They're surrounding her.

Natasha's pulse hammers in her throat even as she leans back in her chair and signals the waiter. The blonde on her left, in a pink dress. The man in a sweatshirt just outside. They're coming for her.

Are they stupid enough to try and take her in a public place? Or will they trail her?

"What else can I get for you, miss?" asks the waiter.

"The check, please," Natasha requests. Not the dessert menu like she had been planning. Damn government.

T'Challa told them what you did. They're coming for you.

Natasha sips her wine, her red hair carefully concealed under a black wig. Not that it matters. They found her anyway, just as she was trying to blend in for a few months, lay low until she could find out where Steve and the rest of the Avengers went.

She shouldn't have come to Berlin.

But she needed to speak to Sharon, the only person she feels like she can trust, at least to some extent. But Sharon insisted they didn't have any knowledge of where Steve went, after he broke Wanda, Clint, Sam, and Scott out of prison.

It's your fault too, and you know it! Laura had shouted when Natasha showed up at their farm.

"Here you go. Take your time," the waiter tells her.

I don't have any time to take. Natasha draws some cash out of her purse and places it on the table. She feels her gun safely in her waistband, hidden by her jacket, and strides out of the restaurant.

The man in the sweatshirt follows her. The blonde's probably radioing someone. Natasha picks up her pace but doesn't glance over her shoulder.

There. A crowd of people waiting outside a theater. Natasha delves into it, ducking low. They're still following her. She can feel their eyes tracking her.

And then footsteps pound, and people gasp.

Guess they're tired of waiting.

Natasha whirls around, kicking Sweatshirt Man square in the chest and sending him flying across the street. Someone else grabs her hair, twisting and yanking, but her wig just pops off and Natasha's free to run.

The gasps escalate to screams as Natasha hurtles through the streets. She can't fire at them and they can't fire at her, not with all the people around. That's one thing about the government. They're limited in ways the people Natasha's used to fighting are not.

A black SUV swerves to block the road, and Natasha dives to the left, punching through the window of a blue sedan. She reaches to unlock it as an arm wraps around her chest.

Natasha kicks and bucks, throwing the man to the ground and lunging for the car.

A shot rings out, and the screams meld into hysteria.

Natasha gapes at the man lying on the ground, still writhing. They shot at her.

New plan.

"Who are you?" she demands, grabbing the man by his shoulders and shoving him into the car as well.

"FBI," he wheezes.

"Liar." Natasha revs up the engine and speeds directly at the SUV. They're still shooting. Stop it! "There are innocent people getting hurt!" she yells.

"They wouldn't be if you'd just surrender!" the man retorts, reaching for her throat. Her stingers send him back, and sirens shriek instead of people.

Dammit. Natasha isn't sure how far she's going to get. But she sure as hell doesn't want to wind up in that prison.

She's spent too much of her life trapped already.

The man starts to stir in the backseat again. Natasha slows the car down.

He reaches for her and Natasha opens the door. "You get to drive now."

She hits the pavement with her knee, and the pain shooting through her terrifies her more than the shots coming at her. Keep running. Keep going. Don't stop.

She whirls down an alleyway, a crash echoing in her mind. Oh, shit.

A green van advertising some kind of flowers starts on her left, and the doors fly open. Natasha throws her fist, but it doesn't connect with a face.

"Whoa there," Sam says with a grin.

"You!" Natasha gasps.

"Need a lift?" Steve's voice filters out.

"Let's get out of here." Natasha leaps inside the van, slamming the door shut. "How in the hell—"

"Long story," Steve says. Natasha glances up to see an African woman driving.

"The short version is that T'Challa's in town, and Sharon told him you might need some help," Sam supplies.

Natasha snorts and leans back. Her knee throbs. The sirens start to die away, but the quiet is worse.

We need to be put in check.

She agreed, and then she broke it, and now probably, more people are dead.

"You okay?" Steve asks.

"Is that where you have everyone?" Natasha asks, ignoring the question. "Wanda, Clint, the Ant-Man, Bucky? Wakanda?"

"Yup," Sam affirms.

