?”

He claws at his lips as he looks up at his brother but Thor holds Mjölnir between his hands, presenting it to his wife, eyes softening when she runs her fingertips on the smooth metal.

Impossible. It was Thor who came after him when all preferred to gawk at the hammer, the boar and the ring. It was Thor who took his bloodied face between his large hands and cut, gently, so gently, through the leather thong. It was Thor who apologized for the tears of pain and humiliation welling up in his eyes even if it was never his fault.

But the bumps of the leather are rough against his fingertips and Thor smiles down at him.

“Be silent, brother.”            

When Erik awakens again, his mind is sharp. He clenches his eyes against the swelling of sheer relief, letting out a long exhale through his nose.

He slowly stretches his numb limbs under the cotton sheet. His legs feel heavy, aching with stillness. He discovers that his wrist is free of the shackle and he quickly raises his hand to cover his eyes, trying to swallow back the tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. His hand shifts to cover his face and when his mouth opens against the ball of his palm, he bites down.

Relief, tears of relief, he tells himself. I’m in shock. I’m alive.

But there are stars behind his eyes, power in his fingertips and centuries of heartbreak burning in his lungs. He’s almost thankful when the first sob breaks past his lips, dragging along hot tears that escape through his fingers, down his cheeks.

He feels like a fool, crying his heart out. He feels like a child so he forces himself to take deep breaths and consider the facts. He’s a man of science. Facts are the only truth he knows.

I helped a God bring war upon humans. I forged the way for his army of monsters. I was his tool.

I have the blood of thousands of lives on my hands.

He gave me knowledge, so much knowledge. But it was his truth, not mine. I was his tool.

I am Erik Selvig.

I—I am Erik Selvig but these are not my dreams. This was not my work. This was not!

The Widow’s words ring in his ears. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “You didn’t know what you were doing.” And she was right.  He denied it then, but he knows now: the ugly and harrowing truth of it.

There’s the distinct muttering of a news report filtering, and it takes a moment for Erik’s eyes to adjust and spot the television in the corner of his room. CNN Live is running. Images of chaos and destruction in the streets of New York flash before his eyes: upturned cars and crying mothers; raging fires and blaring sirens; the lonely A of the Stark tower, still smoking; other buildings, stripped bare to their metal frame or collapsed, defeated by power beyond imagination.  Post-apocalyptic scenes trickle smoothly while the pleasant and generic voice of reporter drones about war and casualties and what now?

“New York Crisis – Disaster Averted” the heading reads and Erik forces himself to sit up in his bed, grabbing the remote lying on the bedside table to raise the volume.

“Wherever he is—wherever any of them are, I just—I would want to say thank you.” A girl, still pretty despite the dirt and the bruises, says to the camera. Her lips quiver and the report cuts to more images of destruction and human despair. Hope, too, Erik realizes with surprise, when he sees the rows of flowers and the armies of candles lining up the streets, so much hope: cheering crowds in the streets, children wearing masks of Ironman, disguised as the Hulk.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

Erik starts. Agent Romanoff is standing under the doorframe, red curls falling over her shoulders and her civilian clothes.

“It’s good to have you back,” she says, striding in. “How are you feeling?”

Erik stares. That would sound only polite coming from anybody, but from Agent Romanoff, it sounds positively compassionate.

“We’ll need to debrief you as soon as you’re able,” she continues without missing a beat and Erik is only too happy to go back to known territories: orders and protocol. Sympathetic S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, it’s almost terrifying.

“Of course” Erik says and rakes his brain to add something, anything. But he’s too raw, too exposed. In the end, he settles for the obvious.

“How many dead?”

Romanoff squares her jaw. “I hardly think—“

“Please, I have to know.”

She pauses briefly. “Latest count reported six hundred twenty-nine dead, twice as many missing and even more wounded.” Erik’s eyes slip shut. His hands ball into fists. “Naturally, this is nowhere near the final count.”

“I see,” Erik pushes through his gritted teeth.

“Doctor Selvig,” Romanoff sighs. She takes his shoulder, squeezes it tightly. “I will tell you again : it’s not your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “Of course, I know.” He unclenches his hands, lays them uncurled against the white sheet. “And yet, those were the hands that built the portal.”

“Those were also the hands that managed to bring it down”, she says softly but with conviction. “You were strong, you did what was right even you were lost in your own mind. You are one of the heroes.”

Is that what they think? That I’m some kind of hero? The irony of it makes him gag.

“Doctor Selvig,” she says, straightening. “On behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the government of the United States of America, I would like to solemnly express our gratitude. Know that we recognize the extraordinary—

Erik barks out a laugh. “Please don’t,” he chokes. “Anything but that.”  

Romanoff falls silent, and even if her lips purse into a thin line, she respects his wish. “Very well,” she says tightly. “Director Fury expects you tomorrow. We’ll bring the details in later. Until then.” And with a nod, he is dismissed.

“Agent Romanoff,” he calls before she can leave. He must know. If there’s any chance, any chance at all, he must know. “What happened to— what happened to Loki?”

There is no judgment or question on her face, nor does she look surprised by his question.

“He’s in detention. It was out of our hands, really,” she replies with a wry smile. “Thor grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and has barely let him out of his sight since then. He’s to be brought to justice in his own world. They’ll depart as soon as Stark builds a vessel for the tesseract.”

Brought back to his father’s hall in chains to suffer Odin’s justice? Will they tie him to a rock to be tortured for centuries?

There must be some feeling on his face, fear or disappointment, which Romanoff misinterprets completely.

“There goes your research, Professor, but believe me. You’re not the only one who will miss it. The Council’s has been out of its collective mind with the idea of losing that power source.” She snorts. “Anyway, how can you argue with Thor?”

Erik breathes out. “When?”

“Tomorrow, at the latest,” she tells him. “Depends on Stark. But if you ask, it can’t be soon enough.”

The thing is, Erik has always cheered for the underdog. As a boy, he was a fat kid, the one with too much brain and not enough friends. He was the one that everyone bullied and called names. So naturally, when he read the Lord of the Rings, he rooted for Pippin and Merry, the weakest characters of the weakest race. He never understood the deep awe that his culture groomed for Odin. To his eyes, the King of the Gods was just a prideful old man with stilted and bigot stubbornness that he dubbed wisdom. Odin was just a celebrated bully. It got even worse when he studied ancient Greek in high school and had to suffer through the endless tales of Zeus. He wanted to know about Hephaestus and Hades, the hated ones, the broken ones, rather that the strange erotic habits of an old man who couldn’t take no for an answer. He failed that class; the professor did not approve of his rebellion against the installed order. After all, most people like bullies. They stand only too happily behind them, relieved not to be their target, and they cringe at those who would defy them. But Erik would always choose getting beaten over being complacent.

His favorite movie is Rocky and that’s a lot to admit in social circles.

He never quite outgrew it. Of course, at some point, the name-calling and the shoving stopped. He went to university and he discovered mathematics and science. But even then, he chose physics rather than engineering, astrophysics rather than applied work. He dug his way out of the mainstream and into the obscure. He fought like a devil to receive his MIT degree despite his critical PhD thesis on Schwarzschild wormholes. And when the ETH offered him tenure, he refused without a hint of a doubt and joined Jack Foster to dig his academic grave in a dank cave in Reykjavík.

Yes, Erik roots for the underdogs, the oppressed ones, the misunderstood ones and that’s why he finds himself dragging his IV drip along the bustling hallways of the S.H.I.E.L.D. compound. He had not expected them to be so busy, but then he was well sheltered in his recovery room and this is a time of crisis. Erik would bet good money that the first words to pass anybody’s lips these days are emergency protocols, followed closely by damage control.

Still, Erik is grateful that he took the time to throw a robe over his patient gown. It would have been disrespectful to flash his bollocks at so many unsuspecting S.H.I.E.L.D. agents this early in the morning.

The maze of hallways seems longer and more intricate under the rickety wheels of his IV drip. Exhaustion, severe dehydration, the doctors have diagnosed. He barely stayed a week under Loki’s influence but he lost ten pounds and probably ten years of life expectancy. It’s been almost three days since New York but Erik feels like he’s been run over by a bus.

He’s out of breath and cursing his stupidity –damn it, he could have picked the bloody phone too- when he reaches the lab.

“And that’s the beauty of reality television”, Tony Stark’s voice filters through the open door. He’s bent on a worktable, face almost squished in wires despite the precision glasses.  

Steve Rogers is leaning against the wall, arms crossed against his chest, wearing an incredulous expression. “As a window of base human instincts?”

“Exactly!” Stark whirls around, brandishing a welder. “Live Lord of the Flies every Friday night, it’s got to count for something!” He pauses, spotting Erik standing awkwardly in the doorframe and he pushes up his glasses to rest on his forehead. “Doctor Selvig, ah, nice robe.”

Erik tries, he really does, to smile or even say something clever but his breath is not quite there yet and suddenly Captain America is.

“Are you alright?” Rogers asks, dripping genuine concern. “I didn’t know you were awake.” His hands close like iron shackles around Erik’s arms and the Captain drags him like a child to push him down in a chair. “Are you supposed--“

“Let him breath, Cap,” Stark mocks and it gives Erik the time to brush Roger’s hands away. It’s like fighting against a steel pipe.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, a little ashamed at his blatant show of weakness. Stark and Rogers exchange a look, like parents would over the head of their turbulent child.

“I’m fine,” Erik repeats petulantly and does, indeed, feel like a turbulent child.

