In Asgard-that-was, the king might have seen fit to offer a boon to such a friend, a token of appreciation and gratitude, no matter if it was accepted or not. Thor is in no position to do that now, without even a throne to his name, never mind a single silver in the treasury. It doesn't feel right, offering nothing but words, no matter how well-received they are.
Maybe one day. Right now, he is having a difficult time seeing a future where Asgard prospers as they once did. But it's enough that Prometheus accepts his thanks, meager though they are. At least it's something.
His expression sobers further at the question, and Thor looks away, though he impulsively wants to claim that he's fine and not to worry. Even he knows that Prometheus would not fall for it, no matter how earnestly Thor tries to pretend. "A few have come to see me," he says, which is not the same as him seeking them out, of course. "Harley's staying with me for a while." It's something he finds reassuring and aggravating in turns, chafing against being looked after as if he is an invalid, yet at the same time knowing that some days he is, no matter that his body is healed now. Why else would he struggle to get out of bed, or neglect to bathe and brush his hair? Why else would he feel so tired so often, when he does little to exert himself?
Thor continues fidgeting with the label on the glass bottle, studying it more closely so he doesn't have to look his friend in the eye. "I am... not well." It's a shameful thing for him to admit, no matter how many times he's told that it's to be expected, that he is not to blame for this weakness. He is a warrior, and a king, and a god besides. He's supposed to be strong.
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Maybe one day. Right now, he is having a difficult time seeing a future where Asgard prospers as they once did. But it's enough that Prometheus accepts his thanks, meager though they are. At least it's something.
His expression sobers further at the question, and Thor looks away, though he impulsively wants to claim that he's fine and not to worry. Even he knows that Prometheus would not fall for it, no matter how earnestly Thor tries to pretend. "A few have come to see me," he says, which is not the same as him seeking them out, of course. "Harley's staying with me for a while." It's something he finds reassuring and aggravating in turns, chafing against being looked after as if he is an invalid, yet at the same time knowing that some days he is, no matter that his body is healed now. Why else would he struggle to get out of bed, or neglect to bathe and brush his hair? Why else would he feel so tired so often, when he does little to exert himself?
Thor continues fidgeting with the label on the glass bottle, studying it more closely so he doesn't have to look his friend in the eye. "I am... not well." It's a shameful thing for him to admit, no matter how many times he's told that it's to be expected, that he is not to blame for this weakness. He is a warrior, and a king, and a god besides. He's supposed to be strong.