Natasha grimaces as she rubs her knee.

"T'Challa's working on some things," Sam adds. "You're welcome to come—"

"You're not okay." Steve grabs her knee and Natasha sucks in her breath.

"Is Wakanda able to fix busted knees?" she jokes.

"Yes," the driver affirms.

"Then let's go."

The halls of Asgard echo with whispers as Thor storms through. Servants duck down gold-plated hallways, avoiding their prince, who clutches his hammer as if he'd like to throw it through a few of them.

Which, a few years ago, he might have. And he does want to bash Mjolnir against a few skulls. Just not any Asgardians'.

Thor bursts into his room and out onto the balcony, clutching the rail so tightly he almost wrenches it off.

In moments like these, when his blood boils hot and energy slashes through him, Thor wonders whether he's really changed. His father, who bid him farewell years ago with the words Thor replayed so many nights when he lay awake next to Jane, has barely seen him since he arrived back at Asgard. And if what Heimdall says is true—

"Thor?"

Sif's voice cuts through his raging thoughts.

"Sif." Thor turns around. "I am afraid I'm not good company right now."

"Is it your Midgardian woman? Jane?" Sif adds hastily when she sees Thor's eyes narrow.

"No. Jane is... fine." If that's how Thor wants to think of Jane apparently telling Darcy she never wants to see him again. Not even a visit from his friends had convinced her to soften her heart for him, not after he left without a goodbye again.

"Well, you can tell me, or I can beat it out of you," Sif says, cocking her head, a little smile playing with her lips.

With the acidic sweetness of Jane lingering in his mind, Thor's in no mood for teasing. "My friends down there."

"The Avengers? That is what you call yourselves, isn't it?" Sif almost laughs.

"Yes. Or it was." How could things be falling apart? Down there, up here? He needs to focus on Asgard, on that vision that Heimdall still insists he knows nothing about-we are all dead because of you.

It seems as if, on earth, even without his presence, they're all dead, and for the first time, Thor's desperately afraid of losing everything. Because no matter how many realms he's visited—excluding Jotenheim, where his brief arrival with Sif reassured him that the Jotuns had most certainly not forgotten his excursion years earlier and led to their escape after only a few minutes in the frozen wasteland—he can't seem to find any clues as to what that vision meant.

He's grasping at straws, and Odin's shunned every opportunity to talk to him, to take him seriously, and Thor doesn't understand why.

Jane would know. Jane's smart.

But she hates him now.

"Was?" Sif presses, voice soft now as she approaches.

Thor stares out at the golden buildings and the craggy cliffs below, at the people that look like ants milling about. For how much longer? "They've broken apart."

"A war?" Sif questions.

"No, a fight-an argument." Petty humans. Except, they aren't petty at all. And as annoyed as Thor is at Rogers, he understands.

He would have done the same for Loki. He did break Loki out of prison, and it got him killed.

At least he knew his brother loved him, for the first time in years, and at least apologies poured from Loki's lips before he passed into Valhalla. Thor has that assurance.

"I don't understand."

"They had a fight, and they're scattered now. Several of them were imprisoned—they escaped—they're now in hiding. Others are working with the government-the people they're hiding from."

"Why?" Sif wants to know.

"It's complicated," Thor says, dropping Mjolnir onto the floor with a clunk.

"Won't your friends go to their other friends? Like when we came for you, when you were banished?"

Thor shakes his head, thinking of Stark's stubbornness, of the horrific guilt his friend must feel for Ultron. "I don't believe so."

"We've fought—"

"Yes, but we have millennia to live and centuries to forgive. Humans don't have that." Would that they did.

Or would that they appreciated their finite lives more.

Maybe we should be appreciating it, Thor realizes.

We are all dead...

Because of me, Thor finishes. What have I done?

"Maybe if you return, they'll listen," Sif says softly. Her words jar Thor, and he turns to face her. She offers him a smile, her umber hair shimmering in the sun.

"You don't know Stark," Thor says with a snort. Nothing can shake Stark except for Stark himself. "Or Rogers. Neither of them are men of compromise."

"Well, neither were you. You figured it out."

