For Thor, having Loki here is a relief, but there is also a homesick pang nestled deep under his ribs. Both for his own brother who died at the Mad Titan's hand, and for the other that has been away for a worryingly long time. But he would not trade his brother's presence away for solitude, not right now, his smile unforced despite the pain.
This one is pricklier than the one that Thor has come to know, and it's not difficult to tell them apart. Thor gives him a hearty squeeze around the shoulders before dropping his arm and opening the door. He's not going to justify that crack about his gardening with a dignified response. "Well, come on in then."
Thor's house is a modest affair, especially compared to the golden palace of Gladsheim where Odin's sons spent their youth. The walls are painted a creamy offwhite, decorated here and there with woven tapestries or framed photos of space taken by the Hubble telescope. Most of the furniture is old and well-worn, but still in good shape, and the television in the living room predates Midgard's modern tendency to make electronics as thin as possible. The bookshelves hold a few keepsakes from Thor's days with the Avengers, as well as an assortment of children's books, which are one of the few places in his home that appear wiped clean of dust from constant use. A few toys are scattered on the rugs that cover the hardwood floors, and a thicker book that looks as though it may be a textbook on Earth history. A few empty beer bottles are collected on the coffee table next to a potted plant, but other than that, there is very little clutter.
Mounted on the wall over the mantel, on a pair of slightly crooked brackets, is an enormous battleaxe that looks dwarvish-made if not for the strangely organic wood of the handle. This too is free of dust, the metal never in need of polishing. Mjolnir is nowhere to be seen.
Thor moves to the kitchen, a mere half-wall separating it from the living room, and taps a keg on the counter to pour a glass of mead for himself and his brother. It's the strong stuff, brewed by the dwarves and far more potent than anything humans could make. "Here you are," he says, handing over the glass, a faint pink flush to his cheeks. "Sorry I don't have proper steins yet. A lot of this stuff was, um, inherited from the previous owner."
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This one is pricklier than the one that Thor has come to know, and it's not difficult to tell them apart. Thor gives him a hearty squeeze around the shoulders before dropping his arm and opening the door. He's not going to justify that crack about his gardening with a dignified response. "Well, come on in then."
Thor's house is a modest affair, especially compared to the golden palace of Gladsheim where Odin's sons spent their youth. The walls are painted a creamy offwhite, decorated here and there with woven tapestries or framed photos of space taken by the Hubble telescope. Most of the furniture is old and well-worn, but still in good shape, and the television in the living room predates Midgard's modern tendency to make electronics as thin as possible. The bookshelves hold a few keepsakes from Thor's days with the Avengers, as well as an assortment of children's books, which are one of the few places in his home that appear wiped clean of dust from constant use. A few toys are scattered on the rugs that cover the hardwood floors, and a thicker book that looks as though it may be a textbook on Earth history. A few empty beer bottles are collected on the coffee table next to a potted plant, but other than that, there is very little clutter.
Mounted on the wall over the mantel, on a pair of slightly crooked brackets, is an enormous battleaxe that looks dwarvish-made if not for the strangely organic wood of the handle. This too is free of dust, the metal never in need of polishing. Mjolnir is nowhere to be seen.
Thor moves to the kitchen, a mere half-wall separating it from the living room, and taps a keg on the counter to pour a glass of mead for himself and his brother. It's the strong stuff, brewed by the dwarves and far more potent than anything humans could make. "Here you are," he says, handing over the glass, a faint pink flush to his cheeks. "Sorry I don't have proper steins yet. A lot of this stuff was, um, inherited from the previous owner."