A/N: So it's been a while. Sorry about that. I do now have a much busier life since I moved back to London, so updates aren't as regular as I'd like. I thought I'd put a bit of an explanation about events of the previous chapter here, something that I didn't mention at the beginning of the fic because it would have kind of massively spoiled things. Anyway, the Nat I'm using is the one from the MCU, who was born in 1984 and is, for all intents and purposes, fully human, without any enhancements other than extreme training. So when Cap said that they've done to her what they did to Bucky, not only is he talking about experiments, but he's also talking about the complete lack of recognition in her. I wanted to keep this fairly short, so if you have any more questions about my headcanon for this fic, then ask away and I'll drop you a message to fill you in. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter.

Substitutes

by Flaignhan

"I'll get in touch with Banner," Coulson says eventually, his voice betraying his weariness. He rubs his forehead and lets out a sigh. "He'll make the trip, I'm sure." He then turns to Fitz, addressing him directly. "Good work," he says. "Couldn't handle this without you."

Fitz doesn't seem to absorb any of Coulson's praise however, his expression fractured with anxiety. "Dr Banner? Coming here?" he asks quietly.

"He's got a lid on it," Barton says in a reassuring tone. "And he might manage to keep a lid on it if someone behaves themselves." His eyes meet Loki's, his point as subtle as an axe to the skull, and Loki rolls his eyes in response. It is of no comfort to Fitz, however, because he turns to Simmons, shaking his head apprehensively.

"Jemma," he says quietly. "He can't - he can't - "

"You'll be perfectly safe," Coulson tells him. "He's a really nice guy."

Loki raises an eyebrow, but Coulson ignores him.

"I know that," Fitz says, his hands shaking as he presses them against his mouth, his breaths coming short and sharp. "But he can't - I can't let him see me like this."

"Oh Fitz," Simmons sighs. She presses her lips into a thin line, her eyes bright with emotion. "Fitz don't say that."

"You don't understand," Fitz tells her, his voice shaky and uneven. "I've been reading his - his - "

"Studies," Simmons supplies.

"Yes, I was just about to say," Fitz says impatiently. "I've been reading his studies for years, and now, he's going to turn up here and think I'm an - I don't want him to think that I can't - that I'm - "

"Stupid," Loki says quietly. He grabs Thor's wrist before his fist manages to make contact with his shoulder blade, and he can feel the daggers being glared at him by everybody. Even Simmons' brow is contorted in disapproval.

"Yeah," Fitz says. "Yeah…"

"You're not stupid, Fitz," Coulson tells him. "You're a god damn genius, and that's evident to everybody. If anybody tells you you're stupid, let me know. I'm sure May can come up with an appropriate response."

Agent May inclines her head, confirming that she will be more than happy to inflict high levels of pain on anybody who considers Fitz to be less than intellectual. They're missing the point entirely however. It's not about name calling, it's not about what people think, it's about what Banner thinks. The Beast is, clearly, and rather unfortunately, the boy's academic idol. And now he finally gets to meet him, to work with him, and he can't string a sentence together to save his life. Despite his grudge against the Beast, he knows that Banner will not judge Fitz in the slightest, he will be patient with him, he will be kind, and he will try his best to involve Fitz in the work. Yet Fitz's pride, already in tatters from his accident, will be pulverised if he can't impress his hero with his own work.

"Can you - " Fitz says quietly, his eyes glued to Loki. "Can you - " he pauses, and somehow it's different to his normal hesitations. Loki has the sneaking suspicion that Fitz has the words resting on his tongue, ready to come out, but doesn't want to say them aloud.

"Can you fix me?"

Fitz's words hang in the air, and nobody says a word. All eyes are on Loki now, anticipating his response, and Fitz's watery blue eyes bore into Loki's, silently pleading him to say yes.

"I'll do anything," Fitz tells him, when Loki doesn't answer. "Anything, I swear."

"No," Barton says quietly, "No, Fitz, don't say that."

"But I will," Fitz argues, his accent becoming more prominent the more worked up he gets. "I will. I promise, just - please make me right. Please."

Coulson opens his mouth to speak, but Loki cuts across him. "Everybody get out." His voice is quiet, but firm, and Barton puts a hand on Fitz's shoulder possessively, understandably unwilling to leave him alone with Loki.

