After Ragnarok, Thor's pride had made him reluctant to accept charity from others, even knowing that there was little to no chance that the remnant of Asgard would survive with anything less. He had bartered and borrowed to the best of his ability, fed and clothed his people on promises of repayment after they reached their new home, determined not to let his once-proud people become beggars.
But now they live in dead people's homes, wearing dead people's clothing and eating dead people's food. Or abandoned, but in the end it makes little difference. There is no place in this new world for reluctance to use what is still here, because half the world no longer needs it. And Thor is fairly certain he has no pride left to stand in the way, anyway. "Thank you," he says quietly, still not quite making eye contact, half afraid of what he will see if he does, and unsure whether he prefers condemnation or pity more.
That he continues speaking comes as much a surprise to him as it might to Steve, though it's hesitant and halting. "The people are... adjusting. Learning new crafts we need. Fishing, mostly. Not much farmland yet, too rocky, might be able to fix that. Too late to plant this year though." Too late. How he's come to hate those words. Thor takes a pull of his ale to deflect from it, for his own sake as much as his guests'.
Though Rocket has never been a stickler for keeping things neat and tidy, he hasn't been able to resist the urge to clean up a little too, washing up the dishes in the sink. He leans in the doorway between the living room and the small kitchen, drying a plate with a decorative hand towel as he listens. "The folks in town looked pretty well spread out," he comments casually. And maybe it's a bad idea to ask directly, but he's never been terribly good at the whole sensitivity thing, either. "How many are there, anyhow?"
Thor stares down into the glass bottle in his hand as if he could refill it by sheer force of will, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he forces the numbers out. "Eight hundred and twenty-two." It's more than there should have been, he knows. Over three hundred saved by being evacuated to the Nexus, mostly children, who are alive now because of it. Yet Asgard once numbered in the tens of thousands, and he cannot forget that every time he looks at them.
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But now they live in dead people's homes, wearing dead people's clothing and eating dead people's food. Or abandoned, but in the end it makes little difference. There is no place in this new world for reluctance to use what is still here, because half the world no longer needs it. And Thor is fairly certain he has no pride left to stand in the way, anyway. "Thank you," he says quietly, still not quite making eye contact, half afraid of what he will see if he does, and unsure whether he prefers condemnation or pity more.
That he continues speaking comes as much a surprise to him as it might to Steve, though it's hesitant and halting. "The people are... adjusting. Learning new crafts we need. Fishing, mostly. Not much farmland yet, too rocky, might be able to fix that. Too late to plant this year though." Too late. How he's come to hate those words. Thor takes a pull of his ale to deflect from it, for his own sake as much as his guests'.
Though Rocket has never been a stickler for keeping things neat and tidy, he hasn't been able to resist the urge to clean up a little too, washing up the dishes in the sink. He leans in the doorway between the living room and the small kitchen, drying a plate with a decorative hand towel as he listens. "The folks in town looked pretty well spread out," he comments casually. And maybe it's a bad idea to ask directly, but he's never been terribly good at the whole sensitivity thing, either. "How many are there, anyhow?"
Thor stares down into the glass bottle in his hand as if he could refill it by sheer force of will, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he forces the numbers out. "Eight hundred and twenty-two." It's more than there should have been, he knows. Over three hundred saved by being evacuated to the Nexus, mostly children, who are alive now because of it. Yet Asgard once numbered in the tens of thousands, and he cannot forget that every time he looks at them.