It had been three days.

Three days since Loki had joined the Avengers Initiative, aiding Earth's mightiest heroes in their pursuit for intergalactic safety.

They hadn't exactly warmed up to him immediately, which was understandable, but on that cursed Wednesday afternoon, things were about to change.

Loki had awoken late in the day, or at least, it appeared so because he didn't leave his quarters until two in the afternoon (he'd found some books mother had packed for him amongst his things and taken to reading throughout the early morning hours).

Loki was just stepping onto the floorboards of the common area when the first wave of dizziness hit him.

His vision swirled in a sickening cascade of colors and dull, far away sounds met his ears. He swallowed reflexively, hoping the spell would pass.

Luckily, for him, it did.

Until, that is, he was standing at the toaster and the second wave of dizziness hit him square in the face.

That time, he wasn't so lucky.

He could feel the emergence of his late night snack returning to the back of his throat and he rushed out a hand to his left, hoping to grab ahold of something strong and sturdy. Instead, his wrist ineffectually smacked into the granite countertop and his breath hitched in his throat.

Cut off from some desperately needed air supply, the dizziness propelled even further against his brain, rattling off the chain of events that would be the end of Loki's self-preserved dignity.

The newest onslaught of dizziness caused Loki's vision to blur to a sickening degree, what was once the picture of the Avenger's kitchen now just a pooling mix of color and shapeless objects. Then there was the awareness of Loki's absent breaths, and his heart thundering so hard into the frame of his armor that he could feel the metal and leather pulsating. Next, it was the unsteadiness of his feet as his heels backed up and there was nothing behind his body to catch him.

So plummet to the floor he did, back of his raven hair colliding harshly with the nutmeg tiles. Feeling a bump, if not blood, sprout from his head to the cool floor, Loki's vision finally darkened, his world collapsing inwards.

~#~

"What the fuck was that?" Clint Barton, nesting atop the farthest chair's armrest, blurted out as a loud thump echoed from the kitchen.

Steve Rogers, clad in an embarrassingly tight Captain America pajama set, swiveled around from his own chair and threw a glance over his shoulder. Steve noticed the long black hair first, and with that knowledge, began searching in his mind's eye for a face that belonged to those handsome locks.

Steve's eyes widened as he thought of their newest villain turned superhero team member.

"Oh crap," Steve muttered, quickly placing down his sandwich onto his paper plate (the team were still in disagreement about who should clean the dishes every Wednesday) and hurrying over to the kitchen connected to the lounge area of which the Avengers could stare longingly at the television or drearily out the open glass (as Tony had yet to fix it from New York's latest alien invasion).

"Language!" Barton cried out, feigning a shocked expression at the Captain, before begrudgingly following far behind him.

Steve leaped over the small coffee table and an overturned chair before his eyes were surveying the scene and the God of Mischief who lay unmoving on the kitchen floor. Questions milling in Steve's mind, he knelt down alongside the demigod, for a moment hesitant that this might be some trick, until he recognized the blood sliding out from Loki's head.

"Serves him right," Barton clipped out, shaking his head back and forth, a frown and a look of distaste sinking into his features.

"Clint, we don't even know what happened," Steve pointed out, leaning forward and placing two fingers to where he assumed the demigod's pulse would be.

Loki's skin was cooler than Steve expected it to be and to match this disconcerting fact was that his heart was performing theatrical leaps and bounds than what Steve considered would be normal for the trickster.

"He doesn't get to wreak havoc on New York City and bring a crazy alien invasion into our world and then expect us to forgive him so easily when he returns to Earth two months later," Barton pointed out roughly, his fists curling at his sides as Steve had to suppress a sigh from coming between his lips.

"Clint, I really don't think now is the time for this. I think he's seriously unwell here," Steve motioned to the pale Loki, paler than he was even a few seconds prior.

"Jarvis," Steve addressed the AI before Barton could utter a scathing retort. "Did you see what happened here?"

"Of course, sir," Jarvis smoothly replied, "it appears to my sensors that Mr. Laufeyson has fainted. However, I am not certain as to why."

Steve nodded in ascension, "Call Bruce and get him here as quickly as you can."

"Right away, sir," was Jarvis' cool reply.

~#~

Bruce Banner, brown eyes lit up with concern as his exquisite form skidded from the elevator, walked into the room expecting the worst. Granted, when Jarvis had called for him saying there was an emergency in the Avenger's lounge, involving Loki, he had imagined that Clint was probably lying somewhere in the rafters with a dagger sticking out of his back. Or, that Steve was lying compromised-again, no less-in his pajamas upon the floor with bruises lacing up and down his calves.

