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Dislocated wrist.

"He looks so different."

Bruised face.

"He might say the same thing about you."

Stab wound to the shoulder.

"You think so?"

"Maybe...just don't be too disappointed if things don't turn out the way you want them to."

Willow's text was received nine minutes out.

She had given them an exact location and nothing more.

What Steve found when they arrived was something he hadn't remotely prepared for and the super soldier knew it wasn't going to be easy seeing him again, but seeing him like that...

Sam had gone to help Natasha refuel the jet, leaving him alone with Bucky. They'd found him lying unconscious in a pile of rubble surrounded by what looked like a disaster zone—the remains of a clay house spread over a few yards of tall grass, broken furniture, dust and debris still swirling around in the air.

He didn't even want to think about the kind of condition Willow was left in because if he did, he'd try to find her.

And if he found her, he wouldn't let her go.

Not again.

But, he hadn't gone to Litchtague to find Willow.

He'd gone to find Bucky.

An enclosure that Tony constructed ahead of time in the main cabin was what separated the two men.

Steve stood on the opposite side of the thick glass wall and stared at his best friend as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. The fact that he'd been sent to kill Willow and fought her without knowing who she was loomed over his head constantly like a dark cloud.

They had both watched, all those years ago, when the man fell to his death.

He had constantly beat himself up over the fact that he was not able to do more to save him and yet, here he was.

Alive.

His hair had grown out and there were scars and dark marks that traced his skin, evidence of years that hardened him, turning him into a stranger.

"Steve?"

Natasha stood at the bottom of the ramp.

"Clint called. They have the scepter. No twins."

He nodded, but never took his eyes off her.

She knew what he wanted to ask.

"We agreed not to," she said softly.

"I know," he sighed, "I just wanted to make sure."

"It's better this way."

"Where's Sam?"

"He wanted to double-check the fuel. He'll be up in a sec."

She walked over to his side, observing the immobile man.

"Still out?"

"We need to get him back to the Tower to patch up his shoulder. I don't want him losing any more blood."

"As long as you're the one doing it. We don't want to take any risks in the medical wing with your volatile friend."

"How do you think the glass is gonna hold up?"

"Apparently it's unbreakable. I don't listen when Stark rants. Let's just pray it holds at all."

"Steve."

The strange sound of defeat in Sam's voice was thick, almost palpable, immediately grabbing their attention, and as the pair turned, they were met with the odd sight of the god of mischief standing beside him.

What they were seeing was a far cry from the person who had tried to take over New York.

He was dressed in a dark green hoodie with black jeans and sneakers, a duffel bag over his shoulder, and his hair tied back. There was dry blood under his nose and the beginning of a bruise crept underneath his jaw, but none of that mattered to Steve because the first thing he had noticed when he turned around was the fact that he was alone.

Loki, on the other hand, had zoned in on Bucky, a wave of fresh anger sweeping across his face.

"Is that the one they sent?"

They had no time to answer when he dropped the duffel bag, revealing a blade as long as his forearm, and stormed up the ramp.

Natasha immediately pulled out her gun and Steve stepped in front of the cell.

Loki's lip curled in response.

"What the hell are you doing?" Steve demanded.

"This doesn't concern you," he snapped.

"It concerns him and my blade. Now move."

"Where's Willow?"

"I don't know."

"What? What do you mean—"

"You don't look as stupid as I think you are," Loki cut in loudly, "but for your sake, I'll say it again. I...don't...know. She comes back to me half beaten to death, rambling on about how we have to leave, how they found us, and the next thing I know, I wake up with a dozen of these," he tossed a tranquilizer dart on the floor, "in my back and she's gone. I've searched all over this godsforsaken town in case they didn't make it far when I found you, but it's as I feared. They took her from me."

"From you?"

"Yes, from me," Loki repeated in an irritated manner, enunciating his words as if Steve were a child.

"Who is "them"?" Sam asked.

"There was one. She said his name was Rumlow."

