I'll call out your name, but you won't call back

Loki heaved. Retched into the toilet basin, spitting up the remnants of his dinner. It had been a bad idea to begin with. Going months without food or water and then devouring an entire meal hadn't been the most thought-out plan.

But he had been so hungry. Savored and enjoyed every single piece of nourishment that crawled down his throat. Even happy to taste something as he vomited the food back up. It had been months since he'd tasted anything other than blood and saliva on his tongue.

He just closed his eyes, resting his head against the cool porcelain. It was so hot. Sweltering and sweating under the heat. He blamed the room, that he couldn't cast a cooling spell on himself. Not that he would speak of his weakness to heat to Fury. Give him ideas of tortures he could use to get the god to speak.

Loki knew he should get up, and leave the bathroom before Fury tried to make sure he wasn't plotting murder behind the shower curtain. As if he even could, his magic was toast, unable to be used due to the collar wrapped around his neck compliments of the Allfather.

He groaned, or at least tried to. Only a feeble rasp coming out. Pressing on his frail hands, he stood up, wiping the acidic fluid from his lips.

There was nothing much in the bathroom. Metal floors with metal walls, screeching nails driving into his skull. A plain shower with a clear curtain.  A pure white toilet and sink and a mirror above.

Loki hated the mirror. Loathed how it showed off how frail and gaunt his body looked. His skin stretched too tight around his cheekbones, dark under-eye bags the size of melons. Pale, cracked, lips with dried blood and vomit caked on. His hair, once a source of pride he maintained well, was now matted together and greasy, falling in front of his once sparkling emerald eyes.

Anyone could've seen it. How each rip and vertebra in his spin could be seen poking out through his thin clothes. His stomach concaved inwards. It was ridiculous. He was shivering. He had beads of sweat forming on his hairline, his skin had a pale blue tint to it. He was a Jötnar and he was shivering.

Try as Fury might, the fact that his resident God still refused to talk was getting on his nerves. It had been days, weeks even. Loki was trying, he really was. Each night in front of the mirror that displayed his quaint figure, desperately attempted to make a play at words. His throat was raw and red, any noise coming out only being a pathetic gasping.

It was humiliating. Here he was, Loki the master of words, Liesmith, Silvertongue, to have everything he had built his power and abilities on, ripped out from underneath him, leaving him falling and drowning in the aftermath.

Falling and drowning. Falling and drowning. Falling into the heat of his stifling clothes and drowning in the freezing air where the fabric wasn't. Something was wrong, very wrong. He was a god, he didn't get sick. He wasn't, it was his own mind playing tricks on him.

And he was thirsty. So thirsty, but trapped in the sweat of his own skin. Dry and dehydrated, he needed water. He knew he would just throw it all up regardless, but he couldn't breathe. Suffocating in this bone-dry, waterless room.

So he stumbled over to the sink, placing his head under the faucet and gulping down the tap water. He didn't care if it would make him sick. He was already, ill in the mind and ill in the body. He was going to die if he didn't drink something.

But he wasn't able to. Even as the water poured from the sink, it only ran down his lips, unable to open them.

No, this couldn't be happening again. His head shot up, fingers hysterically trying to force his mouth open. it wouldn't. He was trapped, again. He couldn't open his mouth and he couldn't live and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't be. His hands uncontrollably tearing at his lips. Finally, finally, the thread tore from his face, landing in his bloody hand.

But when he looked down, there was nothing there. Just his own blood and the panic of a fallen prince. A muffled, broken sob managed to claw it's way out, horror and shock at what was happening. He was losing his mind, imagining non-existent strings like he was a puppet without the master. He had only been on Midgard for days, and he hadn't been able to keep anything down for months. He hadn't been poisoned, the only thing he had was water.

The water... the glasses that they gave him with every meal. It wasn't him, no, he wasn't losing his mind. He was completely sane and okay. It was the water, they had done something to it. That was most definitely the reason.

But he was still so thirsty. No, he mustn't. That would only lead to more hallucinations, more shivering, and sweating.

So he collapsed to the ground, pulling his knees towards his chest as he tried to quiet the weeping hiccups erupting from his body. Pathetic, a god, a once Royal of Asgard sobbing on a cold tile floor in a lowly realm. Pathetic. He was pathetic.

