Thor is not remotely confident that this will work. It hadn't before, why would this be any different? Maybe he'll let her try, and he'll fail, and that will be the end of it. The alternative frightens him in a way he can't articulate, which makes no sense even to himself. It should be less frightening to reclaim what he used to be, surely? And yet the alcohol has been a crutch for long enough that it feels like... like... losing a limb.

His prosthetic fingers curl into a loose fist.

Donating his stores sounds reasonable, but he visibly bristles at the idea of dumping the precious mead. "I can't just waste it! It's dwarven, it's not being made anymore." Dwarven, not Asgardian, but a product of the Nine Realms and one whose makers are gone. Asgard has lost so much of its culture that voluntarily discarding even this small part of it is something he won't even consider.

Time and patience, she says... Thor has far too much of one and not enough of the other. He looks down at his hands on the table, drumming his fingers nervously against it. This isn't going to work. He just knows it. "I can't... sleep without it. Not without dreams."