There’s a pregnant pause, and Erik takes advantage of it to struggle to his feet and shuffle towards Stark’s workplace.

The object looks like an empty shell of exposed wires and unconnected panes. It’s still rough, but Erik recognizes the hours of labor already spent on the vessel. The main frame is complete and the electrical wiring ready to go. He drags a screen closer to him, shuffling through the blueprints with flicks of his wrist. Stark’s design is sound, and almost complete, the rest is merely esthetics.

Stark comes up to his elbow. “They barely let me sleep eight hours before they put me here to build their vessel. Can you believe it?” Stark says in a breath. “I wish they’d gone and woke you up. I had to go through all your notes, and man, do you have a shitty handwriting. I swear my eyeballs will never recover. Are you all there, Selvig, or does the Captain need to fetch his shield?”

Erik barely hears him. There’s always such beauty and competence in Stark’s designs. The man truly is a natural. He contemplates the electric panel of the vessel with envy: the design is clean and elegant, almost painfully efficient. Erik could never conceptualize this kind of perfection in such a short time period. He wonders if he could in any period of time.

Jealousy, he acknowledges absently.

“How much longer before it’s complete?”

“Few hours given I don’t take a nap,” Stark tells him. “Seriously though, are you going to go all Lando on us? What’s your social security number?”

A few hours-- That’s too soon, I need more time.

“I need you to stall,” Erik says, gripping Stark’s arm. “Break it, sabotage it, find some excuse. He needs—“ Stars, so many stars behind his eyes. “I need more time.”

Stark’s face remains carefully blank. “Definitely the shield, Captain.”

And suddenly, Rogers’ barrel-like chest fills up his vision and he’s being dragged away from the workplace, back into the metal chair. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the steel pane of the wall and barely recognizes himself: cheeks too gaunt, hair wild. He’s never looked that exhausted since his first year as a graduate student. But there never had been this unhinged look in his eyes before. It’s a nice complement to the dark shadows under his eyes. He looks half-mad.

“Here’s Stark, we’ve got some kind of—“ Stark hesitates, “situation here. Nothing serious. But if you could send a medical team--”

“Wait,” Erik rasps. “Wait, let me explain.”

“What’s the situation?” Stark repeats in his headset, pausing awkwardly.

“Please—“ Erik says and there must be something convincing in his tone because Rogers gives the smallest of nods.

“Captain America overheard a F-bomb,” Stark lies smoothly. “He went a little bit green, almost swooned. He’s all better now but you should discipline your agents better. I will not have the morals of our good captain put—“ he breaks off abruptly, lowering his headset. “He hung up, can you believe it?”

Rogers gives him a look that clearly says oh yeah I can and Stark just winks at him.

“Thank you,” Erik breathes out and he rubs his eyes, trying to clear his mind despite the pounding in his head.

When he looks up, Rogers is holding a water bottle in front of his face. “Care to tell us what’s going on?”

Erik uncorks the bottle, takes long swallows until it is half-empty. “I think—“ he pauses, struggling for words while Stark and Rogers wait patiently in front of him with mirroring stances. He tries again. “I think it would be a mistake to send Loki back to Asgard now.”

Roger’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

Because I know, Erik thinks desperately, because there are stars behind my eyes.

“There are things that I know, that I shouldn’t know.” Erik says, exasperated by his lack of coherence. But how can he explain? It barely makes sense to him. He needs more time.

“Things? You don’t say,” Stark drawls but Rogers shoots him a warning look.

Beating around the bush won’t help, Erik realizes. He needs to be blunt.

“Loki is not the villain we make him,” Erik blurts out, and that gets their attention. “Or at least, I don’t think he is.”

There’s a pause.

“Stockholm syndrome?” Stark says incredulously. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”

“Stark—“ The captain tries to chide.

“I agree that he has some serious charisma going on,” Starks laughs. “But the guy destroyed half of New York City.”

“I know.” Erik whispers, bowing his head in shame. “Of course, I know. There’s no excuse for what he’s wrought.”

For what I wrought, he cannot help but add for himself. “And yet, there are things that I know, things that I see. Dreams—“

“Dreams?” Rogers and Stark parrot together. Eyebrows crunching up in thought, Stark grabs a computer screen and starts drumming his fingers against the screen.

“You think Loki still has some influence over you?” Rogers asks.

Before Erik can deny it, Stark raises his head. “Report says he’s clear,” he announces to the Captain, pauses and turns his head to Erik. “Report says you’re clear.” 

Erik huffs. “I know that. I don’t think it’s conscious. Hell, I barely understand what it means.” He exhales. “That’s why I need time.”

“Time for what?” Rogers asks. “You’re not making any sense, doctor.”

Both men wear similar expressions of disbelief and Erik abruptly realizes what he’s doing. There are cuts all over Stark’s face, bruises spattered on every inch of uncovered skin. Who is he to argue with these men, who have sweated and bled to protect New York? All he’s done was being knocked in the head and now he asks for mercy?

He shakes his head. “I just need a few days—to figure out what’s real. If there’s any chance—“

“How much time do you need?” Stark asks suddenly and Erik’s head whirls so fast that the bones in his neck crack.

“Stark!” Rogers snaps.

“What difference would it make?” Stark asks calmly. “The guy is still going to pay. Have you seen the look on Thor’s face when he took charge of him? Loki is basically on the green mile.”

“Fury will never allow it!”

Stark shrugs. “Fury doesn’t have to know.”

“It’s too dangerous,” the Captain hisses. “The longer the tesseract stays on Earth—“

“Please,” Stark snorts, picking up a hammer. “Banner is literally sleeping with the cube under his pillow right now. There’s no way anyone, human or not so human, gets one hand on the tesseract.”

The Captain opens his mouth and when he finds no other argument, closes it in a thin line. Stark smiles brightly and turns back to Erik.

“So, how much time do you need?”

Erik scrambles to find the words. “I need a week.”

“I can give you two days.”

“Four,” Erik tries to bargain.

“Two days. Any longer and you would have to break my hand to justify the delay. I’m Tony Stark, not incompetent.”

Erik reluctantly nods. Better than nothing.

“Swell, looks like everyone’s happy,” Stark singsongs before he smashes the hammer down on the delicate wiring work of the vessel’s electronic panel.

“Looks like my hand slipped,” he says as tiny sparks crackle from the wreck.

“For God’s sake, Stark—“

“Blasphemy, Captain?” Stark looks up from his handiwork, smirking. “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

Captain America escorts him back to his recovery room and Erik is thankful, if a bit bashful since Rogers’ sure grip around his shoulders is probably the only reason he even makes it back to his bed. At least, they were no wheelchairs involved even if they earn a few confused looks. Still, nobody comments. There’s something about the concentrated power of Rogers’ glare that would make a strong man confess to murder. Everybody looks away readily enough.  

“Thanks,” Erik says as Rogers handles him back beneath the white sheets of his bed. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Then he remembers whom he’s talking to, and he snorts. “I wish I had your metabolism.”

“Try ice,” Rogers replies, unfazed. “It worked wonders for me.”

Erik settles back against the pillows.

“Can I ask you a favor?” he asks.

There’s a flicker of wariness on Rogers’ face and it hurts a little bit. Erik has always thought himself as a good man, a man of science, an explorer of truth and boundaries. It feels strange to be considered less than that. He never imagined he could be judged and found lacking, discarded in the wrongcategory.

“I need to speak with Agent Barton,” Erik says, ignoring the awkwardness. “Could you locate him for me? I fear I’ve exhausted all my strolling rights for today.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rogers says but he cannot quite hide his suspicion quickly enough.  

“Don’t worry,” Erik says, a bit irritated. “We’re not conspiring. I just need to talk to him.”

“Of course not,” Rogers says quickly. “It’s just that—Why are you doing this?”

Why indeed, Erik ponders and the echo of two words rings like bells in his mind, two words that precipitated him into void and despair.  He takes deep breaths until the rush of blood in his ears quiets down, then he shrugs.

“Even Rocky needed somebody to give him a hand in the beginning.” There’s a faint look of incomprehension across Rogers’ face, and Erik scowls. “If you don’t understand that reference, then now would be the perfect time to catch up on some good old American culture. Go on, kid.”

Finally, a smile breaks on Captain America’s face. “Yes, sir.”

The door closes quietly behind Rogers and Erik stifles a sigh, shifting until the pillows are aligned comfortably against his back. He’s not alone for long; the nurse from before comes in, pushing a small trolley. 

“That was not very wise, Doctor Selvig,” she says without preamble. She comes to his bedside and takes his hand, frowning at the mess of wires and tape of the IV drip. All that dragging and shoving have displaced the tubes. It hurts faintly and Erik wishes they would take them off but the nurse only fusses with the tape, sighing.

“You need to rest. No more running around.”

It’s always a strange feeling to be ordered around by someone half his age. Erik can never take it quite as seriously as he should. This is the great curse of growing older: everyone else keeps getting younger and younger.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles.

She gives a patient smile but doesn’t comment while she busies herself with the notes at the end of his bed. She takes his pressure and his pulse, then blares a white light into his eyes.

“We’ll remove the drip tonight,” she tells him and she drags the trolley close to his bedside. “I’ve brought you food. Eat it all, you’ll still be hungry but take nothing else. Your stomach wouldn’t able to process it.”