"Not before there was a terrible cost," Thor points out, thinking of Loki screaming.

I never wanted the throne! I only ever wanted to be your equal!

He told you about my true parentage, did he not?

I didn't do it for him.

He can't fail the rest of Asgard like he failed Loki. His friends matter, but so do the people he is supposed to protect and guard.

When I'm king, I'll hunt them down and slay them all.

"Are you thinking of your vision again?" Sif asks softly.

"You know me well, Sif." A child laughs below. Thor can't find the child on the streets, but the laughter echoes.

"Talk to the Allfather again. I'm sure he can advise you," Sif says. "Because the Warriors Three and I—we're at a loss. We don't know how else to help you, Thor."

Thor winces. "I know. You've done enough."

Except he can't go to the Allfather. For some reason, Odin seems to avoid him when he comes near him, only dealing with him when he has to. As if he's hiding. As if he's ashamed—but what of? Mother's death? Loki's death?

When Thor first arrived back, Odin seemed less than pleased. His eyebrows tightened over his golden eye, and he told Thor he was free to investigate his "fanciful vision, brought on by a mere mortal," but that he didn't see any point to it.

"Yes," Thor says, peeling himself away from the balcony. "I will."

"The Allfather is busy," one of the Einharjar informs him when he approaches.

"Well, tell him I want to see him," Thor insists, everything—what Heimdall told him, his friends on earth, the broken Avengers, the child's laugh—building and twisting within him.

"I said, he is—"

"I'm his son!" Thor bellows. The guards flinch. "And I don't care if he thinks it's not worth pursuing because the vision came from a mortal. She's not just any mortal. She's magic! And I've seen far more than you-yes, than even you, Father!" he hollers. "Mortals aren't to be underestimated! They're far more powerful and capable than you know! And mark my words, danger is coming!"

The Einharjar titter among themselves.

They think I'm crazy, Thor realizes, shock flowing through him. How dare they?

The door opens, and Odin stands before him, Gungnir clutched in his fist. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands.

"You might think me mad," Thor says through gritted teeth. "But you must—you're wiser than any being in all of the nine realms. I need your wisdom, Father. Please."

Odin cocks his head, like Loki used to. Thor's heart aches. All along, was Loki copyng their father? He always was more observant than Thor.

"I never thought I'd hear the mighty Thor pleading," Odin says.

"I know it;s coming, whatever it is," Thor says, trying to keep his voice steady. "What else do they have to take from us? What else are we willing to risk? We've lost Mother. We've lost Loki. We can't allow this. We can't let them down. I know you feel like you let Mother down and I let Loki down, but—"

"Silence," Odin says, slamming Gungnir down on the floor. "If you want to learn, I suggest you read the history books."

"I have—"

"Start there. Come to me when you have something concrete—and if you do, Thor Odinson, then I will listen." Odin casts him a long look that pierces Thor in a way he can't understand. Who are you?

He's going to know soon.

Loki paces his chambers. How could the Einharjar not have figured it out yet? He's good, but surely with Thor's presence, they can tell he's no good at this. Loki knows nothing about being a son, much less being a father.

Soon, Thor will find out. Thanos is coming, and nothing can stop it. No bargain Loki can strike, under the guise of Odin, will stall the mad Titan. And if Thor finds out what happened with Thanos, Loki won't be able to stand it.

And now with Thor watching him, there's no way Loki can carry out what needs to be done.

You came back to save us, brother. But by coming back, you're destroying us. Loki snorts. How typical of Thor—well-intentioned, but misguided.

Loki stares at a mirror, peeling back the illusion of an old man's face. He sees his own youthful skin, his black hair, and still an old man's eyes stare at him.

Once Thor does know, he'll give up on Loki forever. And wouldn't that be a relief.

Except it's a relief Loki's not sure he'd survive.

He needs to do what he can. If Thor finds out about his work with Thanos—his work to save them all-maybe there's a chance. Or maybe not.

Come at once. The message burns in Loki's mind. He can't shake it, not ever. That voice. The yelling.

He will make you wish for something as sweet as pain.

