“You need to take better care of yourself,” Cy muttered angrily, blowing a fierce breath out through her nose. “And if you try to get up again I will sit on you.” The furrow between her brows had deepened considerably with her souring mood. She was definitely serious about the threat.
Loki quipped that he hadn’t known SHIELD’s headquarters were close enough for him to reach, let alone had known that they existed at all. He’d gotten lucky, then—he would have died alone in the wilderness, god or not, with the injuries Cy was reading off his chart. She was careful not to look like she was, but she was reading over Wilson’s shoulder. Broken ribs. Torn muscles. Multiple blunt force wounds. Cracked pelvis. Not to mention a healthy case of bronchial pneumonia that was causing his lungs to fill with mucus, and, to top everything off like a rotted cherry on the sundae from hell, he was underweight and malnourished.
Upon reading that, Cy dug around in the left breast pocket of her jacket, then checked the other. She produced a small wrapped bar that she held out to Loki without looking at him. “Here. It’s a fig bar. It’s good for you.” Cy was doing an excellent job of looking like she didn’t care if he took the food or not; she wished he would. He needed as many vitamins and calories as they could get into him in order to recover.