"I am aware of Thor's chronic inability to accept what I am," Loki responds stiffly. "To his credit, if I must speak kindly of the fool, we were raised as brothers. I was not informed myself of my true parentage until... New Mexico, roughly."

Ages ago, now. Ancient history. "I am spoils of war; nothing more than that. No princeling. No true son of Asgard. I am Jǫtun. Frost giant, in your tongue. Stolen as a babe, woe is me, et cetera, et cetera. An ancient enemy of those who raised me, which explains much. They did often treat me as such."

Not important anymore either. Essential, most days, but not today. "As for your charming offer, if I should happen to survive the day I should be pleased to stop by for a mocha and a chat, but don't think you could possibly keep me anywhere that the eye of Heimdallr could not find me. I will die, and it will be high time when I do."

After the cell, after all those years, Loki knows that death would be a blessing. Living might be, too, and if given the choice he'd choose to live every time, choose the possibility of new and better things over an end. Still, death has its appeal. To a creature as old as Loki is, it is a great and terrifying thing to face, an adventure, one of the few remaining to him.

"I will have vengeance for what they've done to me. You know how it feels, Barton; you stand here now with the same goal in mind. I could tear you limb from limb and still you want to punish me. Even if it kills you. It would, too, if you could manage it. If you consider it a blessing that you can't, in that light, count yourself lucky that you have not fallen far and move on. I am not."