Not yet, Loki thinks, glaring at the mirror. Not yet.

He has one option left.

Time to find out if these mortals are as capable as you seem to think, Thor. Let's hope your opinions of your friends isn't muddied by sentiment.

When nothing explodes into something, he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know who he is, or why someone's talking to him, or who they are, or how.

Barnes.

"Who?" Bucky asks, his brain sluggish. His thoughts are sticky, as if the neurons firing in his brain don't quite want to work.

Where am I?

Oh hell. Wakanda. He's not supposed to be awake—alert—no! Not when his mind's not fixed, when his identity's still dangling in tattered strips.

And this person is no doubt here to glue it back together into the Winter Soldier.

"You needn't worry," says the voice, droll and calm. "I have a mission for you."

"I don't—"

The person steps closer, and from his glass case, Bucky recognizes the face he saw on the news. The face Steve helped defeat.

"You."

"Nice to meet you too.," Loki says, folding his arms and glancing around him. "Your friends are preoccupied rescuing the spider woman in a city far from here. And the others are asleep."

"They're not my friends."

Loki regards him. "And you're not a liar."

"Who told you about me?" Bucky demands.

Loki paces back and forth, worrying his lip between his teeth. "You're afraid I want to use you. Just like everyone's used you. For your superhuman abilities."

"There's nothing I can do that you can't," Bucky points out. "You're an—"

"God, Asgardian—well, I'm not the latter, and according to my father, I'm really not the former either. And he's not my father."

"You aren't making any sense."

"Not to your mind." Loki holds up his hand. "And your mind is what you want, isn't it? I saw you. When I was back… you want to be yourself again. You want to be Bucky Barnes, the kid from Brooklyn, the guy whose best friend is Steve Rogers and you know he can count on you just as you can count on him. But he can't count on you right now."

Bucky clenches his fists. "Why are you here?"

"I want you to go on a mission for me." Loki meets his eyes, presses his face close to the case.

"You said it yourself," Bucky says. "There's nothing I can do that you can't also do."

"Well, neither of us can be in two places at once," Loki observes. "And I have… duties." His gaze lowers before rising again. "And I have something that I need you to do."

"Get your brother to—"

"Thor thinks I'm dead," Loki cuts in. "And I have my reasons. Gungnir is mine."

"What the hell is—"

"If you go, if you do exactly as I ask and don't breathe a word to anyone about this, I will give you your mind back. I can cure you."

Bucky flexes his wrists. "Why would I believe you?"

"Because I know what you're going through more than anyone else does. It's like they've twisted you, they've made you believe you want to do something when you really wouldn't, but you do, and that guilt is going to tear at you forever. And in your case, the uncertainty of when you'll revert. Words, isn't it?" The slickness in Loki's tone doesn't cover something Bucky sees flickering over his face, the shadows crossing his eyes.

"There's a threat coming that's bigger than any of you Midgardians can anticipate, and they'll need you."

Bucky's chest aches. "That's not a—"

"It's good enough." Loki glances over his shoulder. "I'll be back in a few days time."

"You aren't putting me back to sleep?"

Loki's eyebrows rise. "You aren't accepting my offer?"

Bucky swallows. He still can't think clearly.

"There's a balcony down the hallway if you take two lefts," Loki tells him. "Two nights. Have fun pretending to be asleep." And he vanishes into the shadows.

He can't trust the Asgardian. Bucky may not know much, but he knows that. The last time he placed himself at the whims of the devil, the devil made him dance, and kill.

But if there's a chance to exorcise these demons…

Does he even have a choice?

Bucky closes his eyes, wondering what real sleep would feel like, sleep without nightmares and every single face he remembers because he has to, because blocking them out would make him more of a monster, would erase any threads of humanity still laced inside him. He wonders what real choices would feel like, because it's been almost eighty years.

He's not sure which option squeezes the life out of him more: that he remembers, or that he doesn't.

Thank you for reading! Unlike my previous works, this story won't be updated every day (too many writing commitments right now-I need to finish an original work, and I'm also working on two other Star Wars stories), but there will be an update at least once a week.