“No,” he says, a little sharper than he intended, not really sure why he’s so off-balance and feeling his heart rate pick up a little in agitation. He doesn’t need help bathing himself, he is a grown man centuries older than she is. Then why aren’t you doing it? his inner voice needles him, and for that, Thor has no answer. He’s not really aware that he’s wringing his hands, a gesture he’s inherited from his mother, which Harley may have seen Loki do on several occasions by now. Even if not for the disquieted look on his face, that gesture alone would betray his inner turmoil.

Maybe it’s cowardice after all, but he cannot seem to steady himself and hold a conversation at the same time, so if the shower is an excuse to seek a moment’s quiet and get his scattered thoughts together, then so be it. “Fine.”

He takes nothing with him into the bathroom, locking the door behind him and leaning against it for a good long moment with his hands over his face. What is wrong with him? This should not be as difficult as it is. Something else that he has brought upon himself, no doubt. You’re stronger, Odin had told him, and Thor had believed it at the time. But he has since shown otherwise, hasn’t he? And maybe that was nothing more after all than a hallucination, brought on by Hela’s deathgrip on his throat. Or maybe his father had simply been wrong. It would not have been the first time.

It takes him several long minutes to just get undressed and run the water, feeling as though he is slogging a path uphill through mud for all the effort it takes. And when he finally drags himself out again, it’s been far longer than he should’ve taken.