By now, Loki has lost all feeling in his hands.
His fall from heaven hadn't been quite so graceful–blood was smeared across his armor, and the wound underneath would take at least another two days to fully heal. Naturally he wasn't going to do this own his own, so he employed the help of an enemy.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Odin used to say that. He wants to scream.
Clint raises his head as he thinks this, blue eyes widened in ignorance. Loki thinks that maybe it's not stupidity but instead just a side effect of the mind control spell. He's much too tired to think about this, so he slumps back over and puts his head in his hands. Clint reaches over and rummages through a paper bag that's from a downtown batista that he insisted upon buying from (the poor lug was hungry). Loki shakes is head. His brain is too spent.
"You gotta eat." Clint says robotically. It's forced–but it reminds him a little too much of the non-controlled Avenger.
Loki heaves a breath through his lungs, doing his best to blink out the sunlight. "No. I am not hungry."
"It's to speed up the healing process."
The god bites the inside of his cheek as his ribs grind together. "Very well."
He is passed a muffin.
Loki leans the faintly-glowing scepter against the wall, sinking his teeth into the bread. Dusk is falling when he finishes, and the wrapper is tossed to a nearby pigeon. Clint discards of the bag in a trashcan.
"Thank you."
Clint nods. "It's my duty."
The Avenger places an arm under his shoulder, heaving Loki to his feet. They walk a little ways, stopping at a small motel where the manager is placed under a control spell. They're given a room, and Loki's bandages are cleaned. He lies twitching on the bed with a smile on his face.
He thinks he'll keep Clint for a while longer.
