Casting aside the paper and pen, Loki reaches out to Clint. He doesn't care if he's injured, he doesn't care if it hurts, he needs to feel his arms around him. Needs it more than breathing, more than anything.

There isn't much moisture left in his body, but what little there is seems to go to the tears slipping quietly down his cheeks.

It does hurt. Everything. The shifting as Clint slides onto the bed, the pressure of his arms around Loki, but he doesn't care. Floating in the void of space is a strange mixture of numbness and pain. Eventually it seems to seep into you, carving out who you were and leaving only empty nothingness in it's place. This, the pain, the warmth, the sensation of love that radiates around them, fills that void. For the first time since Thanos' ship loomed over the Statesman, he feels a small measure of happiness.

Loki can't get his arms around Clint, so he settles for grasping the front of his shirt. He's sure the human can feel the slight tremble to his frame, but it doesn't matter. Clint has seen him in worse states.

Well, at least emotionally speaking.

Loki shakes his head, his grip tightening just a little. He would fight the universe itself to stay with him from now until the human draws his final breath.

He isn't sure how long they stay like that, all time feels weird after a stay in the void, especially one as long as a year. Eventually he scoots back just enough to be able to look at Clint's face and give him a weak smile.

Weak as he is, Loki does his best to return the kiss. He's more relaxed than he has been in a very long time, but at Clint's words, his eyebrows draw together again. His mind starts turning, taking in everything from the few minutes he's been conscious.

Venezuela. The dirty room, Clint's demeanor.

The silence of the space they're in.

Fast as he can, Loki reaches back to grab the pad of paper he'd been writing on earlier. He holds it up to Clint and taps insistently at something already written there.

Where Laura? Kids?

Gone. Thanos. Stones.

Loki remembers one thing from the void. A strange wash of energy that passed over him like a wave. It felt foreign, yet somehow so familiar. At the time he thought little of it. He thought little at all, actually. But now his stomach drops as he realizes with sickening revelation what that sensation was.

Half of all life. Gone. Three-fifths, in Loki's case.

A burning forms in his chest that he knows isn't from any of his physical injuries as he thinks about them, gone. Taken in there prime of their lives. He knew he would outlive them all, but that always came with the comfort of actually getting to see them live, that when their time came they would have had happy and full lives. Not this.

He thinks about Clint on the homestead. Playing or eating or even just existing until suddenly all went quiet. Clint, trying to find them, learning where they went, that they weren't coming back. Loki knows he should ask about Asgard, about Thor, but right now all he can focus on is the burning pit of too many emotions in his chest.

Trembling even harder now, he buries his face in Clint's chest again and lets out a strangled cry. It hurts and he's pretty sure he can taste blood, but it doesn't matter. The physical pain is nothing.

As if he needs to disclose it.

Loki pulls himself impossibly closer to Clint, clinging to the one solid thing apparently left to him. What kind of cruel joke is this? He's finally found happiness, only to have it ripped away. Again.

Clint. Alone. Well, not alone, with Natasha, but still without his family. Suffering through that, then learning Loki's (supposed) fate. Fuck.

"S-Sorry." It's barely a whisper. Whispering still hurts, but not as much. Clint probably doesn't want him injuring himself more, but Loki needs to say it. "Tried to stop him."

Loki shakes his head again. He doesn't care if it hurts, he just wants to talk! The one thing that was always his, his voice, his words, taken from him. Insult to injury.

They had talked about learning sign language as a family. Clint's hear loss seemed stable, but the doctors said it could get worse at any time. They were going to start when the children went back to school in the fall, the adults taking an online course Laura had found while the children studied it in school.

So many plans. It really did feel like they had eternity.

He tries to speak again, but this time the noises truly won't come. He lets out a whine that part frustrated, part agony. His throat is so dry, yet the idea of water still holds no draw. Nothing does but staying here in Clint's arms.

Loki grimaces at the water bottle, but takes it nonetheless. It's awkward from this angle, so he does his best to sit up slightly. Just enough to be able to tip the bottle up for a small trickle of water to stream over his dry tongue. Why had he been so hesitant.

At first it feels wonderful, soothing some of the burn in his throat for a brief moment. But as Loki is wont to do, he gets greedy, tipping the bottle up more for more water. The increased flow, however, forces some liquid down his throat the wrong way, causing him to choke and cough. The bottle slips from his grip, soaking the front of his shirt and blanket, assuming Clint does not catch it first.

While Loki is grateful Clint is there to help him, he absolutely hates feeling this helpless. He isn't a child, he shouldn't need someone to keep him from spilling water everywhere or someone to fluff his pillows and help him change. Loki grimaces, but allows Clint to maneuver him all the same. It's not much, but he does attempt to help where he can, rolling to allow access, bracing as much as his atrophied muscles will allow.

Wounded pride, despair, relief- it all swirls inside of him like a solar storm ready to burn it's way out of him at any moment. He feels so raw and tired.

When Clint moves to get said towel or shirt, Loki's grip on his hand tightens for a brief second to stop him before he brings it to his lips. A gentle kiss placed on the scarred knuckles.

Loki closes his eyes and leans into the touch, nuzzling Clint's palm in a way that he hopes conveys how much he missed him as well.

Reluctantly Loki lets go of his hand so Clint can move about the space. He watches him every step of the way and listens for footsteps for the short time he is not in view. When Clint returns, Loki takes the towel and does his best to dab up the water himself. Luckily there isn't much on teh bed thanks to the human's fast reflexes.

He doesn't think anything of the request to raise his arms, but quickly finds it to be more difficult than it should. As soon as his shoulders begin to move more pain lances across his shoulders and up his neck. Gritting his teeth against another cry of pain, he holds the position for only as long as it takes to slip the shirt onto his arms. When they're lowered again Loki finds himself panting as if he'd just run several miles.

All he can do is nod at the assentation. He can't even lift his arms, much less walk. Magic is right out of the question, all his body's energy going to repairing the copious amounts of damage.

Between the exhaustion and the comfort of Clint's shirt, the withering look Loki gives him lacks any bite. At least the effort is there. He settles back on the bed, grabbing the pen and paper again.

Bath nice.

Why are you here?

Clint's right. As soon as he gets into bed, Loki does his best to snuggle up next to him without aggrivating any of his injuries too much. A little pain is a fine trade off for the comfort of the other's touch, though.

Loki's condition also means his bullshit detector isn't working quite right at the moment, but that doesn't stop him from narrowing his eyes.

Retirement?