What he didn't expect however, was that Loki would be the one injured this time.

Furrowed brows linking together in further concern and slight curiosity, Bruce found his voice filtering from his mouth before he could realize he was talking, "What happened?"

Bruce eyed Clint suspiciously, pondering if this was some form of late retaliation from the archer.

Clint huffed, hands rising in the air, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, I had nothing to do with this."

Steve shook his head, affirming, "He didn't, Bruce. Loki just passed out. Neither of us saw what happened-except Jarvis."

Bruce's eyes narrowed considerably. "How long has he been out?"

"Four minutes, thirty-three seconds, sir," Jarvis chimed in.

Bruce eyed the trickster god, his eyes calculating. Loki was lying there pale, bleeding, and breathing shallowly.

Bruce leaned over and placed his fingers alongside Loki's neck. His eyes widened in surprise.

"His heartrate's fast, isn't it?" Steve asked, worry reflecting in his eyes.

"…Maybe," Bruce spoke hesitantly, "but we don't know what's normal for his species."

"I hardly doubt that's his normal heartrate," Steve said determinedly.

"It's concerning," Bruce agreed, looking carefully at Loki as if the demigod's form would offer clues to the puzzle they were trying to solve.

Unexpectedly, a groan slipped past Loki's open lips, ragged between breaths of air.

"Loki?" Bruce leaned forwards a little more, hand slipping from Loki's throat to his chest. Bruce instinctively glanced at his hand with a quirk of his eyebrows, noticing as he could feel the galloping sensation of Loki's heart. Well, that can't be good, Bruce thought to himself, teeth plucking at his bottom lip.

~#~

His name, he heard his name.

Someone was trying to break through the colossal darkness that was wrapping itself around his cool shoulders and beckoning him further down, down into its depths.

He flicked his head to the side, trying to smother the darkness and its raspy whispers, but his head exploded with a pain that sent his breath colliding one after the other.

Air, he needed air.

He gasped, trying to get more air into his lungs but they felt like they were burning, curling up and roiling under his ribs.

He couldn't get any air through.

Hyperventilation, the word pinpricked through his mind, glowing bright white and dazzling at the edges. Part of him was recognizing that his body was out of his control and it was so out of his control that he was losing control of himself.

Wait, what?

He felt his eyes moving right and left, trying to open, but remaining closed.

He sputtered reflexively, choking on his spit as he gulped in another breath of air, while his lungs demanded more, more, more.

Finally, he wedged his eyelids apart and the blurry form of two floating heads came into his line of vision.

No, not floating heads… Avengers' heads.

By the Norns, this is even worse, he thought.

"Loki?"

His name, said again as though it were spoken underwater, met his ears and he gazed to his left, coming to eventually see Bruce Banner staring at him with an emotion muddling his features.

His breathing hitched at the memory of the monster ripping him a new one. He felt something stutter in his chest, while his mind was distracted by what kind of new Hel he had landed himself in.

"Loki, I need you to take slow, deep breaths," that was Bruce talking, and he indicated himself as he took a long, deep breath. "Can you do that for me, Loki?"

Loki felt like muttering anything you say but the words didn't dare to form or come to his lips. He nodded instead, and tried to control his uncontrollable breaths slowly, one at a time.

It was difficult, but with enough concentration he was able to draw in one breath, long and slow, and exhale it after waiting for a count of three. Then he drew in the next breath, and slowly, after a few minutes, his lungs didn't feel so deathly on fire and he could feel the nausea from his abdomen clearing.

His head still ached like a bitch, but the colorful dots were disappearing from the sides of his vision and he could more clearly see that he was lying embarrassingly still on the kitchen floor, with three Avengers, not just two, standing over him.

He let out a sheepish, humorless laugh.

"Um, yeah, so…can I… get up now?" Loki's cheeks reddened with embarrassment, the mother hen role streaming out of Banner and the Captain feeling overwhelmingly similar to Thor's bashful and overpowering concern.

With sheepish, awkward replies soon muttered, Bruce helped Loki to sit up, mentioning to him that he wasn't done with him yet.

Loki stilled with horror, while Banner motioned to Loki's head wound and cleaning that up.

"Oh, right," Loki tried to play off coolly, as if he wasn't expecting anything other than that comment.

He heard Barton scoff in a nearby corner, and almost threw a dagger-like glare at him, before remembering the buzzing still echoing around his brains.

While Loki was getting cleaned up from Banner, the leftover Avengers heard the not so discreet shout from Tony Stark when he found the mess left in the kitchen.

"Who the hell bled over these nutmeg tiles? Seriously, people, this is why we can't have nice things!"