The arm may be the one recent gift that Thor feels no shame over, and he easily allows her to admire it, flexing the fingers so she can study their movement up close. “A friend arranged to have it made for me by a god of the forge, Hephaestus. Even Nidavellir may not have made one so fine.” Though he supposes he may never know, now. Either way, it is the best prosthesis he could have asked for, and credit is due to the master smith who made it.
Furiosa’s arm has its own ugly sort of beauty about it, in Thor’s eye, a visible testament of human ingenuity and creativity. No healer or smith took care to craft it to match what she lost, and whether that’s because they couldn’t or she wouldn’t, it makes little difference. It’s a part of her, an expression of herself, practical and intimidating and efficient in its construction. It suits her well, he thinks, just as he’s come to recognize his one-eyed face in the mirror as his own.
“It comes off,” he confirms, though most of the days he goes without, the long sleeves of his hoodies tend to conceal what’s left from view. Those tend to be the days he feels least deserving of the help, though he would resist calling it self-punishment, if asked. Not that he has a better excuse prepared, either.
But he watches her take hers off, comfortable and relaxed with herself as she is, and feels a strange pang of nostalgia for Asgard-that-was, where warriors would wear their battlescars openly as trophies of glorious victories.
Or maybe that is just what everyone else had assumed.
After a moment or two, Thor follows suit, unzipping his hoodie and finding the hidden release points for his arm, and places it next to hers. It feels sort of strange, relaxed like the bonds he’d forged with brothers and sisters in arms, except he has never fought a battle at Furiosa’s side before. Maybe it’s just the lack of scrutiny, like others trying to determine how he might have been wounded, or maybe there really is something to sharing common ground like Steve had said. But either way, Thor finds that he doesn’t mind it so much, right now. And maybe that’s what gives him the courage to ask, “What happened to yours?”
no subject
Furiosa’s arm has its own ugly sort of beauty about it, in Thor’s eye, a visible testament of human ingenuity and creativity. No healer or smith took care to craft it to match what she lost, and whether that’s because they couldn’t or she wouldn’t, it makes little difference. It’s a part of her, an expression of herself, practical and intimidating and efficient in its construction. It suits her well, he thinks, just as he’s come to recognize his one-eyed face in the mirror as his own.
“It comes off,” he confirms, though most of the days he goes without, the long sleeves of his hoodies tend to conceal what’s left from view. Those tend to be the days he feels least deserving of the help, though he would resist calling it self-punishment, if asked. Not that he has a better excuse prepared, either.
But he watches her take hers off, comfortable and relaxed with herself as she is, and feels a strange pang of nostalgia for Asgard-that-was, where warriors would wear their battlescars openly as trophies of glorious victories.
Or maybe that is just what everyone else had assumed.
After a moment or two, Thor follows suit, unzipping his hoodie and finding the hidden release points for his arm, and places it next to hers. It feels sort of strange, relaxed like the bonds he’d forged with brothers and sisters in arms, except he has never fought a battle at Furiosa’s side before. Maybe it’s just the lack of scrutiny, like others trying to determine how he might have been wounded, or maybe there really is something to sharing common ground like Steve had said. But either way, Thor finds that he doesn’t mind it so much, right now. And maybe that’s what gives him the courage to ask, “What happened to yours?”