"Brother - "

"Get out."

"We're not leaving him alone with you," Barton argues. "No way, we're not going to do that."

"Then Simmons can stay," Loki says. "But the rest of you need to leave."

Thor fixes him with a stern gaze, then, eventually, squeezes his way past Triplett and Skye to exit the medical bay. This is enough to get the others moving, and they file out, Coulson the last one in line.

"If you damage him," he says quietly. "Banner's visit won't just be academic."

Loki says nothing, and waits until the door closes before he lets his attention fall on Fitz's cautiously optimistic expression.

"I can't help you," he says, breaking the news quickly. It's the only way he really knows how to be kind. At this, Fitz's face crumples, and is soon hidden behind his hands, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Simmons rubs his back slowly and soothingly, her disappointment just as obvious as Fitz's.

Loki moves his foot, kicking the chair opposite him gently with his toe. Fitz removes his hands from his face as the chair legs scrape against the floor, and Loki nods to the seat, gesturing for him to sit down. He does, and Simmons pulls over a chair as well, then takes a seat, her arm around Fitz, as though keeping the two of them physically connected will enable her to share this burden for him.

"If there were magic I could perform to help you, I would," Loki tells him, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward, looking Fitz dead in the eye. "But the only reason they came to me ono Romanov's behalf was the fact that I compromised Barton. But when I compromised Barton, I had the power of the Tesseract, and the Tesseract is locked away now. Out of harm's way. My magic isn't…it's not like you think it is."

"But are there other people, from your world?" Fitz asks, clinging to the idea that he might still be able to find a miracle cure. "Do they know about fixing people's heads?"

"If we could mess around with people's heads, do you really think I would have let Thor continue to be as infuriatingly idiotic as he is?"

The joke doesn't raise a smile from Fitz nor Simmons.

"Look," Loki says, and he struggles now with the concept of tact. As a king, he doesn't need to be tactful. Sif rewords all of his official statements for him. Considering the feelings of others is not a part of his job description. "Slow progress is still progress," he says, and he tries to think of the sort of thing his mother might say in this situation. She was always so much better at this kind of thing. He didn't get rid of the others solely for Fitz's benefit; his pride couldn't bear it if they saw him stumble through this mess of a conversation. "It will feel all the slower to you because you know how fast you used to be. It's going to be difficult, and there aren't any short cuts. As much as it pains me to say it, my beloved brother is right. You have to do this alone. Nobody here can know what you're going through, not really. They can try and understand, but they can't help you with it."

Fitz nods, chewing on his bottom lip. He's in severe danger of letting that first tear drop, but Loki cannot abide that. While the medical bay door is closed, the glass still leaves them in plain view of the others. He cannot cast an illusion to give them privacy - Thor will recognise it in seconds, and the whole lot of them will come thundering in. It's the last thing either of them want.

"As I understand it," Loki continues, sitting up straighter now. "You need to build new pathways to communicate. Your old ones are blocked, and if they won't clear, then you need to make a detour. That's what you've done today, you've eliminated everything that Romanov isn't, because you can't tell us exactly what she is." At this, he sees Fitz's frustration start to creep in again, but then Loki feels that mental shove, as though his mother is there, really and truly, and giving him direction. "Which is better, if you think about it," he says, uncertain of the words that are falling from his mouth. They come without forethought, though he knows they belong to him. "It forces us to consider all the options, rather than following up a wild guess."

At this, Simmons' expression brightens, and she nods enthusiastically, pulling Fitz a little closer to her as if to reinforce the positive sentiment.

Considering how many lies he has told, the feeling of being a fraud should not be so unfamiliar to him. But providing a silver lining to Fitz's terribly dark cloud leaves him feeling disingenuous, and a little bit nauseated. He knows, were he in Fitz's shoes, that he would be just as desperate to claw his way back to his normal mental capabilities, just as frustrated, and just as distraught. He wouldn't have destroyed a tableful of medical equipment, he would have taken a much more spectacular route, would have destroyed worlds if it meant he could communicate again.

But Fitz isn't him. Fitz is young, and Fitz is naive, and Fitz has the eternal sunshine of Simmons to keep him on track.

