Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-05-01 07:48 am
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-05-01 07:48 am
We All Fall Down
[OOC: This prose addresses Thor's mental state after Infinity War, set before Endgame. There are no significant plot spoilers for Endgame, but use your own judgment on whether this qualifies as a spoiler for you. Trigger warnings: Depression, self-blame, the beginning of alcohol abuse. Thor is not okay; this is all hurt no comfort.]
Thor hasn't really spent much time in the Avengers compound to know for sure, but it seems far too quiet.
It's a building made for a staff of hundreds, for dozens of Earth's mightiest heroes to take refuge within its walls, but the halls seem hushed like the inside of a tomb. There is no music, no laughter, no murmur of people going about their lives. Thor is given a room for his own use, but he has nothing to put in it besides Stormbreaker, which leans against the corner gathering dust, and a battered metal arm that sits discarded on an otherwise empty desk.
He has not moved from his bed for four days.
At first, it was exhaustion of the body. Thor had ached from the battle, and from the massacre that preceded it, his body beaten and broken and patched back together to get him back in the fight as quickly as possible. There had been no time to rest and recuperate, adrenaline and grief and anguished rage keeping him moving until at last the snapping of titanic fingers had crushed the fight from his soul. Too late.
So once they returned from the Nexus, he'd taken to the bed and slept for more than a day, dark troubled dreams haunting him in his sleep, his body too drained to jolt awake and save him from the torment. When he'd finally woken, the darkness and silence pressed down on him like a heavy blanket of water, drowning him and stealing the breath from his lungs. Worthless. Unworthy.
Trillions dead, because of Thor's arrogance. Because of his failure.
There is no cleansing that blood from his hands, no gesture he could possibly make that would alleviate the pain of others. There are those in the compound who are grieving also, their friends turned to dust and ash before their very eyes, who could benefit from a helping hand, a listening ear. But not Thor's. He has caused too much grief already, his failure responsible for the horror that now envelops the universe whole. There is nothing he can do to change this, nothing to ease the unbearable pain of knowing that every life in existence now suffers because of him.
He rolls over to his side, and pulls the covers high, burying himself in suffocating darkness.
Vaguely, he is aware that he has had visitors, the days blending together into a hazy blur of anguish that seems to have no end. There have been soft touches to his wrist, his shoulder, as if to see if he still lives, the quiet murmur of a voice here and there, but Thor refuses to respond, his body too heavy with guilt and grief to do more than breathe as the agony of living gnaws at his heart. And eventually, they leave him alone again, the horrible silence creeping back to his side and latching itself to him like a parasite, feeding on the vast emptiness within his ribs.
Until the fifth day, when they refuse to leave him be.
There's a hand on his shoulder, a voice in his ear, a warm presence sitting at the edge of the bed. Thor ignores it at first, undeserving of the comfort that is offered to him, unworthy to do anything but endure this never-ending pain as if he could bear it for all those he's harmed, and still it is not enough. But time passes, and the presence does not leave, gently rubbing at what's left of his arm as if to soothe him. Thor opens his eye, and Banner smiles down at him, faint and fragile. "Hey, there you are. Come on. You gotta get up."
The voice he uses is gentle, soft, like trying to coax a wounded animal into trapping itself so it can be healed. A muted flash of anger bursts in Thor's chest only to die a quick death, smothered by the shame that he would need to be treated so. Weak. Pathetic.
Unworthy.
Thor shuts his eye again and tries to turn away, but now that he has revealed his awareness, Banner persists all the more. "Come on, Thor; you've been in here for days. We're all worried about you." Hearing that he's caused more distress is like an arrow in Thor's lung, bleeding and sinking deeper toward his heart with every breath. Banner's hand squeezes his shoulder, solid and warm, and alive. "At least get up and eat something. We need you, man. Don't check out on us now."
The thought that they could need him is laughable, after what he's done, but Thor's throat is too dry to voice a protest. For the first time in days, he wonders how the others are doing, how well they are coping with the grief, and feels the ache of guilt like a knife in his belly that he hasn't done it far sooner.
If seeing him will ease any of their pain, then, he will do it. For them.
It's all he's good for, now.
So he nods, and lets Banner pull him from the bed, a monumental task that seems all the more wearying once he's on his feet. He stands in the lukewarm spray of the shower and does little else to cleanse himself, leaving damp hair uncombed and beard untrimmed, and hides himself in layers of soft clothing instead of blankets, one sleeve hanging nearly empty. But it is enough to brighten the look in Banner's eyes when Thor finally emerges from his room, and so Thor swallows down his misery and follows him to the kitchen, where some of the others are gathered.
He cannot muster a smile at their greetings and idle comments, avoiding meeting their eyes, but murmurs a reply that seems to soothe their worries enough that they don't press him further. The compound's kitchen is well-stocked with a wide variety of foods to cook, but Thor is in no state to spend long minutes preparing anything and waiting to eat, especially one-handed. So he grabs the first thing he sees that's ready to eat already, and one of the beer cans kept cold in the refrigerator. If he's going to face the world, even just this little part of it, drink could not hurt.