Her phone buzzes in the top pocket of her coat and she glances at it quickly. “I have to go,” she tells him apologetically and is already at the door, when she turns back. “I’ve also brought changes of clothes and your personal items. Don’t forget: eat your meal, nothing else.”

She’s long gone before Erik ever gets the chance to reply.

“Thank you,” Erik mutters wryly to the closed door.

He reaches for the white plastic bag, where he finds his watch, his wallet and his blackberry. He grabs his phone and mutters silent thanks when it lights up. He thought the battery would be dead. When the interface finally uploads, the rush of text messages and alerts makes him scramble for the mute button: ten, twenty, thirty messages until he stops counting them. When the frantic buzzing finally settles down, he warily scrolls down the list of unopened text messages.

Most of them are from Jane.

Are you all right? Please, call me.

They’re taking me to Norway. Coulson won’t tell me what’s happening. What’s happening?

Erik?

I will burn down all your research if you don’t pick up your phone right now.

PICK UP THE PHONE OLD MAN

Coulson explained. I’m so sorry Erik. I love you.

Please be all right.

His eyes are blurring and blindly he presses on the voicemail, choosing the last message, recorded yesterday, the disembodied voice tells him.

It’s me, Jane’s voice is soft against the static, oh, Erik, they’ve told me you woke up, that you’re all right. Are you? They won’t let me leave Tromsø yet but—Oh God, Erik. Are you all right? What’s happening out there? You’ve got to call me as soon as you get this. Please—I’m so--  her voice chokes. I’m so worried. It’s all over the news. I saw him. I saw Thor. Is he with you? Is he--

Erik lowers the phone and Jane’s voice is lost as the rest of the message plays out. There’s a slight tremor in his hand. It’s nothing compared to the dread in his belly.

Why am I hesitating? Erik thinks wildly.

She’s like a daughter to him, his bright precious Jane. Her voice would make him feel better. They could skype; her smile would ground him. His thumb hovers on Jane’s name, tiny but shiny on the screen. It would be simple enough to call her. It would be simple enough to push her down the stairs too.

Instead, he opens a Wikipedia page. Brokkr, he types in the little search box and the entry loads before his eyes.

The words barely register.

That’s not how it happened, he thinks distantly as he reads about greed and wagers. He could rewrite the entry; bestow some knowledge onto the human race. Instead, he selects another entry. He learns about Draupnir and the imperfect Mjölnir. He reads about Odin and the Norns and his mind screams wrong! That’s not how it happened! That’s a lie!  When he finally stumbles on the entry of Ragnarök, his blood is thrumming with anticipation. Let it burn down until nothing remains, he thinks.

He might be going mad. It hardly matters.

He opens a text message.

Dearest Jane, he types, then tells himself he’s not in a Jane Austen novel and erases it. I’m well, Jane, he writes instead. Don’t worry about me. I can’t talk right now. There are things I need to do first. It might take a few days but I will call you as soon as I can. Don’t worry about me.

He hesitates over the send button, bites his lower lip and adds four tiny words: I love you too and hits send before he changes his mind. He falls back against the pillow and when his blackberry buzzes angrily in his hand with an incoming call, Erik turns it off.

He dozes off. There’s a field under the stars. Boys are playing in the grass with wooden sticks instead of steel swords but their hearts are already as fierce as any true warrior. He sits in the grass, hands folded in his lap. He’s not one to battle but he likes to watch, if only to remind them that he’s there, breathing and alive.

His brother roars. “I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!”

He looks down at his hands. They’re blue and scarred: monstrous.

Am I cursed?

Thor laughs, brandishing his sword at him. “I should start with you!”

Yes, he thinks and this time, he runs forward to meet the spear.

“You want me to keep a dream journal?” Clint Barton sneers. “What, you want us to have a sleepover too?”

Erik pinches the bridge of his nose. Barton is as cooperative as a brick wall. He might have come forward easily, seeking Erik out only a few hours after he talked to Rogers, but one mention of Loki had him seething like an angry cat.

“Not a dream journal—“ Erik huffs. Barton’s anger is contagious: he’s barely holding his own temper together. He’s been feeling jumpy and irritated since his nap. The few hours of rest have done nothing to assuage his exhaustion or calm his frayed nerves. He’s convinced that running a marathon would have done him more good. Still, now that the night has long fallen, his body is clamoring for sleep.

He had been hopeful when Agent Barton had entered his recovery room but now, he wishes Rogers had been less effective in carrying out his request. Barton may have the aim of a hawk, but he also has the manners of a bear.

“I’m just asking you if you’ve been having weird dreams,” Erik tries again, returning Barton’s glare full on.

“Weird how?”

“Strange places, people you don’t know.” Erik takes the leap. “Dreams that are not your own.”

Barton’s eyes narrow. “What are you getting at?”

That’s all the confirmation Erik needs and excitement unfurls in his chest. “You have them too, don’t you? Since when? How many?”

The look Barton gives him is nothing short of murderous.

“What are you smiling about?” he hisses, eyes flashing dangerously. “Rogers told me about the vessel. You want to help him, don’t you? He took over your brain, made you his bitch, and now you want to help him?”

Erik shudders. He has never used those words in his mind but now that they are thrown carelessly in his face, he finds that they are true. It’s not pity that drives his actions, nor justice he seeks. There are stars behind his eyes and centuries of heartbreak crowding his lungs, and he wants to help. Perhaps Stark was right, and he’s dumbly fallen in the trap of Stockholm Syndrome. Still, his heart aches and he must set it right, lest he never sleeps through the night again. But it cannot be the same for Barton. The Agent looks as if he will break under the slightest pressure, brimming with anger, barely holding himself together.  Erik might be crushed under longing and despair but it seems as if Barton kept only the anger and the betrayal, choosing to ignore all the subtler, infinitely more painful feelings.

He’s much like Loki in that sense, pushing the showy emotions to the surface, burying the rest under layers and layers of madness and violence.

“Have you always been so angry, Agent Barton?” he asks calmly.  

“I want him dead,” Hawkeye snaps. “I want that bastard dead and it would be really easy, just two steps: distract Thor, slip into the holding cell.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Erik says, refusing to rise to the provocation. 

“I have orders,” Barton barks. “I have honor.”

“That’s bullshit,” Erik laughs. “Fury would rap your knuckles in public but pat your back as soon as everybody looks away.”

Erik wishes he could stand and use his body to give weight to his words, but he’s too weak. His legs are like dead weights under the sheet. His voice is his only asset.

“You’re not doing anything because of what you have seen,” Erik says forcefully, leaning forward. “And you doubt, like I do.”

“You’re insane,” Hawkeye spits. “He’s playing you like a fiddle even now.”

“Does it seem conscious to you?” Erik snaps back. “He showed everything, every ugly detail, every fear and desire. You really think he would do that on purpose?”

“I don’t care! We have done our mission, we’ve saved the day from the crazy bastards and that’s all that matters to me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Erik hisses. “You’re a good man, Barton. I’m not asking you to betray your country. I just need more information!”

“Go to hell, Selvig,” Barton spits and the door slams shut behind the agent.

“Barton!” Erik shouts, trying to call him back.

He’s not surprised when Barton does not return and he rubs his eyes until it hurts.

Am I alone in this? Erik thinks warily.

He turns off the light, defeated for the day, but it takes him a long time to close his eyes.

The air here is almost too thin to breath in. His lungs struggle when each new breath becomes less satisfying that the one before and he must fight to keep his step steady and his face composed.

“If you fail, if the tesseract is kept from us,” the Other snarls. “There will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where he cannot find you!”

He shudders. He knows this. He knows there is no journey back since he chose madness and vindication. He also knows he doesn’t want any.

“You think you know pain? He will make you long for something sweet as pain.”

The hand is like coals against his cheek and he’s thrown against the jagged edge of a rock. Pain explodes behind his eyes as his head clatters against the stones, and he crumbles to the ground like a boneless corpse. He tries to breath but panic chokes up his throat and he can only pant like a dog until the telltale sound of footsteps creep closer to him. He bites down on the tender flesh of his inner cheek and the sweet tang of blood helps him focus as he struggles to his knees.

“Welcome back, Asgardian.”

Terror is too feeble a word to describe the beast unleashed by this voice. It’s engraved like a spell in his bones: hear it and die. He finds he cannot force his body to rise and he stays head bowed down, letting dirt gather under his fingernails. The ground is rock and grit, too hard to dig a grave with his bare hands.

“Yes,” Thanos whispers. “This is wise, but futile.”

A hand grips him by the throat and drags him to his feet.

“You failed me,” Thanos says. “Even in your hatred, you have been weak.”

The pressure is too strong against his windpipe, he cannot answer. But then, what could he say? Hatred was all that remained, and even that has not been enough. The irony is almost sweet.

“Everything was laid out for your victory: the Earth but a child’s playground with the Chitauri at your command. And yet you find yourself defeated, humiliated by a handful of the human folk.”

He garbles against the chokehold, nails raking like kittens’ claws against the hand gripping his throat.

“You wish to speak, yes?” Thanos taunts. “Do you think words could sway me? What could you say, I wonder? What could the God of Lies muster as an excuse for his failings? Pitiful creature.”

And too fast for him to see, Thanos’ beefy hand releases his throat and crashes in the soft meat of his belly. He cries out, falling to his knees, retching rank bile.

“The Other spoke true,” Thanos continues, unperturbed. “Do not try to flee, Fatherless child. I will come for you.”

Fatherless child, the words are thunder over the sick sounds of his retching, but they give him strength. Enough that he wipes his mouth and raises his head in defiance.