"The more you travel these new pathways," Loki says, feeling a little more comfortable now he is reverting back to logic, rather than strained positivity, "the more used to them you will become. And the more used to them you become, the quicker you will be able to traverse them."

"So," Fitz says slowly after a heavy sigh. "What you're saying is, be patient?" His tone is empty, and Loki is certain he has been told such things hundreds, if not thousands of times.

"You have no choice in that," Loki tells him. "But communicate as much as you can, as often as you can. It's not about length of time, it's about frequency of use. If you speak ten thousand words this week, it is going to have a much more positive result than speaking than ten thousand words in a month."

"He's saying you shouldn't shut yourself off," Simmons tells him gently. "People will listen," she says. "We've got a lot on, and we don't seem to have nearly enough time, but we all care about you, and I know that the others will make the time for you."

"It's just such a nuisance," Fitz replies. "It takes so long."

"But the more you practice, the quicker it'll be," Simmons says, giving him a squeeze. "You'll get there, I know you will." She looks up at Loki now, and gives him a real, genuine, smile.

He doesn't get those often.

"I have no idea what I'm going to do about Romanov," Loki confesses to the pair of them. "But she needs help. You don't. You're…" He feels that nudge again, and a twitch in his jaw as he tries to shape his mouth around the words. "You're doing really well."

Fitz nods and lets out a sigh of resignation. There's nothing more for Loki to say. His imagination won't stretch to any more words of comfort, and the idea of regurgitating false, optimistic clichés sickens him. It wouldn't be right to feed him nonsense. The right thing to do is manage his expectations and encourage him to push his boundaries. It is, as far as Loki can see, the only option.

He is given an old fashioned control for the cell, its software slow and clunky, though no doubt it is the height of technology on Midgard. He can change the lighting, the oxygen levels, the heat, and even the divide between his side of the basement and hers. She paces back and forth across the room, her eyes only ever leaving him for a split second when she turns, her red hair fanning out behind her, before her gaze is set on him once more, piercing like a bird of prey.

Barton is leaning against the side of the staircase, his arms folded as he tracks Romanov's progression. The door above opens abruptly, and Skye comes clomping down the stairs in her heavy boots, a thick book in her arms. Romanov spares her the most fleeting of glances, then returns her attention to Loki. Skye approaches with that same unconcerned attitude she has displayed thus far (and which, Loki will admit to himself, he finds mildly amusing) then thrusts the book into his arms, before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs.

He turns the book over, dropping his gaze from Romanov, and then looks at the cover, his heart sinking in his chest. It's the Russian dictionary he'd requested, though he hadn't expected something as weighty as this. Are there really so many words on Midgard? He glances up to Romanov, who has paused in her pacing, her eyes focused on the book, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Deciding that he might as well show it to her, he walks slowly forward to the transparent barrier, holding the book in front of him for her to see. She regards him distrustfully, then takes a few steps closer, her arms folded, her neck craning forward to get a better look.

The cover is in English, and so, after she's had a look at it, though presumably hasn't gleaned any information from the rather plain design, Loki opens it up, hoping that the recognisable words will give her a better idea of what's going on. The first half of the book is a Russian to English translation, while the latter half, the half that is of more use to Loki, is the other way around.

He knows her situation better than she realises, knows that boredom will, eventually, win over any stubbornness she possesses (and he knows that she possesses a lot). He finds the mid point in the dictionary, where the sections switch, and he tears the book in half, ripping the spine in one clean motion, the pages remaining bound to their respective halves. He places the Russian to English half on the floor, steps back, then takes a look at his control pad, before pushing a few buttons and shifting Romanov's wall forward by a couple of feet.

She takes a step forward, then crouches down to pick up the dictionary, her eyes never leaving Loki's as though she suspects some sort of foul trick on his part, designed to hurt her or humiliate her. She picks up the pages carefully then stands straight again, before backing away to her original position. Loki shifts the wall back again.

"It will go twice as fast if we both make the effort," he tells her, though he knows, of course, it is pointless speaking to her in a language she cannot understand. He holds up his half of the dictionary, hoping that it will give her some idea as to what he's trying to say, that by sharing the load, they can meet each other in the middle that much sooner.

