Hidden Troubles

4 | Does It Want To Eat?

Loki spent the next week recovering from his self-sustained injuries. Due to the bounding of his magic, healing took much longer than it would've done, although it was still faster in comparison to any mortal. He spent most of his days in bed, eating enormous amounts of food that would've rivalled even Thor. The only company he only really received was from the two scientists, and sometimes the Captain and the assassin. He never saw the archer— not that he particularly wanted to anyway.

The endless amounts of food Loki was consuming had led to a mild increase in weight. Without any actual physical activity being done, or him casually performing magic like he used to, he wasn't burning off much energy. His thin figure faded only slightly— though he was still slim, it was less so than before. His cheekbones were just less prominent, and a small little pouch had settled on his stomach. This simply went unnoticed by the trickster, who spent most of the week satisfying his new found love for PopTarts and Cheetos.

By the end of the week, Loki's hands had basically fully healed. The deeper cuts had been reduced to small scabs, faint scars littering his fingers and hands. His two broken fingers had long since mended themselves, and his once split knuckles were just as ghostly white as they used to be. He hadn't moved from the hospital bed all week— he didn't want to, not when he would have had to return to his room and see the mess he'd made. However Banner had told him that he couldn't stay in the medibay forever, and at his remark, Loki had finally left.

Stiff legs greeted him first— it took him a while to get his balance. He felt heavier, but he put that down to not having stood for so long.

"If you would Mr. Odinson, Mr Stark has programmed the elevator to take you to your floor."

Loki almost yelped at the ghost's voice. No, not a ghost...Stark had explained it to him once before. Artificial intelligence? Needless to say, Loki highly doubted he would ever get used to that voice. 

"Mr. Odinson, if you would, please."

Typical. They won't want a criminal wandering around.

With a swift nod, Loki waited for the elevator's arrival. Inside however, he was greeted by an unexpected guest. Barton.

Head hung low, he walked into the elevator, and stood as far away as possible from the archer. Tension hung in the air like a thunderstorm, crackling wickedly and tauntingly. He could feel the archer's unsubtle glare on him, something he tried to ignore by staring determinedly at the floor.

"Looking a bit chubby then."

What?

"I suppose that's where all my favourite PopTarts have been going." The lift doors slid open, and Clint stepped out to his floor.

Yet his words still rang in Loki's ears as the lift arrived at his floor.

Fatter? No it can't be. How can I be fatter?

In a slight panic, Loki rushed out of the elevator to his room, and headed straight for the en-suite. It was the only room with a mirror remaining. He barely noticed how his room had been cleaned, no trace of the incident from a week ago. He just had to know, he had to know, he had to know—

Loki was almost sick to his stomach at the sight that greeted him.

He peered at his reflection in disgust. Barton was right; he was bigger. Loki had always been on the skinny side, a feature about himself he'd once detested but had grown used to— it was so much easier to sneak around the castle when you weren't big and bulky like Thor. But now he really was bigger. His thighs seemed swamped with fat, and where was that gap that he used to just take for granted? The pyjamas he was now wearing outlined the fat on his thighs— were they not loose when he'd first arrived? And where were those mildly jutting out hipbones he'd grown accustomed to? The leanness of his stomach which now had a small layer of fat hanging off it? 

He was disgusting.

Unloved and unknown, who thinks himself a prince.

Stop it stop it—

Your birthright— was to die!

I never wanted the throne! I only ever wanted to be your equal!

Does it want to eat? What will it be willing to pay this time?

Looking a bit chubby then?

SILENCE!

He could feel the hurt and the fire running through his veins, the pure fury and disgust at himself for letting himself get so horrid, the shame of being so repulsive in appearance. He needed it to stop— he needs to be skinnier now more than ever— he needed to feel the weightlessness of being skinny and discard the layer of fat he'd gained. All he could see was red, fury and desperation blinding him to all other things. He needed this.

He sank into a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts swirling around in his head violently, as though a storm had been locked in it. A fresh torrent of tears ran down his cheeks as he slid down onto the bathroom floor, clutching his head in a pitiful attempt to contain the pounding in it.

***

It was an hour later, just as he'd started to calm down that the voice came to him.

I wonder how long one could go without food.

I beg your pardon?

How long could you go without food?

The voice wasn't unwelcome. It was...comforting almost. As though he was not alone. But still, he was wary of its intentions.

But why would I do that?

Why else? To be thinner. Just a few days. Just until you're thinner again.

Who are you?

I'm you. Inside you. Whatever you wish for me to be, I shall be it.

Then do you suggest that I don't eat?

Just until your thinner again. It won't be long. I'll make sure of it.

To Loki, the voice sounded fairly reasonable. Of course, he was fatter because he was eating too much. That was no surprise— remaining bed bound for a week and without his seidr, Loki hadn't been able to burn any of it off. 

Why eat if you don't need food. You don't deserve it. Do you not remember the lessons the Chitauri taught you?

"A feast for a king!" And then pain and laughter and burning, burning everywhere...

Loki felt hot tears of humiliation sting his eyes as the events of his torture played out in his mind. It was right. They were right. Why should he eat if he didn't deserve it?

Besides, the voice crooned, see how disgusting you look. So fat. There is no muscle on you, only fat. Would it not feel good to be rid of it all, to shed it all off?

And that was when he decided. He would not eat. He would try, just try, and see how long he could go without eating. It would be so easy— the Avengers wouldn't be paying particular attention to him anyway.

With that thought, Loki settled for a night of fitful sleep and dreams that would haunt the thoughts of his waking hours.