“Kill me then,” he grits out. 

“Kill you?” Thanos laughs. “Oh no, I have great plans for you! I will let you be returned to Asgard to think on your sins. After they cast you in the darkest recess of the realm to rot and be forgotten, after they disown and disgrace you, after everything you know is taken from you, I will come and pluck you from the loving bosom of your family.” Thanos lets out a short laugh. “Wait and see, you’ll come to my side like an obedient pet.”

“Curse you,” he spits. “I will slit my own throat long before that.”

Thanos hits him across the face. “Your life has been mine since I grasped your wasted corpse from the void and your failure to secure the tesseract doomed it. There’s no hope for you, know that when you wake muzzled and bound like a dog.”

The laugh rises unbidden in him, and with it, madness. “You think I have hope?” he hisses. “I will wait for you gladly, Courter of Death, and show you her sweet touch myself!”

The threat makes no ripple on Thanos’ face. “You think you can threaten me still but you will soon realize that your power has run out. You will cower before me like a dog, begging for mercy.”

He bares his teeth. “I have nothing to fear!”

To his surprise, Thanos crouches before him, bringing their eyes to the same level. “Fool,” he says and the threat is as soft as a mother’s touch. “I raised your body from the ashes. I know your heart.” He smiles. “I will come for those you could not forsake despite the pain: your father, your mother. Sweet Frigga—“

He lashes out but Thanos catches his arms with ease. “No, you’re right. I will not waste my time with them. I shall go directly for your brother.”

“You could never kill Thor,” he spits. “He would tear you—“

“You unimaginative boy,” Thanos chides. “They call you Silvertongue but here too you disappoint. Do you think that death is the only option?”

Thanos grips his chin. “Why would I kill you brother when I can take him for my own? Under my command, he will raze Asgard to the ground. Then I will take him to the Earth until the mortals all burn under the wrath of his hammer. And you will stand by my side as he destroys all that he loves and all that you so ardently despise.”

Thanos releases him and he hums faintly, almost serenading future genocide.  

“You think you know pain, but I will show you there can be no bounds to it.” Thanos’ voice drops to a seething whisper. “What will remain of the brother you so desperately love when he discovers the ruined realm of his Father? When he gazes upon the broken bodies of the mortals he swore to protect? I will ruin him until there’s nothing left of his brightness but an empty shell.”

Thanos smiles in triumph before he cups his cheek, digging his thick thumb in the shadows beneath his wide eyes. “And what will you do but beg for mercy when your God of Thunder dims and drowns?”

Erik jerks awake. There’s cold sweat on his brow, and when he raises a hand to his lips, he finds his mouth open. For a scream? Or a whimper?

He gathers his legs in his arms and buries his face in his knees, like a child, willing his heart to calm down. He doesn’t move until his door cracks open and Agent Barton comes in, barefoot, dressed for bed. Even in the faint light of dawn, Erik can see that the t-shirt is drenched. Barton’s face is chalk-white, eyes far too wide to pass as normal.  

When he speaks, Erik can barely hear him.

“I’ll help you,” he says. “Tell me what you need.”

The meeting with Fury is a disaster. Not that it’s usually pleasant, but there’s something particularly excruciating today. He’s too raw, like his skin will fall off his bones if he’s not careful and his skeleton will crumble to dust if he loses control.

They make him relive the last week, day by day, hour by hour until his memory is stretched thin and he improvises just to fill the uncomfortable silence. There’s a man taking notes on a sleek laptop next to Fury; Erik suspects he’s revising what has been drafted as his official statement. That’s the efficiency of S.H.I.E.L.D., preparing for any eventuality, insuring against any contingency. They leave no blind spots, tracking down any flaws to erase them or nail them down until they fall into the ranks.

Erik barely recognizes his own voice as he explains his ordeal as they politely call it. He tells the truth; he has nothing to hide of his time in captivity but his memories are dark, hazy at best. He mostly remembers the overwhelming sense of purpose that blinded everything else: fear, righteousness, or hunger, none of it mattered in his pursuit of truth and discovery. It’s hard to put into words but Erik’s best efforts do not prevent Fury from growing more and more irritated.

Erik tries to focus but his mind is muddled, exhaustion and restlessness heavy on his brow. There was no going back to sleep after that dream. Instead, he huddled with Barton over mediocre coffee in a dimly lit break room. Their conversation was stilted, despite everything Erik wanted to ask, despite everything that needed to be said.

They briefly considered going to the holding cells but what they would find there seemed too much to bear. They took the coward’s way.

When Erik speech dries up, Fury hands him his official statement. Erik’s eyes fly over it but his vision blurs when he reads the word duress for the first time and he nods, trusting S.H.I.E.L.D. to shape a polished enough story.

“You understand that your work with project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. ends today, Professor,” Fury says flatly, “and that you will not be allowed to keep any record of your research.”

Erik finds he does not have the strength to muster outrage. “I understand.” When Fury’s eye narrow, he manages a shrug. “The rules have changed. The future of my publications seems futile compared to the safety of the Earth.”

As expected, Fury sniffs but does not comment on the sentiment. “You will still be affiliated to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s operations, but as a passive consultant.”

Erik swallows. How easy it sounds to overtake his whole life: one single sentence to uproot months of his life. Erik spent countless hours working with the cube, neglecting all of his other projects to focus on the cube only and now it’s gone. Fury might as well have taken one of his children.

A mad, uncontrollable child, Erik tells himself. This is for the best.

“Needless to say, you will be generously compensated,” Fury adds and when Erik only snorts, he sets both hands on the table. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”

“I’m exhausted, Director.” Erik admits, choosing a half-truth rather than an outright lie. “It’s almost a relief. Perhaps we should never have tried to mettle with what we don’t understand.”

Fury doesn’t buy it. “Is that all?”

There are so many things Erik could say. This is only the beginning, Director. We’ve stirred waters too deep, hungered for powers too strong. The Earth is on the brink of war. You may think they are men like us, but we have angered the Gods of my youth.

Ragnarök will come.

“Thousands of people have died because of me, Director,” Erik says and it’s not an act when his throat chokes up. “I will not have any more blood on my hands.”

The director gives him a heavy look while his fingers drum lightly on the steel table. “Stark tells me the tesseract has rejected the vessel he designed for it. He needs more time to build a viable container”, he director says, changing the subject. “I want you to work with him. The sooner the tesseract is out of reach, the better.”

Erik carefully schools his features. “Do you think that’s wise, Director?” he asks with as much self-doubt as he dares without sounding like a fifteen-year-old girl.

“Stark asked for two more days. This is time we cannot afford to lose.”

“I can’t take that risk,” Erik complains. “Who knows what—“

“If it’s Loki you’re worried about, don’t,” Fury drawls. “The man is under control. Thor has made sure of that.”

“What do you mean?” Erik asks too quickly, much too quickly. Again, Fury’s single eye narrows in suspicion and he grabs the laptop from the hands of his assistant.

When he turns the screen towards Erik, the flickering image of a surveillance camera blinks before him. There’s Loki, alone in a holding cell, still clad in his armor and bearing the bruises and the grit of battle. He’s sitting at a steel table, the only furniture that Erik can see and his hands are splayed out on the grey metal, restrained by two shackles. On his mouth, there’s a muzzle.

Bound and muzzled like a dog, well, that explains some of it, Erik thinks rationally, fighting a hot rush of dizziness.

“Thor informs me that the power of his brother lies in his hands or in his words. As you can see, we took care of both.”

“Good,” Erik breathes out, rolling his lip between his teeth. “Yes, excellent.”

“I was not asking for your opinion.” Fury says, closing the laptop’s screen with a sharp snap. “You will help Stark.”

Erik looks up. “Of course.”

“You understand also that you will be monitored,” Fury adds passively.

It sounds benign enough, almost like a favor, but Erik has spent enough time working for S.H.I.E.L.D. to recognize the threat. They might have cleared him, but they’re not going to let him run around freely.

“Of course,” he repeats, tensing despite his best efforts.

With a curt nod, Erik is dismissed and he tries to keep his gait natural as he makes for the door. Agent Barton is waiting outside but Erik walks straight on, barely registering when Barton falls in step with him. He only breathes again when the doors of the elevator close on him.

“I found it,” Barton tells him.

Erik hesitates over the buttons of the elevator. “Already? Where?”

Barton pushes his hand away. “It was not exactly hidden,” he shrugs and selects the ninth floor button.

Erik is almost disappointed. The boy in him still wants restricted areas to be hidden in concrete basements. S.H.I.E.L.D. usually delivers, but not today it seems. He follows Hawkeye down the hallways: the doors all look the same under the artificial lights but Hawkeye never hesitates. When he finally stops before an indiscriminate door, Erik is lost. Barton types the security code too fast for Erik to follow, and after a quick scan of his eyeball, the door opens with a resounding click.

The lights turn on automatically, revealing a large laboratory. In the middle stands Erik’s creation, the portal.  

“I can’t believe they would leave it alone,” Erik whispers.

Hawkeye snorts. “Can’t you? There’s alien tech scattered all around Manhattan. Damage control is the polite expression for “don’t let the good stuff fall into the wrong hands.” I’m telling you, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s whole research division is scavenging the streets right now.”

“Well,” Erik laughs. “That will definitely make things easier.”

The portal is as he remembers, tall and crackling with potential, and he dives on it like a hungry child on candy. It’s a strange feeling, laying his hands on the cool metal again, familiar and foreign at the same time, as if he was meeting an old friend whose name he cannot remember.