He's assuming she wants to meet in the middle, of course. She must realise that she's not getting out of here any time soon, and that her only hope of freedom will come through communication. He supposes he will have to make the first step, he will have to lead and show willing and then, eventually, she may follow. He flicks through the pages until he finds the word he's looking for, small, simple, and hopefully, a decent start to a slow and laborious conversation.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello." Her response is grudging, but not malicious. In the harsh light of the cell, the bottom of her teeth glint, and Loki runs the tip of his index finger over Simmons' neat stitches.

Barton moves forward with interest, his sure and steady steps attracting Romanov's attention. He takes the dictionary from Loki's grasp without hesitation and flips a few pages further on. He says a word that Loki doesn't understand, and so he reads over Barton's shoulder, to where his index finger is poised just below the word in question.

Hurt.

He had asked it as a question, and Romanov's response had been to shake her head. Barton nods, relaxing a little at this, but keeping a firm grip on the dictionary. Romanov starts flipping through her own dictionary, then pauses on a page, frowning down at the word as she tries to get her mouth around the pronunciation.

"Clean?" she asks, her accent thick, eyebrow quirked with uncertainty. She gestures to herself, her ripped clothes, her grubby skin, and greasy hair, her message quite clear.

"There's a shower," Clint says, stepping forward, enthusiastic about their communication, even if it is only about basic human needs. "Over there," he raises an arm, pointing his finger towards the corner of the cell, where a stark white partition wall shields a small portion of the room from view. "That's your bathroom," he says. "But wait here a second, I'll go grab you some clothes. You've got some in your trunk here."

Romanov arches an eyebrow, and the look is so familiar, and yet so strangely unfamiliar, that it leaves Loki with an uncomfortable swirling in the pit of his stomach. She's a puppet who's been let loose, though is still heavily influenced by the wants and needs of her master. Natasha has been pulled out of herself completely, and even though Loki doesn't particularly care for her, there is only one person in the universe on whom he would wish such a nightmare.

Barton rifles through the dictionary, but in his haste to put together a meaningful sentence, he loses sight of logic, of getting the message across in the fewest possible words. Loki steps towards him, snatching the dictionary from him and ignoring his outburst.

"Get your own," Loki tells him, leafing through the latter portion of the book. When he finds what he's looking for, he meets Romanov's gaze. "Wait," he says, and she does. He then flips the book over, flicking through the front section, until, again, he finds the words that will get Barton's sentiments across. "Clothes."

Romanov frowns and looks down at her clothes, fingering the tatty hem of her dark vest. She then looks up, then points to Barton, a discontented expression on her face.

"No," Loki says, shaking his head, her meaning now clear. "Barton will go and get you some clothes." He turns to the middle of the dictionary now, and with each lookup, he gets better and better at estimating the page where his sought after word will be. "New clothes," he says, then turns to Barton. "Go," he tells him, and surprisingly, Barton follows orders without question, his concern for Romanov far outweighing his terminal dislike of Loki.

Silence hangs between them, and Loki can't help but dread the long and difficult path ahead of them. Every single word takes time to look up, so putting together a whole sentence will take minutes, easily, and even then, he doubts it would be right. He is beginning to get a horrible insight into how slow things are for Fitz at the moment, how he must translate what he wants to say in order to get it across properly and quickly. Loki knows he can be grateful for the fact that he is able to grasp his own words with ease, whereas Fitz is often having to translate a clue to a word, rather than the word itself, especially when he's under stress. He supposes that with SHIELD's downfall, everyone is constantly under stress, and that is probably impeding Fitz's recovery hugely.

"Barton," Loki says at last, moving forward until he is only a foot away from the barrier between them. He points vaguely towards the stairs, and then looks back down to his dictionary. "Friend."

Romanov shakes her head, then consults her own half of the book. "Target."

"Barton?" Loki asks in surprise. "Barton is your target?"

A flick of pages.

"Yes."

His brain must still be lingering on Fitz's woes, because something about his thought processes strikes Loki. Just because Barton is a target, it doesn't mean he's the target. He's not necessarily the grand prize, he might just be an obstacle on her way to it, or he might be part of an ensemble, a package.

"Coulson?" he asks.

"Target," she says again, her face blank, calm, uncaring.

"Captain?"

"Target," she says, this time with more emphasis.

"Hulk?"

Romanov shakes her head at this. Perhaps her masters know how to pick their battles.