Natasha cursed and moved over to the main console, pressing a few buttons before Tony's voice came surging out of the speakers.

"What's the 4-1-1, Romanoff?"

"I need you to pull up anything you can find on Brock Rumlow."

"Why is that bastard relevant?"

"He got here before us and took Willow."

"That doesn't make sense. She had no hand in the HYDRA ordeal."

"He's whack in the head, Banner, what more reasoning do you need?"

"Have you heard from Ross?"

"Tony locked him out of the building."

"He was annoying me."

"Look, just send us the coordinates the second you get it," Steve said urgently.

"Already on it. We'll meet you there if we pick up his trail."

"No. I go in alone."

"Is that Hornbills? Hey, ask him if he still has that helmet, I wanna try it—"

Natasha ended the call with a roll of her eyes as Steve turned to the god of mischief.

The look on his face spoke volumes and it didn't exactly encourage the man to argue with him, but he knew he had to for the sake of both him and Willow.

"You'll be arrested if you step foot back in the States," he warned.

"I need to know that she's safe," he said plainly, "and if they arrest me, so be it."

"You know I can't let that happen."

"And I can't have you helping, else you'll end up in a cell right beside me. It's a lose-lose situation for either one of us and, I don't know about you, but I happen to like being in Willow's good graces."

"Loki—"

"Understand this," he interrupted, narrowing his eyes and moving closer to Steve with the blade leveled at his face, "I am not particularly fond of you and I care not for your fate. Unfortunately, you are the blood kin of one I do care about, meaning I must force myself to stomach you. In turn, you will help me with this and I warn you not to argue with me as I am in a very, very bad mood right now."

As if Steve couldn't tell.

He was angry, that was obvious, but there was also an intense worry in his eyes that made him look afraid.

And he was.

Loki was very afraid—seldom did he ever feel anxious for anything or anyone in the manner of which he found himself worrying for Willow and as Steve's expression turned into one of realization, his eyes hardened and he withdrew, choosing to scowl at the man.

"We'll help each other, how does that sound?"

"Like you did not understand a word I said."

Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

"Look, we're coming with you, buddy, whether you like it or not. You're not the only one that cares about Willow."

Loki took a moment to think about that.

if any of them were to get hurt, it wouldn't at all be a mark on his conscience, but these people meant the world to his partner.

Well...he can't say he didn't try.

"Fine. Though if any of you fall into misfortune, fault me not."

"Mind putting away the sword now, Sinbad?" Natasha said with an amused grin.

He gave her a mocking face as Steve moved towards the front of the jet.

"I'll confirm with Tony to meet us there once we get the notice. Nat, wheels up in five."

"Sam."

"Coming."

He turned to look back at Loki.

"You're good, right?"

The god of mischief gave him a simple nod and he returned it before hurrying over to Natasha's side.

He watched as the three of them quickly fell into a careful rhythm in which they worked alongside each other.

Soon enough, they were airborne.

Loki, unwilling to be near the unconscious man, was standing at the very back of the Quinjet with the duffel bag clutched tightly in one hand. While the others were busy piloting the aircraft and searching the surface of the globe, he was staring down at a small, weathered book, his thumb tracing over the paper cover.

Charlotte's Web, it read.

Sam was the only one concerned enough to check on Loki from time to time when he suddenly spoke up after a few hours of silence.

"The psychopath is awake."

His tone was bitter and harsh and Steve quickly moved from his position behind Sam to stand in front of the glass.

He shifted in a discreet manner so the god's equally venomous glare wouldn't bother Bucky, but the man hardly acknowledged him.

He was sitting up with his back pressed against the wall.

His flesh hand was resting in his lap while the other was curled tightly around the edge of the bench, stiff and unmoving as if he were a statue. His eyes were blank, impassive, even when he finally looked up at Steve. The man felt a swell of emotion gather in his chest and he struggled to force it down as he tried his best to look unfazed by the weight of his best friend's eyes that were now trained steadily on his yet held no kind of recognition at all.

