Flightless (LokixReader)

Chapter Six

(Your Pov)

A few days passed since the mystery man arrived. And your condition only worsened, unfortunately. With your resting cycles effectively screwed up, and no medicine being distributed for your arm, any movement besides laying perfectly still would ignite pain across your side. It seemed whatever the alien had shot you with worked in some form of a poison- or poisonous bruise, rather. The pain spread to the surrounding area faster every day. And if you touched the area, it burned. If you moved, it burned. If you tried to move the muscles in your shoulder, it burned.

You were in constant pain, except for those small pockets of unconsciousness you dragged your mind into.

Today however, just as unfortunate, the door swung open to reveal the same mysterious man as a few days prior. Mischievous air, pompous walk, a theme of green and all. You don't bother to glance towards him, focusing on breathing. This morning all your shoulder decided to do is spaz out, the fire trailing along your skin just like when you were shot.

"What are you doing?" He asked, sounding somewhat directly in front of your cell. What were you doing? Well, you were holding your shoulder in the most comfortable position possible. Which did almost nothing to ease the pain, despite how you tried. "What's wrong with you?"

Ah, so many questions. And never enough voice to answer them. When would he learn?

"I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong." For a moment he almost sounded concerned. You peek your eyes open, finding a feigned patience plastered across his face. An expression that tried your irritation. What sort of pretentious ass would tease you with such words? The 'I know you're in pain, just do what I want then I'll help you.' word meaning.

Not being able to bear his arrogant features a moment longer, you shift your gaze. Involuntarily meeting his emerald eyes.

They held more sympathy than every other team member to cross your path. While this facade he played boasted his insincerity and made you doubt if he even cared, the light behind his eyes begged you to trust him. Just enough for him to genuinely help.

You almost fell for it. You wanted to fall for it- but still your stubbornness would rather leave you in pain than ask for help. Let alone from the ones holding the keys.

The man sighed discreetly, looking away from your broken form. He started to head back out. Most likely your only chance for help, walking out the door.

"Wait." Your whisper, the word jumping from your tongue before you even registered you opened your mouth. He stopped instantly, turning halfway round. Not enough to face you, but enough that you could at least see some of his face. And he could see yours. "New bandages, pain medication, and a sling for my arm."

"I am not some servant-" He scoffed, surprised you would dare demand such things. But he wanted to help you, didn't he?

You stare defiantly up at him, meeting his frustrated gaze. He could help, or not. Two options.

"Remember who is inside the cage, mortal." He spat, rushing out of the room in a fury. You roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the wall once more. Blew it. You blew your only chance to get help. While talking, nonetheless. So much for your stubbornness streak.

You sigh, letting your eyes drift close. He wouldn't come back. Not after such an outburst.

You were alone.

*

The door snapped open, startling you awake with a jump. This sudden movement jostled your arm, causing you to hiss in pain. Before you realise who entered, your normal plate of food balancing on his arm.

Clint Barton.

"You have a gift." he gestured to the bag hanging off his arm, swinging back and forth with every step. But his tone was questioning, as if he didn't know you'd be getting one. Clint slid both your food and bag through the doorway, one after the other. "I don't suppose you're willing to talk today?"

You don't bother sending a glare his way, eyes focused on appearing as distant and non-responsive as possible. It worked; Clint sighing and leaving your cell block before long.

Instantly you rush the bag, opening the top to reveal just as you had hoped. He didn't forget. Whoever this mysterious visitor was, he hadn't abandoned you. Well, not yet, at least.

You busy yourself with tending to your wound, unwrapping the bandage. You try to memorize its placement, mimicking the same wrap with the new one. By the time you're done, your meal had lost its warmth, and quite frankly- you lost your appetite from both the pain and dried blood still remaining on your old bandage. You adjust the sling to hold your arm comfortably, before taking what medication he delivered.

Underneath it all, you find a small note at the bottom of the bag. You grasp the firm paper, marvelling at the gold detailed across it.

And the few words, curled out in the most elegant script you've ever seen. 'From a friend'.

You smirk at the card, taking heed to find a suitable hiding place for it. Before deciding on the only place you might successfully hide it, pressed against your arm inside your sling. If anything, the paper might even add some extra cushion.

He never returned in person over the following days, only ever sending a small bag outside your cell door. Until the Avengers took notice, starting to deliver the items personally. Eliminating the need for a secretive 'gift' at all.

Which would be better in the end- you tried to reason. You only ever saw him twice- and there was no real reason for attachment. No reason to care who you saw enter and exit this room.

Then why wouldn't his playful eyes or mischievous smile ever leave your mind?