What If... HYDRA Got Hold of Loki?

i paced for hours on empty; i jumped at the slightest of sounds

He can't sit down.

He can't stop moving.

He can't let himself rest, even for a moment.

Every good doctor knows that you want to get your patients up and walking as soon as possible after surgery.

Pierce didn't tell him to walk. He didn't tell him that he had to keep pacing back and forth like this. It was more a cruel joke than an order. Pierce had his men take away anything Loki could possibly use to rest – the blood-soaked operating table, his nighttime cage, everything – and left him all alone in the vast openness of his room.

No, it was Loki's own choice to keep himself walking, keep himself moving, keep himself distracted. He doesn't know what they plan to do with him next, but he imagines it's something he'll have to prepare for. He has to be ready, and if he stops, if he sits, if he rests, he fears he may never be able to force himself to his feet again.

He looks down at himself, not for the first time since he left the operating table, though it terrifies him no less than if he'd never seen it before. Pierce hadn't lied when he said Dr. List wasn't a surgeon. The stitches that hold his body together are big, sloppy. They feel as though they could come apart any moment – that he could come apart at any moment.

The organs and the muscles and tendons that Dr. List spent all too long poking and prodding and shifting around feel foreign in his body now – and he can truly feel each and every one. He's never been so conscious of his own body, his own insides. Perhaps it's because he's truly seen them now. It's an image he'll never be free from.

Pierce had taken his armor away, but his shirt remains, bunched up and wrinkled on the floor where the table once was. He'd planned to put it on as soon as he was free, but now he fears the touch of the fabric would only make the pain worse. The pain, the never-ending, throbbing pain, burning through his body, shooting through him with every step. He hates this. He hates that this is what his life has come to. He hates that nobody has come to save him from this nightmare.

He walks up to the window, resting his hands against the glass in front of him. Just as it was the day before, there's nothing out there but trees, stretching on as far as the eye can see. He lifts his gaze to the sky, so clear, so free from clouds that he almost feels as though he should be able to see Asgard from here.

"Heimdall? He speaks quietly, fearfully, desperately. "Tell my parents that I'm sorry. Tell them that I love them. Tell them to come find me."

The outside world is still. There's no wind rustling the trees. There are no clouds to block the sun. There's no sign of the Bifrost. He'd known there wouldn't be. It doesn't make the silence hurt any less.

"I know I've made mistakes," he says. "I've made many, many mistakes. But do any of them warrant this treatment? Even our prisoners are given more mercy than this. Can I not have that same mercy? A thousand years, I've lived in Asgard – nearly my whole life. Does that not mean anything?"

But he knows the answer.

He doesn't deserve this. That will always remain true. But he doesn't deserve Asgard's help, either. It was his actions, his stupidity that got Thor killed. It was his order, his ego that wounded so many of Asgard's soldiers in a battle they never should have fought. So he deserves to be saved, but Asgard doesn't deserve to have to do it.

There's a noise from behind him – a soft bang, a thud, hardly audible even to his ears.

He whips around, gaze falling on the door immediately. It sends a new wave of pain coursing through his body, and he grabs his abdomen instinctively, only to make the pain worse. He cries out, then clamps his mouth shut, silently cursing himself for daring to draw attention to himself like that. He wants to be forgotten. He wants to be left alone. He wants to experience the closest thing to peace he may ever feel. And he can't do that if Pierce comes back to torment him further.

He's still for a few moments, silent, holding his breath in anticipation of whatever's to come, but the silence returns once more. He lets that breath out slowly, a wave of relief washing over him. He's safe. For now, at least, he's safe.

He resumes his pacing, his desperate attempt at a distraction from the throbbing pain he's in. He supposes that if there's one good thing about this, it's that he can hardly feel his hunger through his pain. They'd left him a cup of water, something to replenish all the fluid he lost, but he hasn't been able to force himself to drink more than a few sips. On some – doubtlessly irrational – level, he's almost afraid the stitches will burst if he dares put anything in him.

The longer he paces, the more lightheaded he becomes. Every time he turns to pace back the way he came, it feels like the world spins around him. But he can't stop walking. He needs it. He needs that distraction. He needs something to do.

Footsteps.

Loki stops in his tracks, attention turning to the door once more. He hears footsteps. Somebody's coming.

The footsteps grow louder and louder, and Loki braces himself for whatever it is that awaits him. Maybe they'll go easy on him this time. Maybe they'll take pity on him and hurt no more than his pride. He doesn't know if he can handle anything more right now.

The footsteps grow quieter, and he breathes a sigh of relief. They're not coming for him, then. Not yet. They will, he's sure – probably sooner rather than later. But right now, he's safe. For at least a few more minutes, he's safe.

So he continues to pace.

And pace.

And pace some more.

Because what else can he do but pace?