"Do you know who I am?"

Silence.

He tried again.

"Do you know who you are?"

"Does he know how to speak?" Loki said mockingly.

Before Steve could protest, he advanced on the small cell with a murderous glint in his eyes and another, more wicked-looking knife in hand, waving it threateningly for the man to see.

"Were this wall of glass—and your potentially useless friend—not here, I would have free reign to cut off your thumbs."

Sam, who had come at the first sign of danger, pulled Loki away, shaking his head as Steve gave him a grateful nod.

"You're not helping."

"But—"

"Nope, come on."

"I cannot excuse the way she came to me, Sam. If you had seen the condition she was in—"

"He didn't do it because he wanted to," the man insisted.

"Oh? I have quite the graphic mental image of a certain missing someone that would say otherwise," he hissed.

"The guy was mind-controlled to come after you. That sound familiar?"

This small revelation drew him up short.

"He's had his brain pulled every which way," Sam continued quietly. "He was HYDRA's puppet for decades. The guy had no one. Not like you did. He doesn't need anyone shoving his actions in his face and you of all people should understand that."

There was no change to Loki's expression save the dimming of the green fire in his eyes as he looked back at the silent prisoner.

A feeling of very slight guilt dampened his murderous intents, though by no means was it fully extinguished. It only meant that the person of which he had laid most of the blame on for the injuries brought upon Willow was, in a very twisted way, innocent, and though this was almost difficult for him to accept, he forced himself to remember how it had been under the Mad Titan's control.

Their situations were comparable to a point—Loki could not imagine being under such cruel servitude for any longer than he had endured.

Much to his displeasure, Sam was right.

The man did not have a headstrong, stubborn, hell-raising young woman to help him.

He was not lucky enough to have had a Willow or to have anyone at all that cared enough to risk the world for him.

What she had done for Loki had cost her everything and trying to do the same for the soldier in front of him had almost cost her her very life.

"You're a poor fool for tortured souls, aren't you?"

It seems he wasn't entirely wrong about that.

The god of mischief brushed past Sam, ignoring his objections, to where Steve was sitting on the bench with his arms crossed and a solemn expression.

He approached the glass and rapped on it impatiently.

Bucky didn't turn at once, almost purposefully ignoring him, when he did it again, this time with much more vigor.

Loki did not know how a person could manage to look so lifeless yet look like they were in so much pain at the same time as Bucky finally met his eyes.

They stared at each other, both defiant in their own silent ways, before the god of mischief spoke.

"Though I consider my anger to be justified," he muttered stiffly, "I did not realize your mind was not your own."

The soldier said nothing and so, after a moment of hesitation, he continued.

"I know what it is like...to be helpless to a greater force."

He did not know what else to say after such a remark and there wasn't anything at all that Loki expected out of him.
He was just about to return to his place at the back of the Quinjet when the man of whom had not uttered a single word since gaining consciousness, with a hoarse voice and an expression that made it seem as if he wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, asked:

"Do you?"

Loki held his stone-cold gaze.

"I do."

Steve and Sam glanced at each other in surprise.

Whether it was because he had finally said something or the fact that Loki had spoken perfect Russian right back to Bucky, the god of mischief did not know nor did he much care as he chose to move instead to the front of the jet. In quite a self-satisfied manner as though he had done something right, he dumped the duffel bag he was still holding under the mainframe and sat in the co-pilot's chair next to Natasha who had been quietly listening to everything going on.

"You speak."

Entertained by her curiosity, he replied with a tongue just as fluent.

"I speak whatever is necessary for you to understand. You get it, don't you, little spy?"

"I do."

"Amusing," he said dryly, this time in English.

Natasha glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie, fumbling to pull out the long, silver chain.

"She's gonna be okay," the woman said.

Her tone was not encouraging or comforting—it was factual. It was the tone of someone who, used to a life and a language of deceit and treachery, was telling the truth, and for some reason, he trusted her word.

