#send a thing

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Loki was 2/3 into his ninth bottle of Stark’s most expensive scotch. Prior to that, the trickster had drained three glasses of wine, three tumblers of whiskey, and had been part-way through his fourth glass of scotch before simply taking the bottle and upending it. It’d been maybe three hours; perhaps four. Loki wasn’t sure of much other than that the colors of the city lights below Stark Tower were bleeding through his vision, blurring around the periphery of his field of sight, but in that dark under armor suit Tony Stark stood as a cool beacon amongst the smears of sickly orange and yellow.

The alluring blue glow of his reactor certainly aids in focusing the god’s attention enough to answer the man’s question.

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Loki lays the angel out flat on his back, one hand on the front of his shoulder and the other determinedly holding the gore-soaked cloth to the weeping wound in Castiel’s abdomen. He’s certain he’s never seen such blood loss before in his life and he pales along with the bleeding angel, taken aback by the question as he’s unsure how to answer it.

Castiel could always tell when he was lying.

He spread his fingers and adjusted the fabric gauze against the laceration as he craned his neck to press a kiss to Cas’ forehead, a halfhearted attempt at blocking his view of his own bloodied trunk. His eyes had paled to powder blue, the flecks within them like azure lightning. The way his breathing hitched made the god’s chest clench, his diaphragm grow taut.

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With how much blood was pouring from the wound, there was no questioning whether or not an artery had been knicked. It seemed, by that point, to be moot anyway; the fact of the matter was that Loki was bleeding out Jim Kirk’s apartment floor and it seemed there was nothing either of them could do about it.

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     The four words are coughed more than they’re spoken and droplets of blood are sent with them, spattering the assassin’s alabaster skin with smears of vermilion. He didn’t have time for weighing pros and cons. The fact of the matter was, the Black Widow’s life had been placed in his hands.

     All that remained was whether or not he would (or even could) walk away.

     Another wet cough spurred him to act. He felt down her thigh, seized the gun there and pulled it from his holster. She didn’t react; something Loki found equal parts satisfying and chilling. To add to the certain surreality of it all, he could have force fed her the muzzle of her own gun and painted the headboard with the contents of her mind. Yet, when she drew a choked breath, he began dismantling the weapon. And quickly.

     He’d disassembled the weapon and was down to bearings. From the barrel, he found his tool: a long, narrow tube akin to the barrel of a syringe. That would have been his preferred tool, but as he was running low on supplies and time (Natasha was growing paler by the minute), this would work. It had to.

      He didn’t hesitate or prepare her for what was to come. He permitted the benefit of the doubt: she had been through much worse and more than once. This would be leisurely in comparison, he mused, and as he raise the hand which gripped the metal tubule he met her eyes and locked his jaw before plunging into her chest cavity.

      To her credit, she didn’t make a sound. He was sure one or two of her ribs suffered the brunt of the blow as the shaft was forced between two of the costal bones but all she did was take a breath. In doing so, her lungs inflated and the blood which had collected in her thorax and caused her lung to collapse was forced out through the barrel protruding from her side. One breath and her sheets were soaked with crimson. Another and her voice had returned completely. By the third, color was returning to her face and her eyes had rolled closed in relief. It wasn’t a day at the spa, surely, but vanquishing that pressure in her chest cavity was surely as close to respite as she could get in her current predicament.