“Will it really help?” Barton looks skeptical.

“I don’t know,” Erik answers honestly, “hopefully.”

He grabs a screw gun and contemplates his creation. The plinth of the portal won’t teach him anything. He quickly identifies the lead weights that make the machine stable and the dampeners: a basic enough setup for a device beyond everything he knows. Surrounded by thick copper conductors, the centerpiece is a wonder though; it looks too close to Stark’s arc reactor for comfort. God knows Erik has coveted the technology long enough but Stark has always guarded it like a rabid bulldog.  

Wordlessly, he unscrews a titanium panel, revealing a mess of wires and printed circuits, so unlike Stark’s elegant designs, where not one wire is out of place, not one conductor is redundant. This is hasty, desperate work, realized without finesse or second-thought. It is made to function, bring results and nothing else.

Erik recognizes his handiwork: the printed circuits are definitely his own. His MIT teacher had been a pioneer in this field. Professor Niklaus, Nick as he ordered his students to call him, was a genius and therefore more than a bit unhinged. In the first year of his PhD program, they spent a whole semester on transformers, a waste of time according to most of his classmates, a revelation to Erik. Despite his hatred for electrical engineering, Erik had never been enough of a fool to ignore the usefulness of it and under the watchful picture of Michael Faraday, Professor Nick elevated the law of induction to an art. Erik has suffered enough as a grad student to recognize Nick’s teachings, imbedded snugly in the portal’s entrails.

“Everything all right?” Barton asks.

Erik nods absently. There’s palladium in this circuit, bright and unexpected. He never uses palladium, too expensive and far too unreliable, and he frowns, moving his screw gun feverishly.

“What are you looking for?” Barton asks, shuffling closer.

“I’m not sure,” Erik grumbles, working on the palladium. It’s strange: the settings are nothing he would ever have thought to put together.

Barton stands awkwardly next to him.

“What have you told, Fury?” the Agent finally asks.

“The truth,” Erik grits out, struggling with a bolt. “At least, most of it.” The bolt won’t budge and he gives up, gesturing Hawkeye to grab a wrench. “Here, help me with this.”

Young arms, Erik sighs, annoyed when Hawkeye loosens the bolt in two quick, efficient pulls.

“He wants me to help Stark build the vessel,” he adds, pointing to the next bolts to unscrew. He’s never been one to spit on cheap labor.

“Then you should do as he says,” Barton grunts. “You realize that you won’t be able to hide anything from Fury. He already suspects you’re up to something.”

“He mentioned surveillance.”

Barton pauses in his efforts to give him a pointed look.

“You?” Erik laughs. “I’m honored.”

“Don’t look so smug,” Barton shots back but he’s cannot entirely wipe his grin off. “It was just the perfect excuse. He’s trying to keep me close too. Two birds, one stone.”

“Well,” Erik sighs, “aren’t we quite the team.”

He circles the portal, trying to make sense of the wiring, trying to judge where he should begin the dissection.

“Are you sure we’re doing the right think, Selvig? Letting Thor take the cube, I mean.” Hawkeye asks hesitantly next to him. “We could really use the tesseract to fight the big boss.”

“I don’t think he’s the one we should worry about,” Erik tells him.

“Are you kidding me? Did we really see the same stuff?”

Erik looks up from the electrical panel he was contemplating. “Are you familiar with Norse mythology, Barton? Do you know what Ragnarök is?”

Hawkeye clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You’re the one who grew up in Sweden, Selvig. I’m from Iowa.”

“The Twilight of the Gods,” Erik says, ignoring the taunt. “It prophesizes the end of the world: the apocalypse. The sources diverge, of course, the texts are ancient but the knowledge remains. They say that at the end of time, the Gods of Asgard will meet in a great battle, fueled by millennia of hatred and feuds. They will fight across the universe, on Earth too, until the world is submerged in flames and water, leaving but two humans to carry on the race in the aftermath.”

Hawkeye shifts behind him. “Your point?”

“Odin – that’s the King, Thor’s father – will fall first, swallowed whole by a giant wolf. Then Loki will be slain by the Gatekeeper of Asgard and as protector of the Earth, Thor will battle a great snake, which he overcomes, but he will be mortally wounded and die before he can take nine steps. The writers of the Edda say that the serpent and the wolf are Loki’s children,” Erik trails off and he turns to face Barton. “Don’t you see? Loki and his children against Thor and his realm: it has been written in stones and in books for centuries and we have witnessed it: how the bond between brothers broke in Puente Antigo, how they tore at each other in New York. It has come to pass.”

The lights in the laboratory are too violent. Their warmth is like an iron brand against the back of his neck.

“You think that Loki is a man as any other, a common criminal to be judged and thrown in prison. You think Thor, the God of Thunder, will follow your orders blindly to serve your cause,” Erik adds. “But they are nothing we could ever hope to control. They are the Gods of my childhood and the Earth will shatter under their might. It’s only the beginning; Gods, monsters and things beyond our imagination, they will come looking for war and the Earth will be their playground.”

“And without the tesseract we will be defenseless,” Barton notes darkly.

Erik snorts. “We were defenseless with the tesseract. This is beyond our means. I’m trying to do the only thing that could help the Earth.”

“What’s that?”

“Mend the bond between two brothers,” Erik replies low, struggling with a titanium panel. “Or at least, knock some sense into their thick heads.”

Barton snorts out a laugh, a sharp, ugly sound. “Are you trying telling me you want to stop the apocalypse?”

Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, he wants to boast, but he couldn’t be less sure so he shrugs instead.

“I’m going to do what no one else will,” Erik explains. “I want give them another option.”

They don’t speak after that as they work on stripping down the portal to its core.

It’s Christmas, Erik realizes after the fifth panel comes loose under his screw gun. It’s Christmas and he’s a boy unwrapping an unexpected, impossible, gift.

The machinery gets too refined and he has to exchange his screw gun against a screwdriver, wishing for precision glasses. A fine sheen of sweat has gathered on his brown when he finally uncovers the iridium core at the center of the portal. It’s charred and pitiful looking, nestled in an intricate frame of some alloy he cannot identify. He lowers the screwdriver slowly, wiping his forehead.

“Was there any documentation?” he breathes out. “Notes? Blueprints?”

Barton frowns and goes to the nearest workstation. “Your security clearance has been revoked,” he grumbles, login in the system. “But I should be able to access it.”

Barton is efficient but Erik has no patience left.

“Let me,” he says, and he shoves Barton, taking over the directories.

The folders flash before his eyes, and he opens one file after the other in stunned silence. He goes quickly through the schemas of the portal but soon disregards them: too rough and barely helpful, they look more like a rough draft than a basis for a precise construction. There’s a password-protected zip-file and Erik does not hesitate before entering his usual password.

He has to sit down as he clicks on the first file that uncovers rows of equations. His notation looks back at him mockingly. There’s no doubt. Only him could decipher the shortcuts and mechanisms that he has developed during more than twenty years of hard work. It has become his own language, and here it stands, in ten pages of dense equations.

He reads the first line and it feels familiar: it’s his hand, his notation, and yet, after the third line, he has to start again, lost in some logical leap his brain fails to make.

“Impossible,” he whispers.

“What is it?” Barton asks warily.

“This is my work. I wrote those equations.” He looks up to Barton, and their eyes meet, bewildered against annoyed. “I’ve figured out heavy ion fusion. I’ll—I’ll have the next Nobel Prize in physics.”

His throat chokes up with a laugh.  

“I don’t understand any of it.”

Loki hasn’t moved: still bound and gagged—gagged from God’s sake, Erik can barely breath— spine straighter than an iron spear.

Erik wants to bang on the one-way glass: to make him jump, make him react, anything. Under the plain, almost white lights, the green of his armor reflects a deathly sheen of the God’s face, casting strange shadows below his cheekbones.

“I’m sorry,” Erik murmurs.

“He can’t hear you,” Barton says behind him and Erik tenses, heart seizing up with hot shame. When he turns, Hawkeye’s expression is neutral, carefully wiped of any judgment, but Erik feels like a child, caught in some mischief.

He clears his throat. “How do you know?”

“Easy,” Hawkeye smirks. “Thor must have cried seeing his brother’s ass kicked by Banner. Did you see Stark’s footage?” Hawkeye laughs, points to Loki. “Puny God.”

There’s no reaction on Loki’s face, although Barton’s childish display makes Erik sigh. “I think he’s past petty insults, Agent Barton.”

“Oh no,” Barton says flatly. “I think that’s all he has left.”

Pride and despair, Erik thinks warily. That might well be true.

“So what’s the plan now?” Barton asks, all business.

Erik hesitates. He thought he would know what to do if he went down to the holding cell. But his mind remains blank.

“We—“ Erik mutters. “I need to know when they will send him back to Asgard. Ask Stark—“

“We can’t delay,” Barton warns. “We’ve not exactly been subtle. We won’t be able to keep our intel from Fury much longer and then the tesseract will never leave this compound.”

“I know. I know—“ Erik groans. “Ask Stark, we need to be sure.”

Sure for what? Erik rakes his brain. What should he do? What can he do? Loki looks like he belongs to a museum alongside Greek statues: carved out of marble, battered and broken, but still proud and beautiful despite their dead white eyes. Talking to him would have as much impact as floundering in front of a raging storm. There’s nothing he can do, but—The answer is so obvious he almost whimpers.