He brushed the pad of his thumb over the tag with Willow's name on it.

"I let her leave my side once," he closed his hand over the tags, "and when I find her, I won't let it happen again."

——————

Shadows were cast across the forest floor as the Howling Commandos moved back and forth, speaking to each other in low and urgent tones with their weapons drawn and at the ready in case anything were to go sideways.

The familiar feeling of dread, anticipation, and anxiety surged through their veins like a drug.

They were one, a collective presence with their own important duties that brought them together like a well-oiled machine and their complete trust and faith in each other contributed largely to such an operation.

One of the men, Dum Dum Dugan, moved to stand beside her, his blue eyes twinkling despite the darkness.

"You alright, Rogers?"

"Fine," she answered.

"Sure, girl, but your face says otherwise."

Though being one of the most brilliant and deadly members of the Howling Commandos, Dugan was a gentle giant and she never could escape his even greater skill of seeing more than she put forth for them to see.

The young woman shrugged.

"I want this war to be over." She glanced at him. "I want to go home."

Her somber truth threw a shadow over his face and Willow gave the man a small smile as he patted her shoulder comfortingly.

"Stay sharp, little bird. We'll be home in no time."

The crunch of dry leaves seemed to grow in volume as he walked away from her.

Then, she noticed as he began to slow down, his feet rising as though he were lifting it through thick mud.

She herself was helpless to the slowing of time and it was a moment that she knew.

One she knew too well.

When the plates deep below the surface of the earth shifted restlessly, the withering moon hid behind the clouds, the spirited air grew still and the living forest ceased all its murmuring.

The feeling of eternal silence.

NO, NO, NO.

It was huge.

The explosion rocked the very ground under their feet, the effect spreading like a disease as the trees bent backwards from the tremendous force. Warm air and bits of rock blasted in their faces though Willow felt none of it.

She could do nothing but watch as the little village below, full of innocent life, was suddenly destroyed in an inferno of raging flames.

All over again.

The poor girl.

She was clutching onto the very edge of her sanity at this point, desperate to keep ahold of it, but the serum could only take her so far in strength.

It was a physical asset, not built for the foreign alterations that corrupted her mind, and this proved true when she lost her anchorage and her subconscious delved back in, surrendering to her nightmares.

She was running now, scrambling down the hill they had taken cover on with the wind ripping at her eyes and her hair like a ghostly white streak in the night. The Howling Commandos followed and tried in vain to stop her, but their speed was no match for the super soldier's.

Willow didn't know what she could do, but she had to do something, anything.

Maybe...maybe she could save them this time.

The impossible revelation gave her a false hope that urged her feet to move faster, faster, FASTER!

It was Steve who caught her before she could run into the fire.

He accepted the flurry of her fists against his chest as she tried to break free, his arms like iron bars around her own.

"Get off of me!"

"It's not your fault!" He shouted, holding her against him. "You didn't do this!"

"Stop lying! Get off!"

"Willow, please!"

"SHUT UP!"

Tears were running down her cheeks as she tried to claw her way out of Steve's grasp.

She was a mess.

A mixture of yelling, swearing and sobbing.

He called to the others as they got closer before looking back at his struggling sister.

"We can't do anything for them, Will. I'm sorry."

He began to drag her away.

"No! Don't! Let me go, let me go—"

The men had finally reached their side.

She could see it in their faces, the same exact look of horror and regret that she wore.

Burnt into her brain.

The moment one of the cogs that made up their well-oiled machine completely fell apart.

It felt real. So, so real.

"We need to move out!"

"NO! DON'T LEAVE THEM! STEVE, NO!"

Her attempts grew more aggressive as he and Jim struggled to haul her into the back of the armored truck.

Dugan, Gabe and Bucky were waiting there to keep her from escaping.

"Stark, put her under!" Steve demanded.

