pirateangelbaby | Even a God Can Need a Friend [Open to friends]

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Even a God Can Need a Friend [Open to friends]

[OOC: This post and its threads may contain Endgame spoilers. Potential trigger warnings include depression, alcohol abuse, and suicidal thoughts. (See the bottom section of Thor's updated permissions page for more detail on relevant warnings, Thor’s triggers, and a disclaimer about his narration style.) If you intend to tag Thor and are sensitive to this kind of content, please let me know before we begin so that I can provide a safer roleplay experience for you. Individual threads on this post will not be warned for on a case by case basis.

Thor has left his current address with the remaining Avengers, Loki (

coldsong), Prometheus (

liverfree), and Sif (

lady_sif). Other close friends are welcome to visit by getting coordinates from those listed, which may be done offscreen (of the Avengers, Rocket is the most likely to be out and about in the Nexus right now) - if in doubt, please ask the relevant mun. This post is intended to provide Thor with moral support as he grapples with his mental health; each thread will be treated as though it is a different day entirely so his mood and the immediate setting may vary. I do not mind slow tags, and this post will be perpetually open for a long while, so don't worry if you can't get to it right away but still want to play.]

Above the Arctic Circle, in the far north of Norway, the village formerly known as Henningsvær sprawls out across a tiny chain of islands. Despite the approach of summer, the weather is cool and overcast, sea breezes often sweeping through the narrow streets. For those approaching by road, the small single-lane bridge leading from the mainland now boasts a hand-painted sign in Norsk and Asgardian runes welcoming visitors to Asvera, which the local humans have taken to calling New Asgard. Population: 832.

Though much of the world still feels half-empty and apocalyptic, there is little of that here. Asgard has filled the empty spaces, each house claimed and occupied, as well as several hotels that once served seasonal tourists. Fishing boats come and go from the harbor, dock workers hard at work learning to repair nets and lines, others processing the day’s catch for consumption. There is no market, no selling of goods; everything is distributed communally through the grocery on the main island, every citizen entitled to a share, every citizen expected to work to support the others, save for the children who are too young.

The village is quiet, but busy. There is always work to be done, or new skills to learn to survive in their new home. The king, however, may not be so easy to find. Here in the tiny Norwegian village, there is no golden palace to give visitors a place to start looking. Perhaps it’s best to ask for directions.

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If nothing else, it hasn't even crossed Thor's mind to be bothered that she's making herself at home in his house. Though he has mostly withdrawn from the world under the excuse that he needs to grieve, it's a paper-thin justification for retreating from anything else that might hurt him, a sham to cover his cowardice, a gnawing loneliness that he can't help but feel he deserves. He is not the only one who has lost, and that is perhaps part of the problem, knowing that he shoulders some of the blame for it happening in the first place.

Every time he sees that hollow look in another's eye, the one that reflects his own, he knows that he is the one who put it there. So he has been avoiding people, trying to drown out his thoughts with drink and mindless television, with little success. And he knows he should try something else, but he is trapped in a routine now, telling himself that he will make an effort tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.

Harley, at least, does not carry the shadow of this universal devastation in her eyes. The pain she carries is old, and Thor did not put it there, and maybe that's why he finds it easier to look at her as he stands awkwardly next to the couch, uncertain what to do next as she putters around in his kitchen.

"You...? Thank you. We... Asgard appreciates your kindness." He hasn't personally thanked most of those who have donated, but for a moment he remembers that he is supposed to be a king, though he looks and feels nothing like one, disheveled and in Midgardian clothes, his weapon propped in a corner with a small collection of bottlecaps scattered around its base.

"You know a good way for Asgard to show their appreciation. For a certain someone to maybe take a shower while the food is cooking..." Harley grins at him, then arches a suggestive eyebrow. "Unless, you do want me to sign up for a sponge bath. Because ohhhh baby..."

Showers and omelettes. Just two small steps to get over the hang over.

But she won't fight him too much on the shower front. Even though he desperately needs one.

Even though Thor does not know what a sponge bath is, he is more than familiar with that kind of look. Once, he would have reveled in it, cocky and self-assured of his attractiveness, young and virile and godly. Now, though... that has all been crushed under the weight of what he carries on his shoulders, and what he looks like has never mattered less to him than it does now.

He looks away, and doesn't smile. "I was going to." Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. He just doesn't see the point, not when he doesn't have to go out and let people see him. But now Harley is here, in his house, and even if she's not giving him judgmental looks he still imagines it anyway, and he deserves every minute of it. What kind of king can't even muster up the energy to make himself presentable, whether he's having company or not?

Harley doesn't see attractiveness in the same way as other people. She flirts with people who she is attracted to on a mental and social level, and it is not just about 'physical appearance'. So even though Thor does not feel he is attractive right now -- Harley is going to still flirt with him. It is part of her personality.