"Thor?" He asks this last question carefully, unable to determine what the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach is being caused by.

She shrugs, apparently undecided on the matter. Perhaps Thor would be the cherry on top, he doesn't know, but the feeling in his stomach settles, just a little. He doesn't much care for the idea that the people who did this to Romanov have got a bullseye painted on Thor's back, but at least she's being open about it. Perhaps she doesn't see that she has a way out of her cell. Or maybe she's certain that despite their best efforts, she will achieve her ends.

Loki consults his dictionary for a short while, then clumsily puts his next sentence together. "Barton is your friend," he tells her.

She repeats his words back at him, though her phrasing is a little different, her pronunciation more fine tuned. She is, apparently, correcting him. He consults the dictionary again, this time attempting a few short sentences with the hope that she will take heed, rather than right his pronunciation.

"Your masters broke you. Changed you. Manipulated you."

She raises an eyebrow, and does not consult her dictionary in order to reply. She tosses it onto the camp bed in the corner and folds her arms, looking squarely at Loki, her refusal to believe his accusations resulting in a refusal to communicate.

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and Barton descends carefully, balancing a large wooden trunk on his shoulder. He brings it right to the cell barrier and lowers it to the floor, before rubbing the deep welt in his flesh where the edge had been resting. Romanov approaches cautiously, her arms folded as she peers down at the trunk, and Barton spins it around on the ground to show her the brass plaque fixed to the lid.

N. Romanov

"It's yours," Barton tells her. "You have one at every major SHIELD hideout. You never know when you'll be dropping by..." He unlocks the lid, and flips it open to reveal a neatly folded pile of clothes, a collection of boots and shoes, and a few other personal belongings such as books, tacky souvenirs, and a large, clear bag of very dated phones.

"What are they for?" Loki asks, pointing towards the bag.

"These?" Barton asks, picking them up. "They're burners. You make a call, get rid of the phone. That way you can't be traced."

"Oh," Loki says plainly, as Barton begins to pull out a selection of clothes for Romanov. Everything he piles in front of the cell is soft and fluid, with no complicated fastenings or anything she could use as a weapon. Barton chucks a pile of underwear on top, then pulls out a small black bag in the shape of a half moon. He unzips it, then removes a handful of bottles that Loki soon realises are shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

"I take it she doesn't know how to make a bomb with these," Barton mutters, and Loki isn't quite sure who the half joke is for. Romanov can't understand him, and he, Loki, is the only other one here. Surely it wouldn't have been for his entertainment?

Barton pulls a towel out of the very bottom of the trunk, and then, his attention caught, plunges his hand back inside. He dislodges a book from underneath an ancient looking marble bust (it's a pity she has no memory, because its presence in her trunk sparks Loki's curiosity) and turns it over in his hands. Loki glances at the cover, and notes that the words are written in cyrillic.

"You want this?" Barton asks, waving the book at Romanov.

She nods slowly, her eyebrows drawn together in the slightest of frowns. She glances towards Loki, and then back to the book, now sitting atop the pile of clothes that Barton has arranged for her.

"Socks," he says suddenly, rifling through the trunk until he finds a pair of thick, knitted socks that will most definitely keep her feet warm. He throws them on the pile, then makes one last check of everything, to ensure that nothing dangerous has made its way in. He must know her well enough to be aware of how easily she can weaponise even the most innocent of items. She can't have earned her reputation through a lack of resourcefulness after all.

"Okay," Barton says at last, pushing the trunk to one side and standing up. He moves back, and Loki follows suit, shifting the cell barrier when they have both retreated an appropriate amount. Romanov takes her things, places them on the bed, and, after extracting a few items of clothing, her toiletries, and her towel, she disappears behind the partition, her departure soon followed by the sound of running water.

"Leave her to it," Loki says, heading for the stairs. Barton hesitates, lingering by the barrier, his arms folded across his chest.

"I don't think - "

"There will be plenty of time to talk, Agent Barton," Loki tells him. "Allow her to make herself at home first."

"Home," Barton repeats with a shake of his head. He heads towards the stairs regardless, his boots scuffing on the ground as he drags his feet.

"For the time being," Loki says, and the both of them climb up the steps to rejoin the others on the ground floor.