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While Loki’s basically on house arrest, he’s at least allowed his own room to sleep in without someone watching his every move– even though he’s aware the tower is still watching him in some sense with the different cameras.
It’s nice, he thinks, to have an ounce of privacy without someone breathing down his neck, especially now since he seems to have contracted whatever bug that left Thor laid up for a couple of days.
Thor had a fever and a slight cough, nothing more and nothing less. Loki, however, has a fever bad enough that he’s almost grown accustomed to the room spinning with each slow blink and the deep chill that’s settled across his bones. The coughing, though, is quite… unpleasant.
It started out small, more throat clearing than actual coughing, but it’s gotten worse with each passing day until he’s left falling into gripping fits that double him over and leave him breathless. His chest aches with a burning pressure that no amount of cold water and air can relieve– it feels as if his lungs can’t function properly.
Death is his first guess– fitting, he thinks. Thor would be stricken down with a mundane cold while he gets hit with some hellish version of the plague. He keeps himself in his room, avoiding contact with the others because he’s miserable and he wishes to be miserable alone. And, the others don’t seem to mind; in fact, it appears they prefer it– considering not one has checked in on him, only sending shift workers to leave food by his door.
Loki rolls over when he hears the gentle knock indicating that dinner has arrived; he drapes an arm over his eyes, panting lightly for deep breaths have become a rarity. He’s simultaneously boiling hot and icy cold; his hair’s clinging to the sweat shining against his forehead, yet he’s shivering despite the two blankets piled over him.
Death, he considers again. His punishment for his actions is a slow and tortuous death. With a small sigh, he sits up with the hope that there’s hot tea with his dinner. He hasn’t had much of an appetite for anything, but tea would be lovely, warm and soothing to a chilled core and an irritated throat.
The second he’s on his feet, though, the room tilts, leaving his head swimming until he’s dropping to his knees. His lung tremble against harsh breaths, and next thing he knows, he’s coughing, sharp, barking coughs, over and over and over until his vision grows dark.
His last lucid thought is a firm “shit” before his world goes black.
*****
“Dr. Banner?”
Bruce pauses, fork hovering in front of his mouth. “Yes, FRIDAY?”
“Loki has lost consciousness.”
At this, Thor goes rigid in his seat, knuckles going white against the handle of his mug, but Bruce only shrugs and slips the fork into his mouth. “Probably serves him right,” Bruce mutters around his food.
“Dr. Banner, his temperature is 105.2 degrees Fahrenheit, and he appears to be suffering from severe respiratory distress.”
Bruce chokes on his food, coughing as he reaches for his water. “His temp is really that bad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does that mean?” Thor asks, watching with furrowed brows as Bruce slips from his seat.
“Not good,” Tony offers as Bruce starts toward the door with Tony and Thor hot on his heels.
The three make it to Loki’s designated room in record time, and when Bruce opens the door, his heart leaps toward medical mode in the blink of an eye. He crouches beside Loki, frowning at the pale, hollow face that’s pinched inward to show physical pain. He notes that Loki has one hand clutching his shirt at his chest, and he palms Loki’s forehead when he picks up on the harsh shivers.
FRIDAY was right– that’s one thing for sure. Loki’s burning, borderline boiling, and as far as Bruce can see, he’s not taking in much air, only small, crackling wheezes.
“Banner,” Thor demands, watching from behind at the poor state of his brother. “What is wrong?”
“Seems like pneumonia,” Bruce starts, getting to his feet. “But I won’t know for sure until I run some tests.” He pauses, looking past Thor to Tony. “Go make sure the med bay is prepped, and Thor,” he starts, pulling a quick gaze to the blonde. “I need you to carry him there. We need to be quick; we can’t afford to wait for a gurney.”
Tony only nods and leaves the room, trusting Bruce’s judgement, and Thor obliges, easily scooping up Loki with a frown.
“Brother,” Thor mutters as he follows Bruce out the door. “You have gotten thin..”
*****
Loki comes to as if waking from a coma; his head is foggy, and there’s a dull ache that stretches through his body. He’s not sure where he is or how he got there; hell, he’s not even sure of the day. All he knows is that everything hurts, there’s a mask covering his mouth, there are IVs sticking out of his body, and Thor is dozing in a chair beside his bed.
Weakly, he lifts one hand to move the mask from his lips. “Thor,” he croaks out with a wince, and in a second, Thor is awake and leaning toward him with impossibly wide, worried eyes.
“Brother, you are awake.” There’s relief coloring Thor’s tone– relief Loki hasn’t heard directed toward him for a long while.
“I will find Banner-”
“-wait,” Loki interrupts with a harsh cough. “What… happened?”
“We found you collapsed in your room,” Thor starts. “Banner says you have some infection of the lung.”
“Banner?” The word leaves a poor taste in Loki’s mouth, but the shock is enough to have him parroting back the name. “He helped?”
“Of course he helped,” Thor says, almost sharply. “He says you could have died had FRIDAY not notified us of your well-being.”
Banner kept death from him? Loki frowns, coughing into his fist as he allows Thor’s words to sink in.
“I am going to retrieve him.”
Loki doesn’t argue this time; he only watches silently as Thor leaves the room and returns moments later with Banner following close behind.
Bruce keeps quiet as he moves through the motions of checking Loki’s vitals, and it leaves Loki borderline on edge until Bruce finally speaks.
“How are you feeling?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just answer the damn question.”
Loki wants to withdraw against the sharp tone, but he manages to keep his face cool and calm. “I’ve been better.”
Nodding, Bruce glances toward the chart in his hand before looking back up to meet Loki’s eyes. “You’ve got pneumonia. My guess is you caught Thor’s cold and ignored it until it blew up.”
“Your guess?” Loki starts, arching one brow. “You are a doctor, are you not? Doctors do not guess.”
“Loki,” Thor warns just as Bruce drops the chart to a side table with a loud slap.
“Thank you for saving my life,” Bruce starts, shooting a narrow glare toward Loki. “That’s the appropriate response– thank you.” He turns on his heel and starts toward the door, stopping only to spare a short gaze toward Thor. “Only come get me if he stops breathing.”
Loki winces slightly as Bruce slams the door, and he keeps his gaze locked to the smooth metal of the door, even after Thor reclaims his seat by his bed.
“Why do you stay?” He questions quietly, voice gravely and hoarse.
“You are my brother.”
“We don’t like each other.”
“But you are still my brother.”
Loki wordlessly slips the mask back over his mouth and closes his eyes. His chest is growing warm from a rare feeling that he wishes to shut out, so he opts to sleep.
Sleep is the only escape for this odd feeling of compassion, after all.