“I’ll talk to Thor,” Erik mutters. “He’s the only one who can do something.”

“When?” Barton asks.

Erik knows he needs time that no one will grant him. “Tomorrow morning, somewhere private,” he demands, “where we won’t be overheard.”

“How dramatic.” Barton comments sarcastically but he nods. “I’ll make it happen.” There’s a slight hesitation. “You should get some rest, Doctor. You look like hell.”

Erik snorts, waving off Barton’s concern, but before he can comment on the sentiment, something occurs to him.

“That’s the first part of your plan, wasn’t it? Distract Thor.” Erik says slowly. “What about the second part?”

This draws a sly smile from Hawkeye. “I’m not the one with the goddamn Nobel Prize. You tell me.”

“Barton,” Erik calls back before the Agent slips out. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Barton grunts and the look he gives Erik couldn’t be more serious. “I mean it. Don’t ever mention it.”

The doors clicks shut behind Barton and Erik allows himself a sigh. Barton is right: he is exhausted. Disassembling the portal has been difficult and there’s a slow, persistent ache in his joints. He should rest; his body is yearning for a hot shower and a soft mattress. He needs time and quiet to process what he learned, to organize his thoughts.

He should leave.

Instead, he lays a hand on the one-way glass and counts his breaths.

Only Erik starts when Thor enters the holding cell. In the midst of dull greys and battered green, the man is almost too bright. Where the lights swallow Loki, as if they tried to make him disappear, they bounce on Thor, reflecting the polished gleam of his armor and the natural shine of his hair. It’s almost painful to watch: the favored son against the cast-out, the victor against the deposed.

Thor is carrying a small tray, which he lowers silently against the table. There’s wariness in his eyes but resolve in the set of his mouth.

“Food and water,” Thor says softly. Such a hesitant sound from such an imposing man, Erik had not thought Thor capable of it and he wonders for a moment if it’s only due to the distortion of sound through the speakers of the small observation room. There’s something cold, almost automated in Thor’s voice.

Thor shifts awkwardly when his brother does not acknowledge him. “Will you have some?” he asks and Erik understands that this is not the first time Thor has tried. “I know this is nothing as grand as the dishes of Asgard but it will do you good.”

Loki’s eyes finally snap up to his brother’s face and Erik feels his hands clench in sympathy.

Idiot, Erik thinks with disbelief. He has hungered to the edge of sanity when he fell, and you try to sway him with comforts of a home that will be taken from him. Idiot, don’t you see?

Thor misinterprets the look completely however, and his lips tug at the corners in a hint of a smile. The surge of exasperation and downright fury leaves Erik reeling and he finds it’s not his hands he wants to bang on the one-way window now, it’s Thor’s head.

Calmly, Thor’s fingers creep under Loki’s dark hair and after a moment of fumbling, the muzzle comes away with Thor’s fingers. Loki’s mouth parts in a silent breath, tongue darting out to wet his lips or to assess the damage. His lips are cracked and coated with dried blood, it must feel as bad as it looks and Erik winces, rolling his own lips between his teeth.

Loki slowly stretches his jaw. “Now untie my hands,” he says hoarsely, ”and I will indulge you.”

“You know I cannot,” Thor answers without humor and wordlessly he presses a glass to Loki’s lips.

“Then I must decline,” Loki replies, lips stretching in a smile against the rim of the glass. Erik is surprised when Thor does not insist, setting back the glass against the tray.  

The silence stretches, heavy and unfamiliar. They were never quiet before, Erik knows, bickering, laughing or fighting, but never silent.

Thor picks up a bowl filled with water and a white washcloth. As he half-sits on the table next to Loki’s outstretched arms, he wets the towel slowly, crushing it between his fingers to wring out the excess water. When Thor catches Loki’s chin in one hand to press the cloth against his brother’s lips, Loki’s eyes grow wide in honest surprise.

“What are you doing?” Loki hisses, as soon as the towel leaves his mouth.

Thor only shrugs, while he wets then wrings the cloth again. The water turns pink in the glass bowl.

“It looked painful,” he explains without breaking his attentive ministrations in silence, keeping Loki’s head immobile with disconcerting ease.

Thor works carefully, head bent on his task, and Erik can almost feel Loki’s discomfort: how his eyes, blown wide and almost fearful do not blink, fixed on some point over his brother’s head, how the muscles in his neck bunch with effort as he tries to avert his head.  

When Loki’s lips are cleaned, Thor picks up a small jar, struggling with the tiny lid for an instant.

“My friends assure me it will soothe the ache,” Thor explains and he swipes a careful thumb against his brother’s lips, smearing some kind of cream over the sore flesh.

Loki stops fighting after that, leaving his brother to swipe a wet cloth over his face and neck, erasing days of sweat and dirt, carefully dabbing the cuts on his forehead and on his nose to clear out the dried blood. When Thor is done, he silently raises the glass to his brother’s lips, and this time, Loki does not refuse it, taking small careful sips of water. 

Never has Erik felt more out of place, like an intruder, almost depraved, but his blood is pounding in his veins, and his eyes are rooted on the strange scene.  

“We leave for Asgard tomorrow,” Thor finally says, lowering the glass. “The device is completed.”

The chill falls instantly.

“Is that what is was?” Loki says, voice smoother than death. “Your last attempt to make the cast-out presentable?”

“You looked a fright,“ Thor says defensively. “I thought—“

“You thought?” Loki surges forward, hands straining against the metal cuffs. “We wouldn’t want your victory to be besmirched by horrendous apparition.”

Thor recoils, as if slapped. “No—I only meant to be kind.”

“Pathetic fool,” Loki hisses, teeth bared. “Untie my hands, and I’ll show my own brand of kindness!”

“Brother—“

“Enough with that lie!” Loki shouts, “I am not your brother!”

Thor roars in return and Erik scrambles back when the glass smashes against the one-way window.

There are shouts and blurred movements but Erik cannot see through the glass debris and trickling water. When it clears, Thor is bent over Loki, face distorted in rage, one hand fisted harshly into black hair. Although Loki’s neck offers a vulnerable arch, there’s only defiance in the curl of his lip.

Erik expects violence, insults and blows. Instead, a broken sound escapes Thor’s lips, somewhere between a howl and a wail, and he lets his forehead fall against Loki’s, eyes squeezed in pain.

Erik does not wait for words they might say. He rushes away as fast as his wobbling legs can take him. 

There are so many things he should do: eat and shower, think and regroup. Instead, Erik collapses on the narrow bed and draws the sheet over his head, shutting his eyes.

He’s too restless and exhausted to fall asleep properly. Instead, he drowses awkwardly; never sure he’s awake or asleep.

He sees Jane when she smiled brightly at him under her graduation cap. He sees Thor smiling softly at her, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles. That hand had been a hot brand against the skin of his neck.

“Sometimes I am envious,” he used to say. “But never doubt that I love you.”

He remembers Jane’s face after the accident. He wrapped her in his coat, she’d been shivering and her dad had just died. She kept the coat, hiding under it during the funeral until the grave was filled to the brim, burying her father under heaps of stones and dirt.

He wishes he could be buried in his brother’s red cloak. He still has the small chunk Thor had ripped hastily to wrap around his bleeding hand after the accident. When they returned home, he purged his blood out of the small ragged piece of velvet and once it was dry, folded it into a small, neat square. He tucked it under his breastplate, coveting it like a dirty secret.

Erik buries his face in the pillow. There’s a slight desire of violence thrumming under his skin, and the dream is all soft edges and quiet urgency.

He moans into the kiss, fisting his fingers into blond hair: thick and soft as he knows it to be, but the sum of all stolen touches cannot compare to this. This is pure. This is his.

He tightens his grip and guides the kiss, teaching Thor what he craves, until the slow slide of their tongues has him panting in satisfaction. The warmth of it is overwhelming. He fell until cold was everything he knew. He wonders how he does not shatter under the scalding pressure.

“Loki,” his brother groans under him and he jerks away, licking his lips. The expanse of Thor’s chest seems infinite, ripe for the taking and he sets his hands on the glistening skin.

“Say it again,” he orders, settling more snugly against his brother’s hips.

“Loki,” Thor supplies, almost bashfully. He feels the reverberation of the syllables under his hands. Too soon they fade away and he sighs unhappily.

“Again,” he orders, moving one hand to cup Thor’s throat. This time, when Thor breathes his name, he can feel the clever rush of air under one hand, the vibrations of his voice under the other.

He smiles. “Again.”

He lowers his lips to Thor’s chest, tasting the salt of his skin, gathering the beads of sweat and musk of overheated flesh. When his name echoes again, Thor’s hands are gripping his hips almost painfully and his own lips tingle with the vibrations.

He lets his hands and his mouth wander. He lingers on unblemished skin where he knows scars should be raised: the hunting accident in Nilfheim, the skirmish in Muspelheim, and so many others. Idunn’s apples erase every flaw but he knows.

When he finally finds his prize after his thorough fall, Thor’s fingers are fisted in his hair. He relishes it, the heat and intimacy of the act, the heaviness of the flesh against his tongue; the tartness of it is almost overwhelming. He might be the giver but he is the one surrounded, taken and stripped bare. 

Thor coaxes him to stop and they face each other for a bated breath. When his brother’s eyes fall to his swollen lips, they fall into each other as if it had always been their domain. In a swift movement, Thor rolls them over and the heat of his brother’s body is almost too much to bear. He fits his knees against Thor’s ribs, accepting his brother’s weight against his own body. He was wrong when he imagined it as surrender. He was a fool; he’s the master. He owns every groan, every shudder. He takes it all as Thor slowly fills him.

