Some Part Of Me Feels A Little Bit Naked And Empty
Loki rubbed his bloody hands on his leather coat. He got up from his knees, still out of breath, looking around the room. The hairs on his back stood up. A voice in the back of his head told him that someone was watching him, but he waved it off.
It seemed not only his body, but his mind, too, was wrecked.
He waited until his vision cleared out, burying his face in his hands, nails digging into the broken skin above his eyebrows, giving him a faint taste of reality he very much craved as the pain embraced him. Cold blood trickled down his face.
He inhaled sharply then picked up a book resting on his nightstand, his shaking hands knocking over a glass. Loki covered his ears as the glass met the floor and shattered.
He slowly lowered his hands, looking around if someone heard it. No sound came in response, so he sighed in relief, assuming that no one did.
The book had an old, brown leather as its cover, to protect all the valuable knowledge in it. Loki blowed the grey layer of dirt off it, the small particles were hovering in the air in no time. With the sunlight reflecting on them, it almost looked magical, one would think the small particles were made of gold if they didn't look close enough.
Loki smiled a little as he slid his fingers across the book's spine, remembering the time he last used it, Frigga was teaching him the ancient art of magic, and this book was practically his best friend. Well, only friend.
He attached his own notes to every page, stayed up all night reading about certain tricks and practiced them until he knew them in and out. He figured out his own shortcuts and loopholes, tricking the tricks like a real trickster should.
He hadn't touched the book in years, not since, well..
Since he fell.
And now, the absence of his magic was literally killing him, or at least that's what he suspected.
This — the coughing up blood thing, the coldness in his lungs and the feeling of complete exhaustion all the time — started when his magic was taken away from him. And it was just getting worse and worse, and harder to hide.
Well, 'taken away' was a light term, it was making it sound like Loki was a child, who's favourite toy was snatched from his hands. But it wasn't like that, at all. It was torn out of him, dragging a part of his very being out of his body, until there was none left, until he wasn't himself anymore, until he pleaded to please don't take it away, he can't live without it, please.
He shoved his thoughts away and opened the book. He needed to find out what was the cause of this, or rather, prove himself wrong, because if he's right, there's no way in Hel he could survive this.
...
Clint ran a hand trough his hair and buried his face in his palms, the cold sweat on his fingers meeting his eyebrows and he shook his head.
He tried to even out his breathing and placed a hand on his heart. He blinked. His eyes felt dry and the air felt like liquid around his skin. He felt like he was underwater, the ever growing pressure in his ears making him gasp out loud.
'You look stressed. Spill, what's going on, Birdbrain?' questioned Tony earlier.
He didn't know it was that obvious that even the obnoxious and self centered Tony Stark could notice.
The thing is, he didn't know what— well, he knew what, he just didn't know why it stressed him out so much.
Maybe— maybe Loki was mind controlling him again.
Or he was going crazy.
Why would he feel guilty over seeing what he saw, and not saying anything about it, when there was a real possibility that Loki was dying?
He tried to ignore it. He really tried, but every time Loki would miss a meal, every time someone knocked on his door and no answer came, guilt filled his heart more and more.
It was Loki, it didn't matter, he deserves it anyway.
Natasha would be dissapointed in him. When he chose to recruit her she'd done things that were just as bad..
..but that was different.
He tried to tell himself that it was because Natasha wasn't evil, she was pressured into killing, she was tortured and abused all her childhood she was raised like this, but..
Clint made a choice to get to know the person behind that stoic mask she kept on.
((It was a windy and therefore, fucking cold night in Budapest. He was laying on the dirty roof of some fancy hotel, eyeing the redhead spy he was supposed to take down with his trusty bow in his hands.
Natasha Romanoff, russian assassin, her file read. He's seen her work, she was brilliant at her job, quick and quiet and very deadly.
Even if he felt sick to his stomach while having to watch her kill all those innocent men, without not being able to do anything.
Still, she could have been a real asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. if only she chose the right side to fight for.
Shame.
Clint tightened his grip on the arrow, trying to find just the perfect angle.
To shoot the assassin, who was currently sitting on her bed, staring at her bloody gun and..
Crying?
Clint lowered his weapon.))
In the end, as much as Clint didn't wanna admit it, the difference was him.
Loki made him kill.
Loki made him kill, and that was something Clint couldn't live with.
Loki made him kill.
He felt his breath hitch, and his hands started shaking again.
And that was why he didn't wanna help him.
Clint sighed, the cold air escaping his lungs shakily. He knew it was the right thing to do, but his knees trembled nevertheless. They felt unstable, but he had to do this right now, or he'll regret it.
His own words felt distant as his step's echoes gone silent completely. "Captain. I saw something you might want to know about."
...
"That suit did nothing for your ass, Cap" Tony said and Steve raised his eyebrows.
Tony was showing Steve his new design for the war hero's suit. The old one's colors were disgustingly vibrant, in Tony's opinion and well, he didn't like it. It looked too much like his old one, the one he used to do his shows in, the shows Howard kept replaying over and over again, and drank until he passed out.
Just looking at it made him feel just as scared and helpless as the little kid, who was told that he's not good enough, he's useless, and that fucking Captain America would be ashamed of him, that he would despise him.
Well, he was right.
"No one asked you to look" Steve shook his head, checking his new look out in the mirror. "I hope that's not why you redesigned my uniform, Tony."
"I can neither confirm nor deny that." Tony said, winking at Steve.
"Captain."
Tony and Steve both turned around, to face the source of the quiet but sharp voice.