Willow barely heard this as she was preparing to launch herself at the men when she felt the prick of a needle in her neck—her muscles immediately loosened and she collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught her before she could hit the floor of the truck and Gabe carefully lifted her feet, her best friend cradling her head on his lap as the tears began to roll down the sides of her face. He was visibly distraught as he watched her try to fight off the effects of whatever Howard had stuck her with. She could see the flames rising higher and higher into the sky before the doors shut on her irreparable mistake, one that would haunt her until the end of her days.

"Bucky...don't let them do this...don't let them..."

"You'll be okay, Will," he brushed the tears from her cheeks, "you'll be okay."

Willow's eyes closed and when she opened them again, she was alone in the the forest, the empty, vast darkness threatening to swallow her. Steve suddenly stepped out of the shadows. His presence, usually a comfort to the young woman, was different—his eyes were hard and his mouth was twisted in a cruel manner. Bucky appeared then, bringing the same air of hostility with him.

They stood silently in front of her and the young woman trembled with confusion and fear as the rest of the Howling Commandos emerged from the trees.

One by one.

A marching line of her own demonic thoughts.

"You killed them," Steve spat.

"N—no."

"You're a murderer."

It was Bucky who spoke this time, the look of disgust on his face shattering her will.

"I didn't know," she said weakly.

"It's your fault."

"You killed them all."

They were moving in on her.

"Your fault—"

"Child-killer."

Closer. Closer.

"Stop. Please."

"Murderer."

Reaching for her.

"Merciless—"

"I said stop!"

Suffocating her.

"Evil—"

"Murderer!"

"MONSTER!"

"STOP! STOP! STOP—"

"Stop."

Her voice was weak.

It had taken all of the mental effort she had left to tear herself away from the nightmare, leaving the young woman exhausted and spent.

Willow's eyes fluttered as she struggled to stay awake in her own reality, but it was difficult when she couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't.

Was she really shackled up in chains or had her mind created a prison of its own after the fatal explosion, consequences of her careless actions come to torment her by making her believe that her entire life was fabricated in her subconscious while her physical form hung restrained in an empty cell made of stone?

She bit down on her tongue to keep from drifting again.

They never did leave the witch alone with her for very long and, almost as if on cue, Agent Rumlow walked through the door, one hand casually placed on his gun.

Willow took great pleasure in the fact that he feared her enough to be prepared for the time that she would gain enough strength to break him in half, but they kept her constantly sedated, leaving her feeling lethargic, though not enough to keep from enduring the mental torture of the witch and the physical torture of the jackass.

"How did she do?"

"She broke through again," the young woman murmured, her voice heavy with accent and her eyes intentionally averting the super soldier's.

Rumlow sighed and walked over to stand in front of her.

Her arms were suspended on either side of her head and her ankles were bound to the floor with thick chains, both restraints pulling for custody of her limbs as the rest of her hung like a rag doll. She didn't have the energy to keep herself upright—she might have been a super soldier, but she was a very injured one. A few hours ago, Rumlow had taken a shell casing and pressed it into her gunshot wound to prevent it from completely healing. Every time she moved, it would shift, sending stabbing pains all over her body. She had forced herself to be completely still afterwards when the second wave made her pass out and this combined with the constant attack on her mind was, without a doubt, not only driving her insane, but killing her from the inside out.

"You gonna make this hard for me, Rogers?"

Willow ignored him.

"Look," he said as if he were trying to reassure her, "you're the kind of person that no one really cares about. None of this is your fault. It's your brother that I want."

He let out a little scoff.

"Just thinking about putting a bullet in his head—"

"I bet...it turns you on, doesn't it?"

She chuckled a little when a blast of pain burst across her cheek as Rumlow punched her hard, white stars prickling her vision and the taste of blood on her lips. Her left eye was already swollen and the imbalance irritated her as she glanced back up at the man.

She was seeing double of him.

Gods above.

As if one of him wasn't enough of a vomit-inducing sight.

"Mouthing off isn't gonna help you."