It burns. He rakes his nails across his brother’s back, feeling muscles and bones shift under his hands. Soon, there’s only the relentless rhythm of it, the pants of Thor against his ear, his own ragged moans, while the pressure builds and builds in his loins. He’s close, so he catches Thor’s mouth for another kiss and this time, the dream fades slowly, ghosts of touches and sensation lingering long after Erik’s eyes have opened.

He’s careful not to move for long moments, smoothing his hands on the sheets. It gives his heart time to stop racing even if all he can see is golden skin.

“Well,” Erik clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. “That was unexpected.”

Not really. Why is he surprised? He should have known.

He lifts gingerly the cotton sheet and is relieved to see he won’t have to ask the nurse for a change of sheets. Even if he can thank the Lord and his exhaustion for small mercies, there’s no mistaking to uncomfortable sheen of sweat at the base of spine, the burn of shame and envy high on his cheeks.

Damn.

He gets up swiftly and dives under the shower. He lets the water run cold, and tries not to bang his head against the white tiles.

He has barely started to shiver when someone bangs on the bathroom’s door.

“Selvig! Get out of here!”

It’s Barton.

“One minute!” Erik yells back, fumbling to turn off the water.

He considers putting his clothes from yesterday back on, but they’re damp and wrinkled, and he dumps them on the floor in distaste. When he comes out, wrapped in a towel, the television is on and Hawkeye is pacing restlessly by his bed.

“No time for your morning beauty, sunshine,” Barton drawls, but it barely hides the urgency in his tone. “They’re sending the tesseract back to Asgard in three hours, from Central Park of all things. ”

“So soon?” Erik gasps.

“The Council is getting impatient. Fury had to push it as soon as he could. Stark just told me.”

Erik is too stunned to think. “What about—“

“There’s still time,” Barton interrupts brusquely. “I’ve talked to Thor, he’ll meet you in the hangar H in ten. You’d better hurry.”

Erik lunges for the clothes S.H.I.E.L.D. has arranged for him: a shirt, a blue sweater, jeans. It will do.

“Thank you,” Erik breathes, barely remembering not to drop his towel before Barton is out of the room.

“Thor agreed to leave the holding cell only when I told him it was you who wanted to speak to him,” Barton adds with a hint of curiosity. “What are going to tell him? He looked like he expected a scolding.”

Erik looks up. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do: scold him.”

Thor is already waiting for him when Erik finally stumbles breathless in the hangar. The God of Thunder is pacing under the weak lights, and he looks just like that: a God. Erik has seen him in tattered jeans and a t-shirt, covered in mud, but even then, Erik had felt that this man exulted power and demanded respect. Now, dressed in full armor, red cape brushing against his calves, there’s just no doubt left.

“Erik,” Thor exclaims when he finally sees him, striding towards him, arms outstretched as if preparing for an embrace.

Erik takes a hasty step back because he could not bear it: too bright, too warm, and much, much too soon. He can still feel Thor’s hands on skin, and his eyes are drawn helplessly by Thor’s fingers where they are curled loosely around Mjölnir’s handle. Erik’s eyes snap up, and he feels the blood rush to his cheeks.

“It is good to see you, my friend,” Thor says, faltering before he can engulf Erik in a hug. “Even if I am sorry that it is under such circumstances.”

“Yes,” Erik coughs, taking another step back. It feels as if there can never be enough distance between them.

Goddamn it, Erik curses inwardly, trying not to notice the proud gaze, the square jaw, the chiseled features and failing miserably. How can I unsee now? God of bloody mischief.

“I am sorry,” Thor says.

Erik forces a smile. “About what?”

“I am sorry that my—“ Thor pauses. “that Loki used you as he did.”

It’s nothing, Erik wants to reply immediately, years of good and polite behavior demanding to be satisfied, except it’s not. It’s really not so he only nods, acknowledging the apology.

“How is the Lady Jane?” Thor asks, shifting awkwardly. “I am thankful that she was not involved in this conflict.”

Guilt and anger spike in Erik’s guts, fighting for dominance. “I don’t know.” Erik replies, “I mean, she’s fine. But I have not spoken to her since—since then.”

Thor frowns. He wants to say more but Erik does not let him speak. Time to take charge.

“I’m not here to exchange pleasantries, and there’s no time.” Erik says forcefully. “I need to talk to you.”

“Then, by all means my friend,” Thor says, frown deepening. “Speak your business.”

“I—“ Erik stops as soon as he begins, suddenly lost. “I want to speak about your brother.”

He immediately knows this is a mistake. Thor’s face closes off abruptly.

“I’d rather you would not,” Thor mutters. “He will be brought before my Father’s justice and face the consequences for his crimes. Your abuse will not go unpunished.”

“That’s—“ Erik struggles. “That’s good.”

Thor nods curtly. “We’re set to leave soon. I wish you well, friend. Please, give my regards to your ward. I am sorry we could not meet again but I cannot linger.”

He flees, Erik realizes, cringing when Thor squeezes his shoulder before turning away. A mention of his brother has him running for cover. These idiots.

“How could you put a muzzle on him?” Erik blurts out at Thor’s retreating back.

It works, Thor stops brusquely and his eyes are wide when he turns back to face Erik.

“When the dwarves sewed his lips together,” Erik plows on, and his tone morphs into anger without warning. “You were the only one to help him, to free him from his silence.”

“How do you know that?”

“Everyone gawked at the ring, the boar and the hammer,” Erik continues, ignoring Thor. “And despite Loki’s feat, they gloated to see him silenced. Leave him; we’ll have peace for some time, they said behind his back. You were the only one to care! And now, of all the things you could have done to bind his power, you chose to muzzle him”, Erik spits. “So I’m asking you, Thor: are you only stupid or cruel?”

“I don’t understand,” Thor whispers, face washed in confusion. “How—“

“When Loki took over my mind, I think he went to far in order to extend his control,” Erik explains. “I have been having dreams.”

Of stars and endless stripes of warm skin, Erik’s mind supplies unhelpfully. Of rage and centuries of heartbreak.

“His dreams,” he adds, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “They have shown me truths that you must know before you pass judgment on him.”

“Your tone—“ Thor trails off. “You speak as if you would not condemn him.”

“No, I do—“Erik stutters, surprised by Thor’s passivity.

Thor’s eyes narrow. “He held you captive in your own mind, used your skills to bring doom to your people and yet you defend him?” Thor lets out a small laugh, but it is dark and bitter. “Yes, Loki is a talented spellcrafter; these dreams you speak of are but illusions. He’s playing you for a fool if you think him innocent.”

“Innocent?” Erik repeats dumbly. “No, Thor, listen to me.”

Thor dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “I have heard you but I am done listening, my friend. Fear not, I will ensure that Loki releases you from his mastery.”

“You don’t understand—“

“I’m sorry that he torments you still, Erik Selvig, but banish him from your thoughts. I will see that this matter is resolved.” Thor tells him, squeezing his shoulder again in friendly reassurance. The gesture seizes him like electric current. “Farewell, may we meet again under happier auspices.”

Thor turns to leave and Erik’s patience finally runs out. He reaches out, and his fingers close around the red of Thor’s cape of all things.

“Now, you listen to me carefully, boy,” Erik hisses, trying to drag the God of Thunder back. It’s like trying to move a tree. Erik has enough of those supernatural men who act like boys and treat him like one. “Do you really think I have not considered that? That he’s manipulating me in my sleep? I am a bloody astrophysicist, I am not an idiot.”

Erik’s nostrils flare, half in anger, half in satisfaction at seeing Thor’s bashful expression. “I know it is not a trick, or a spell, or whatever madness it is that you people do. It is not conscious. I have proof.”

A sliver of doubt flickers on Thor’s face, even if it disappears almost immediately, covered by deep-seated wariness.

“Proof?” Thor asks.

Boxes are piled up next to the wall. They could contain toilet paper or advanced weaponry; he couldn’t care less as he sprawls on one. He struggles to drag another one closer to him: it’s heavier than it looks.

“Sit down,” Erik orders, slightly peeved when Thor obliges and finally, he knows where to begin. “Loki gave me just one task: build the portal. I worked relentlessly to reach that objective. I had a few assistants for what I can remember but it was my design, my work, my responsibility. And obviously, I was successful.” He shrugs depreciatingly.

“It was not your—“

“Don’t sweat it,” Erik cuts. “I know that.”

Thor holds up his hands, shaking his head lightly.

“I went to see it, you know,” Erik continues, ignoring the gesture, “after I woke up.”

“The portal?” Thor asks.

Erik nods. “My official statement says Loki took over my mind so that I could build his portal. I don’t think that’s what happened.” He fiddles with the caved-in edges of the cardboard, thankful when Thor lets him gather his thoughts. “When I saw the portal, I recognized my work, but I couldn’t understand any of it. It was the strangest feeling, as if I had forgotten how to read. Thor, I know, I know, that I could never have built this portal in ten years, let alone in ten days.”

“Then how could you do it?” Thor asks, frowning.  

“It was Loki,” Erik explains. “He has knowledge but he lacked the means. He used me as a tool to create the portal he needed with our technology. He had not time to learn our ways, that’s why he took me. I was just a tool, a-- a conductor.”

