Flightless (LokixReader)

Chapter Twenty-Five

(Your Pov)

You refused the very notion that you were injured, as stubborn as that may be. The bloody footprints that littered the quinjet floor were not yours, nor did the pain creeping along your side cripple your breaths. Exhaustion plagued you. Nothing more. That much you could accept, and muttered as such when using Loki's arm as a crutch back to your room.

Once he left, pleading another "let me help you" despite your best efforts to shush him, you got to work cleaning and rebandaging. With a touch of luck, your work might last long enough you could still parade about the tower making your proper appearances. Shield ordered for the team to debrief their mission later today—an event you could not escape even if you wanted to—and you still planned to attend your magic lesson with the prince in the morning. As if Loki would let you use magic after such... Incidents. You were proud that you managed to keep your control on your abilities through the mission. In your opinion, you finally breached a new milestone.

In fact, you were quite surprised that you were able to manage such a thing at all. Usually your magic craved to burst from your body like water spews from a broken faucet. Yet even after so many opportunities today, it never once refused your control.

After you stitched up your injuries and refreshed with a quick nap, the afternoon sun bathed your room in its glow. The rich golden rays called forward your mind from its sleepy hollow, making way for your body to remind you of the time. Specifically, your stomach. It roared in hunger, twisting itself and doubling over as it tried to turn itself inside out.

"Jarvis?" You turn over toward your phone, waiting to see the screen light up. "Jarvis." He didn't respond, and you flung a hand over to see why. The other was busy scratching the sleepy, fuzzy feeling out of your scalp, as it felt like your roots were tangled even within the skin.

Your phone was dead.

Great.

A deep sigh barreled from the deep caverns of your lungs, as you contemplated the inevitable risks of leaving your room. If you could avoid the team for just a few days, then perhaps you would heal enough to stifle your whines and groans as you moved about. Your injuries had started to itch—not nearly as much as the damn scratch on your head—and you started to theorize how long it would be until the wounds had scales of their own.

But you needed food.

You plug in your phone, leaving it on your nightstand while you head to the kitchen. Maybe, just maybe, the Avengers were off doing who knows what else. Perhaps they had eaten before their own naps... If humans did such things after such a battle. You always lived among the commoners or on your own throughout the years, therefore your first hand experience with such noble acts was few and far between.

The elevator slowed to a stop, the doors opening to reveal an empty hallway. Empty of any bodies, anyway. You did hear their voices echo from the living room: the one room that you must cross between here and the kitchen. So much for a quiet meal.

As you exited, you started to eavesdrop on their conversation. "Should someone go check?"

"I think it's fine." Steve said, "What have you found, Tony?"

You could hear his fingers tapping away on his tablet. Your feet slowed to a stop, the theories of whom they spoke flying about your mind. "Her phone is off."

"Powered down, or..."

"I think it's just dead." He replied to Clint, and you resumed your walk to the entrance. It seems you were indeed the topic of the hour, but not necessarily that the team was charging you criminally. Not yet, anyway. You peeked in, finding all of the Avengers sitting about the living room, including another guest as well.