A tired feeling taking over his body. For him to fall asleep, or fade into unconsciousness, he couldn't be sure anymore.

•••

He was awake again. That was the first thing Loki noticed. The second thing was that his limbs refused to move, and there was a loud banging on the door next to him. That probably wasn't good.

Then the door exploded.

Blown backwards off its hinges as what looked like a battering ram swung through instead. Several agents burst into the room, pausing and visibly confused when they saw the god lying in a tangle of limbs on the ground.

Then he saw the same one-eyed man step forward through the haze in his vision, "What's... matter... him?" he demanded, his voice cloudy and cutting out through the ringing in Loki's ears.

Words swirled around him, not that he could make any sense of them, "Burning up... sick? God... what... do? Docter? Yeah... maybe Banner..."

That was all Loki heard before he blacked out again.

•••

Loki really needed to stop waking up in cots where he didn't know where he was.

The sheets on top of him were like plastic and paper, flimsy and cool to the touch. Then there were voices, ones he recognized.

"I would assume it was a trauma response," the first one said, and Loki tried not to flinch. The monster in a man's skin. The green beast smashed him to the ground and freed him from her sickly grasp.

The other voice scoffed dubiously, "A trauma response?" Fury asked as Loki fought not to swallow hard. Where was he? Why was he in a cot pretending to be asleep whilst listening to a private conversation?

"A trauma response to what?" Fury repeated, his tone becoming more annoyed than anything.

Loki could almost feel the scientist shrug, "I don't know, but the scar tissue around his lips? That's not something that happens naturally, that's time and precision and most definitely on purpose. If I didn't know any better I'd say that-"

That prompted Loki to immediately open his eyes, his breathing heavy and raspy. Anything to stop Banner from figuring out his secrets.

The two men whirled around immediately, fear rippling through Banner's face before calming. Loki blinked, lifting his head to find out why his arms and legs wouldn't work. They were restrained, heavy metal binding his extremities to the cot. The magic-suppressing collar was still firmly snug around his neck like he was a dog.

"Loki, you're up," Banner said, his voice ringing with constricted judgment and... sympathy. That couldn't be right. He didn't care about the villainous god. Nobody gave a damn. They don't care about him.

So he said nothing, fighting the desiring urge to make sure he could still open his mouth. Fury just rolled his eyes and scoffed, "Loudmouth refuses to speak suddenly. Don't get why, he could yack up a storm back when he was set on world domination," his lips twitched upwards when Loki winced slightly.

Banner just sighed, turning away from the restrained god "Could I maybe talk to him... alone?" He asked, ignoring the surprised looks on both Fury and Loki's faces.

"Yeah, because your last few encounters have been all lovey-dovey," The spy snorted, still staring down at Loki like he was an insect. A plaything ready to be picked apart like meat. "I wouldn't even let you talk to him if there were a dozen guards stationed in here. I didn't even want you here in the first place. This guy's a threat. He knew exactly how to get to you last time, who's to say he won't try it again?"

Banner took a step back, eyes flashing a thousand feelings of hurt before he opened his mouth again, "Right," he muttered, his voice angry and betrayed, "Just make sure he gets a lot of fluids. Keep his room cool too. Be careful he doesn't pick at the injuries, don't want them to get infected,"

With that, Banner turned on his heel, walking out of the room before Loki could roll his eyes. Meanwhile, Fury just glared at him. Apparently blaming him for spouting those hateful truths to the mad scientist.

"Get a team to take him back to the cell," Fury growled into a device he had inside his ear, stepping backward as agents immediately surged into the room, taking the restraints off his wrists and ankles, roughly placing handcuffs soon after.

Loki still remained silent as they bound him, demanding he get out of the cot. He was in the exact same position. Being forced to be locked up again, just like the nice lady with the fingers. It was his fault. He was the one who pushed and destroyed every bond that had ever tried to be established. Frigga, Odin, the finger lady, Thor.

How many times had he silently cried out to them? Hoping that someone would be observant enough to notice how deep the soul wounds went? Banner had noticed, Banner had noticed the scars around his mouth when nobody else had even bothered to look. But he had pushed Banner away too.

Calling out to people he knew wouldn't call back.