Most of the beatings she'd received was simply because she mouthed off, but what else did she have going for her? If not for the starved attempts to entertain herself, she was almost sure her body would give out. She could cry, but there was no point in wasting what little energy she had left and she would die first before ever breaking down in front of Rumlow, though by the crazed look in his eye, she probably wasn't far off from getting herself killed.

He wasn't beating her for information, though.

He was doing it because he liked it.

And that was even worse.

"No," she mumbled, "but it...makes me...feel better."

The young girl in the corner, forgotten by the assailant and his victim, flinched as she watched the man slam his knuckles into the wound on her hip, pushing the shell casing farther into her flesh and making her groan loudly.

She was struggling to keep from screaming and her teeth ached as she ground them together, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing her.

Her eyes bore into Rumlow's with absolute, pure hatred.

He pulled away after a few seconds, letting her spasming body go slack with exhaustion, and she was breathing hard when he roughly grabbed her chin.

"I don't plan on killing you." He cocked his head. "Not yet."

The man took no notice to the witch who had melted into the darkness and only came out once he was gone.

It was her first time witnessing Rumlow's violent actions and her hands, able to create from nothing a person's darkest terrors, were trembling from what she had just seen. For a moment, she thought that Willow really was dead when the super soldier moaned softly. With shaking knees and a clenched jaw, she straightened out of her hunched form, but the strength it took to do just that made her head pitch forward towards her chest.

Her breathing was shallow and her heartbeat...

"That thing...you do. I...I like the color."

The young woman felt a little sick at the sight she was presented with.

She hadn't noticed the super soldier lift her head back up and lean it against her arm, but now she was looking directly at her with a rueful grin on her very pale and bruised face as blood dripped from the corner of her mouth. Where her skin didn't bloom purple and black, it was misshapen and red, swollen from the impact of Rumlow's fists. She had no reason to fear Willow because of how weak she was and yet she felt some kind of warning in her gut as she moved closer.

She was told that all of them were vile, wicked, destructive.

But, she had not anticipated the despair, regret and pain that she found.

"You did not mean to do it."

Willow's face closed off as she realized what she was talking about and she let her head carefully fall to her shoulder so she was looking up at the stone ceiling.

"You tried to save them," the witch continued in an insistent tone. "If you had meant to do it, you would've watched those people burn from your hill."

She sighed and her whole form seemed to move with her.

"People make...mistakes. And sometimes...sometimes they don't know...they're making them."

Her breathing was becoming more labored and short and she was fighting to stay conscious as her head slumped to the side.

The witch never stayed behind before.

Willow knew that seeing the way she was affected by her powers disturbed the young woman and she would leave as swiftly as she came once Rumlow slipped into the room.

Despite the pain, she had to know.

"Why," she said heavily, "are you here?"

The young woman stared at her silently.

She looked down at her hands before speaking.

"I once had a family," she murmured. "Now, it is a broken one and all there is left of it is my brother and I."

She raised her chin and her mournful tone adopted one of acid bitterness.

"I'm here because we lived. And we learned. And we will get what we want even if it means...doing things we don't want to do. They promised us."

Tears suddenly welled in her dark eyes.

Her brows scrunched together with a desperate but misplaced belief in something that could only take, not give.

A shaky inhale.

"They promised."

Willow didn't see her leave—she had already lost consciousness, having surrendered to the consequences of exerting more energy than her body could produce to keep her awake. But, what emotions she saw cross the young girl's face as she explained her own reasoning was enough for her to understand why she was doing what she was.

The pain she felt could not be easily remedied, for such a feeling had only one solution.

Revenge.

There are always those who are willing to go past the boundaries of cruelty to get what they want when motivated by the foul need of vengeance, and in Willow's case, suffering by the hands of both the promised and the pledger, she was a living testament to that statement.

Or, at the very least, a testament desperately hanging on by the few threads that kept what it had left from completely falling apart.

——————
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