Thor looks thoroughly confused. “You are telling that Loki used you to implement his knowledge since he could not build this gateway by himself.”

“Exactly,” Erik confirms.

“Forgive me, my friend,” Thor almost smiles. “But I do not—“

“The safety,” Erik interrupts restlessly. “Don’t you see? I built in a safety.”

This is the revelation that has driven Erik through those past days: the possibility that he could not have built that safety. Erik watches avidly as Thor’s face remains blank for an instant before understanding sets in. It translates through a subtle shift in the line of his mouth, a relaxing in the muscles of his forehead. It’s fascinating to watch until Thor’s drops his head into his hand.

“No,” Thor says almost forcefully behind his hand. “No, I refuse to believe it.” He raises his head and the understanding has fully given way to anguish. “You want to give me this tenuous hope when I was ready in my heart to forsake him?”

Of all the scenarios Erik had anticipated, Thor refusing to heed his words never crossed his mind.

He has seen glimpses of Loki’s mind, now he wishes he could have the same insights for Thor.

“Listen to me,” Erik tries again, softly. “Your brother—“

Thor’s laugh is like a whip in the room, surprising Erik into silence. “He’s not my brother,” Thor says, standing up. “I know that now.”

Erik reels. He tried to grab the red velvet of Thor’s cape but his fingertips only brushed against the cloth. Thor walked on without seeing him, catching his wife’s slender waist under his broad hands. He spun her around. They kissed.

“Loki has chosen the path of destruction.” Thor adds, stretching to his full height. “And that is the only path left for him.”

No, I’ve come too far for anything else, Erik thinks and doesn’t flinch when the words bounce like a foreign language in his head.

“I saw him fall, you know,” he blurts out. “In a dream, and all he could hear was your father’s words. All he could see was your face.”

Thor turns to look at him,

He’s in love with you, Erik wants to yell. You—you are everything.

“He’s desperate,” Erik says instead. “He’s not your brother, he’s not a warrior like your friends. He’s not even from Asgard! What was it that you used to scream when you were playing as a child? Ah yes, I’ll slay the monsters, I’ll slay them all!”

Thor is in his face in an instant, large and radiating danger.

“This would have changed nothing,” Thor snarls towering over him.

“It changed everything,” Erik snaps back in a shout. “He’s not your family, he cannot be your friend. Only them you cherish more than your enemies. Does it really surprise you that he chose to have your hate and your rage rather than your indifference?”

Erik sits back on the box, exhausted, cradling his head into one hand. Enough, he has had enough. He needs a drink, anything but water.

“He had help, you know.” Erik forces through his teeth. He wants it done, over, so he can forget about it all, drown in mindless work, maybe programming or grading, and forget Norse gods who make his teeth clench and tears gather at the corner of his eyes. “When he fell, there was a man, well, a creature, Thanos, who gave Loki the scepter and sent him here. That Thanos, he will come back for Loki and he will bring war to your home and to mine.” Erik swallows. He should say the whole truth, but how can he? Anything he could say would not be enough, and he feels he has already said too much. “He threatened to come for you, use you to destroy Asgard and the Earth.”

Silence stretches, heavy but almost blessed.

“That’s it,” Erik exhales. “I thought you should know.”

The box squishes when Thor sits next to Erik again.

“I thought him dead when he fell,” Thor says gently. “When my Father told me Loki appeared on Earth, I couldn’t believe it would be with malicious purpose. I could not believe it until I arrived here, until he shoved a knife into my side,” Erik looks up to meet Thor’s forlorn gaze. “I could not go through that pain again, Erik Selvig. You cannot ask this of me.”

“I’m not asking anything, Thor,” Erik tells him patiently, heart breaking at Thor’s desperate expression. “Take it as advice, or as a warning, or don’t take it at all. You had a brother, whom you loved. He may be lost to you forever now but the man remains. If you choose to give up on him now, there will be no turning back.”

Erik wanders the hallways for a long time, wondering where he could find some good old Swedish Absolut hospitality and conscientiously ignoring that it’s not even noon and that S.H.I.E.L.D. has a strict policy about substance consumption in their compounds.

He wonders whether Thor is still sitting miserably on a cardboard box that groans under his weight. Erik left him looking wrecked, knowing that the same expression was reflected on his own face. Has he said enough? Was there even any point in his desperate dash?

Right, Erik shakes his head, vodka.  

He hopes that they already left for Central Park. He hopes they never return.

“There you are!” A voice calls, and Stark comes barreling towards him. “I was worried I wouldn’t find you in time.”

“Mister Stark—“

“No time, I need your help,” Stark says, catching his arms and dragging him down the hallway. “There’s a—I need your expertise on a—calculation. Yes, a calculation. We wouldn’t want to make our favorite Norse Gods explode along the way, now would we?”

Erik scowls, shrugging Stark’s hand off. “What’s going on?”

Stark sighs. “Mission “Goddamn it, Stark, get them the hell out of here, now” is in motion. Since you went through so much trouble to get me in trouble, I thought I would give you an excuse to see them off.”

Erik blinks.

“By the way, you owe me,” Stark glares. “Fury gave me the most humiliating spanking I ever got, and believe me, I was a difficult child. I’ve also had an imaginative sex life but let’s not get into that. You owe me.”

“I’m sorry?” Erik tries bleakly.

“Damn right, you are,” Stark grumbles, before he clasps his hands. “It’s now or never, Selvig. Don’t you want to wave them off?”

No, his mind immediately supplies. Instead, he nods and lets Stark’s chatter lead him through the hallways, down to a garage.

They’re all here, dressed down, but among the dozens of formatted S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, wrapped in black austere suits, they stand out like beacons: the heroes, the Avengers.

Barton gives him a tense look, so guarded that it couldn’t be any more suspicious, and gestures towards a sleek sedan. “This way, Doctor Selvig.”  

They drive towards Central Park, when they could have walked. The weather looks nice behind the tinted window. The procession of cars and minivans is almost presidential, but then, they are escorting a prince to the gallows.

As soon as the cars stop, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swarm like ants, establishing a wide perimeter, herding the few joggers towards less travelled paths and advising the inevitable tourists to mind their business elsewhere.

“All right?” Barton asks as Erik steps out of the car, and while the unvoiced question is clear, Erik has nothing to offer. He wishes Barton’s eyes were not obscured by sunglasses, that he could decipher his expression. He should thank the agent for his unwilling help, his reluctant trust, but the moment is broken when Agent Romanoff takes him by the elbow.

“This way, Doctor, Stark wants you to prepare the vessel.”

She leads him to a minivan whose rear doors stand wide open, flanked by two mean-looking agents. The vessel is lying in a plastic case. It looks refined, almost alien-looking and Erik picks it up gingerly. It’s heavier than it looks, and Erik feels the muscles in his arm bunch under the effort. It is far from the rough blueprints Erik saw in Stark’s laboratory a lifetime ago. At least, Stark made good on his lie and did not completely waste his time.

He turns, ready to pass it over, but Thor is standing by a car, hand extended, and Erik freezes when he spots black hair. Loki’s hands are only linked by a thin metal chain, frail and fine looking, but still they are bound. Under the bright sun, the black metal of the muzzle stand even starker against the paleness of his skin.

Thor catches Loki’s arm, and leads him in the open. It’s almost theatrical: how the Avengers form a wide circle around their prisoner and close on him, how Loki shrugs his brother’s arm off in final defiance.

Erik stumbles when he brings the device over to Stark and he wonders why his hands do not shake as Banner slowly, carefully, lowers the tesseract into the vessel under Stark’s close supervision.

Is that it? Erik thinks as he contemplates the cube, still crackling with power inside the vessel. When he looks up, Thor is standing before him.

Don’t be fools, Erik wants to tell them. Instead, he holds out the vessel to Thor, who accepts easily with one hand. With the other, he squeezes Erik’s shoulder. Thor looks as if he would add something but he just offers a small, solemn smile instead. It gives Erik more hope than any words could.

They’re almost the same height, Erik reflects absently when Thor offers one end of the vessel to his brother. The pillar of blue light that bursts unexpectedly blinds Erik for a moment and when his vision adjusts, the brothers have disappeared.

“Can we take a day off now?” Stark asks, breaking the tension. They all force out a laugh and after a few moments, it even turns genuine but Erik could not feel even more out of places as the Avengers exchange pats on the backs and heartfelt farewells. Walking to S.H.I.E.L.D. central would do him good, he decides, but Stark catches him before he can slink away.

“I have something for you, Doctor.” Stark says, handing him a memory stick. “Your access may have been revoked but I thought you would enjoy having your work back. I couldn’t resist looking at it. This is revolutionary stuff.”

Erik glances at the small innocuous object. Here lie the ion fusion equations. Fame and worldwide recognition within reach.

“Keep it,” he says, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Between Banner and you, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

The look of pure astonishment on Stark’s face is something he will cherish forever. “What?” he gasps. “Are you sure? Barton mentioned a Nobel prize.”

Erik smiles and pats Stark on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll still get the Nobel Prize. Enjoy your holidays.”

And he walks away. The weather is even finer than he thought, and the streets of New York are unusually quiet for a sunny spring morning. He wants a drink, something to take his mind off stars and centuries of heartbreak, he wants a bloody therapist but there are more important things to do first.

He takes out his blackberry.

“Yeah, I’ll still deserve the Nobel prize,” he whispers to himself as he waits patiently for the screen to light up. “Just not the one in physics.”

He calls Jane.