"Yes?"
Clint lingered in the doorway, rubbing his eyes tiredly, opening his mouth, but closing it again. The archer's eyes were bloodshot and sunken, unfocused, and it looked like he hadn't slept in days, his eyebags in harsh contrast with his pale skin.
"I saw something, and I think you —" he took a deep breath, his voice strangled and weak "— might want to know about it."
Clint looked like he really needs to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat and his knees visibly trembled.
Tony instantly ran over to him and put an arm around his shoulders, to help him keep himself upright.
"Jesus Christ, Clint, you look like a ghost, Cap, help me-
Clint slapped Tony's hand off of him. "I'm not the one you should worry about right now " He breathed. "Loki, he-"
Tony saw something in Steve's eyes flash. "What?"
"I don't know.. I think he's- he's dying or something, I saw him coughing up blood a- like a week ago, and I think there's something wrong-" Clint sucked in a breath and didn't continue his sentence.
Tony's heart started beating faster, and he felt blood rush into his fingers.
"Okay, Captain, call Banner, I'll go and check on him" Tony said and Steve nodded.
"You want me to go with you?"
Tony picked his bracelets up from the counter without thinking.
"I can handle him, you take care of Clint." Tony said, already running through the door.
He heard Steve call after him. "I'm supposed to be the leader here, Tony."
He scoffed, just loud enough for the Captain to hear and ran through the hall, and took the stairs, two at a time.
He knocked twice on Loki's door. When he didn't answer, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. He kicked at it, as strong as he could manage without falling over and the door flung open with the sound of the plastic breaking as the metal lock parted from the frame of the door.
He mentally praised his younger self for thinking he wouldn't use this floor as much and it didn't need strong security. It was stupid, but it came in handy right now.
His heart stopped for a moment.
Loki was lying unconsciously on the ground, skin pale, eyes closed. Tony didn't know what to do for a moment as a strangled breath left his cold lips. His legs felt heavier an heavier with every second that passed while he stood there frozen. The guy looked dead, his long black hair covering part of his face, his lips looked dry and even whiter than the rest of his face. There was no rising or falling of his chest, no movement at all.
He forced himself to move and dropped down beside Loki, placing a hand on his neck. His skin was cold, God, it was so cold, why was it so cold?
He let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding as he felt a slight thumping against his skin. His pulse was weak, but it was there.
He took a quick look around the room, his fingers still unconsciously gripping Loki's leather clothes.
There was an old book next to Loki's unmoving form. The text on it was handwritten, and in a language he couldn't understand. He did catch one word 'seidr', that one he knew what it was. Thor talked about it before. He was drunk, but Tony remembered that it was some kind of Asgardian magic.
There was also a smudged drop of dry blood on the page.
He looked back at Loki, but there was no visible injury anywhere on his body, although Tony didn't miss the deep red under his fingernails.
He felt the adrenalin drain from his veins and he sat down next to Loki and hugged his knees. The next few minutes felt like hours, sitting next to Loki, waiting for the paramedics to arrive.
When they finally did, they took Loki away (they needed Tony's and Bruce's help with it, Loki was much heavier than he looked) to the medical wing.
...
'I'm not that kind of Doctor' is something Bruce Banner says at least once a day.
When Clint catches a cold and asks him if it's normal to feel like he's dying, or when Tony hurts his back and questions him with things like "when can I have sex again?", to which, again, the answer is a tired "I'm not that kind of Doctor, Tony."
So, he's used to his teammates asking him medical questions, he's pretty sure they only do it to annoy him anyway.
(Although he does know the answer to both of those questions. They don't need to know that.)
So, why he's the first person Steve calls when someone is presumably dying, and why he ends up being the one examining said presumably dying person, is beyond him.
Okay, he did know a lot of medical stuff, but there should be a professional here.
And now he feels like he's deeply invaded Loki's privacy.
The God, who was sleeping on one of the medbay's beds, looked disturbingly different from when he was awake. With this blank expression on his face, all his wrinkles has smoothened out, and he looked so much younger.
Bruce really didn't know what to do, seeing Loki so vulnerable, Bruce knew all of this was way beyond anything Loki would have ever consented to.
Because he saw them. His scars. He saw the countless scars across his back and chest, he saw the burn marks all over his upper arm, and that's when Bruce stopped looking, because he couldn't anymore.
Just thinking about it left a could feeling in his chest and made him want to vomit.
Worst part of it was that most of them looked new, like just a few years old. Which was even more concerning because Asgardians are supposed to heal faster than humans, so if Bruce had to guess, he would say that he got most of them about 6 months ago.
Which could mean a lot of things Bruce didn't wanna think about.
It just- It looked like- like someone-
He inhaled sharply.
"You okay, Brucie?"
Bruce just glanced at Tony and nodded in reaponse, barely acknowledging his question.
The genius decided to keep Bruce company, amd even though Bruce was way too lost in thought to show it, he was grateful. He liked Tony, although they just met, he was friendly and seemed to be comfortable with Bruce, which not many people could say about themselves, after his accident.
He couldn't blame them, really, but seeing how freely Tony would speak around him, and how his body language was always so open and welcoming. He seemed to be not afraid at all, more intrested, made his heart smile a little.
He shook his head, trying to focus. "We should call Thor."
Tony pointed his index finger at him. "Good call, Doctor, but how?"
Bruce smiled. "I've always wanted to do this."
"Do what?" Tony asked, his frown saying 'I feel like I'm not in on the joke and I don't like it.'
"We should probably go outside for this."