But Midgardian alcohol is weak. He supposes he'll have to have a lot of it, then.
He sits apart from the others, but it seems it is enough for them that he is upright and in the same room, so Thor cracks open the can and takes a long pull.
Thor hasn't really spent much time in the Avengers compound to know for sure, but it seems far too quiet.
It's a building made for a staff of hundreds, for dozens of Earth's mightiest heroes to take refuge within its walls, but the halls seem hushed like the inside of a tomb. There is no music, no laughter, no murmur of people going about their lives. Thor is given a room for his own use, but he has nothing to put in it besides Stormbreaker, which leans against the corner gathering dust, and a battered metal arm that sits discarded on an otherwise empty desk.
He has not moved from his bed for four days.
At first, it was exhaustion of the body. Thor had ached from the battle, and from the massacre that preceded it, his body beaten and broken and patched back together to get him back in the fight as quickly as possible. There had been no time to rest and recuperate, adrenaline and grief and anguished rage keeping him moving until at last the snapping of titanic fingers had crushed the fight from his soul. Too late.
So once they returned from the Nexus, he'd taken to the bed and slept for more than a day, dark troubled dreams haunting him in his sleep, his body too drained to jolt awake and save him from the torment. When he'd finally woken, the darkness and silence pressed down on him like a heavy blanket of water, drowning him and stealing the breath from his lungs. Worthless. Unworthy.
Trillions dead, because of Thor's arrogance. Because of his failure.
There is no cleansing that blood from his hands, no gesture he could possibly make that would alleviate the pain of others. There are those in the compound who are grieving also, their friends turned to dust and ash before their very eyes, who could benefit from a helping hand, a listening ear. But not Thor's. He has caused too much grief already, his failure responsible for the horror that now envelops the universe whole. There is nothing he can do to change this, nothing to ease the unbearable pain of knowing that every life in existence now suffers because of him.
He rolls over to his side, and pulls the covers high, burying himself in suffocating darkness.
Vaguely, he is aware that he has had visitors, the days blending together into a hazy blur of anguish that seems to have no end. There have been soft touches to his wrist, his shoulder, as if to see if he still lives, the quiet murmur of a voice here and there, but Thor refuses to respond, his body too heavy with guilt and grief to do more than breathe as the agony of living gnaws at his heart. And eventually, they leave him alone again, the horrible silence creeping back to his side and latching itself to him like a parasite, feeding on the vast emptiness within his ribs.
Until the fifth day, when they refuse to leave him be.
There's a hand on his shoulder, a voice in his ear, a warm presence sitting at the edge of the bed. Thor ignores it at first, undeserving of the comfort that is offered to him, unworthy to do anything but endure this never-ending pain as if he could bear it for all those he's harmed, and still it is not enough. But time passes, and the presence does not leave, gently rubbing at what's left of his arm as if to soothe him. Thor opens his eye, and Banner smiles down at him, faint and fragile. "Hey, there you are. Come on. You gotta get up."
The voice he uses is gentle, soft, like trying to coax a wounded animal into trapping itself so it can be healed. A muted flash of anger bursts in Thor's chest only to die a quick death, smothered by the shame that he would need to be treated so. Weak. Pathetic.
Unworthy.
Thor shuts his eye again and tries to turn away, but now that he has revealed his awareness, Banner persists all the more. "Come on, Thor; you've been in here for days. We're all worried about you." Hearing that he's caused more distress is like an arrow in Thor's lung, bleeding and sinking deeper toward his heart with every breath. Banner's hand squeezes his shoulder, solid and warm, and alive. "At least get up and eat something. We need you, man. Don't check out on us now."
The thought that they could need him is laughable, after what he's done, but Thor's throat is too dry to voice a protest. For the first time in days, he wonders how the others are doing, how well they are coping with the grief, and feels the ache of guilt like a knife in his belly that he hasn't done it far sooner.
If seeing him will ease any of their pain, then, he will do it. For them.
It's all he's good for, now.
So he nods, and lets Banner pull him from the bed, a monumental task that seems all the more wearying once he's on his feet. He stands in the lukewarm spray of the shower and does little else to cleanse himself, leaving damp hair uncombed and beard untrimmed, and hides himself in layers of soft clothing instead of blankets, one sleeve hanging nearly empty. But it is enough to brighten the look in Banner's eyes when Thor finally emerges from his room, and so Thor swallows down his misery and follows him to the kitchen, where some of the others are gathered.
He cannot muster a smile at their greetings and idle comments, avoiding meeting their eyes, but murmurs a reply that seems to soothe their worries enough that they don't press him further. The compound's kitchen is well-stocked with a wide variety of foods to cook, but Thor is in no state to spend long minutes preparing anything and waiting to eat, especially one-handed. So he grabs the first thing he sees that's ready to eat already, and one of the beer cans kept cold in the refrigerator. If he's going to face the world, even just this little part of it, drink could not hurt.
But Midgardian alcohol is weak. He supposes he'll have to have a lot of it, then.
He sits apart from the others, but it seems it is enough for them that he is upright and in the same room, so Thor cracks open the can and takes a long pull.