"I worked in a hospital, ya'know. So I do have experience if you wanna assistance." During her time in Arkham, there were many patients who had to be dragged to the showers. But Harley doesn't want to do that to Thor.

She flips the omelette, starting to cook the other side.

“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.

His sharp tone doesn't bother her. At least he is not throwing anything at her. Or trying to kill her.

The omelette is finished quickly enough. And Harley puts it on a clean plate, and pours a glass of orange juice for him -- leaving everything on the counter for him. And since she had to clean one plate for the meal... she makes herself busy by getting the other dirty dishes cleaned.

She is aware that it has been a long time, since Thor disappeared into the bathroom. The concern is knowing how long is too long, before she should go check on him (she had to stop several suicidal patients before at Arkham).

And yes, she had told him that she wasn't going to play maid... but really once she starts on the dishes, she finds herself cleaning the rest of the kitchen too.

Ten minutes. That is how much she will give him. If in ten minutes, he is not out of the bathroom -- then she will make sure he is still trying to be social.

There have been darker days, early on, when Thor had been in greater danger of seeking an end to his guilt and grief. He’d gone to Loki, during the worst one, the day he had finally slain the Titan and achieved nothing at all. It’s far too soon still for the burden to be lifted from him, even just a little, but perhaps he is becoming numb to the weight as the days have passed. In any case, it is not his intention right now, and though the water runs for more than ten minutes, he responds when she knocks on the door. “Just... give me a second.”

‘A second’ is more like another five minutes, but when he finally does come back out, he just looks tired. He’d forgotten to get a change of clothes, so he’s wearing the same ones again, and his hair drips a wet ring around his shoulders.

Thor still doesn’t feel as though his thoughts have steadied, but he’s braced himself to deal with company at least. His gaze darts over the kitchen, seeing where she’s cleaned up after him, and feels another pang of shame. “You don’t have to do that.” Though who will, if not him? The state of his house is proof enough how little he’s done to look after himself, and he’s ungratefully spurned the gift of having it in the first place.

"I am sure you would have gotten around to it... but it is a bit of a tendency." Harley starts a pot of tea, mostly for herself. "Back in the Aslyum… everything was kept so spic and span. It is one of the reasons why I don't like the smell of bleach..."

When one considers the fact that she had to use bleach to clean blood off the floor before... or that the Joker Toxin had a bleach-smell to it... Harley just can't stand the stuff anymore.

"That is the thing about hospitals.... everything is kept so sterile."

Thor cannot really relax until she stops cleaning, and while he's not consciously all that hungry, his stomach still growls a little at the smell of the omelette. Has he eaten today? Maybe it was yesterday. He doesn't recall, not when the days tend to blend together.

The small kitchen table has not been used since he moved in, preferring to take any meals - such as they are - to the living room, watching TV while he eats. But he pulls out a chair at the table and sits, awkward and uncomfortable, and sniffs at the orange juice, wishing it held something a little stronger. He's read about a drink called a screwdriver, maybe that could be something to try next.

"I've never been in one," he admits, after he realizes she's waiting for him to respond. It does not surprise him that humans would keep their healing halls so clean, though, without magic to sterilize and guard against infection.

Once Harley has her cup of tea, she does join him at the kitchen table. Just being a presence.

And if he is more comfortable talking about other subjects, she can do that.

"I spent too much time in Arkham. First as a psychiatrist aid, then a psychiatrist, then as one of their 'patients'." She makes quotation marks around the last word. "Arkham was a mental asylum... a hospital for those who were judged to be broken in the brain. It was no fun as a patient. The way you would be judged constantly."

"I was put in D Block. That is where they keep the criminals who are broken in the brain. Pretty nasty there."

He's just starting to pick at the food when she drops that little bomb on him, and any appetite he'd had evaporates in an instant. If she has told him before, he'd forgotten completely until just now. It had been something that would hit uncomfortably close to home before, when Thor had not understood the reality of Loki's 'madness,' unable to understand what had caused such a drastic break from the brother he'd thought he knew.

Now, of course, he knows all too well what it means. The humans have names for what's happening to him, but Thor does not know them, and naming a thing makes it no less real. No less a weakness on his part. Something has broken him, and he does not know if he can ever be repaired. And the brief time he's had to discuss such things with his brother does not undo centuries upon centuries of cultural training, that this is his fault, a failing on his part. Shameful. Coward. Unworthy.

Should have gone for the head.

Thor's fork is warping a little in his tight grip, and he stares down at the plate as if he fears to look anywhere else. He should say something, but no words come to him, neither a change of subject nor the typical meaningless filler meant to encourage her to continue.

Harley knows that she said something to cause Thor to be holding the fork in such a tight grip. And it is quite difficult for her to monitor what she says, due to the way her mind works. But she is trying to help...

"The friends I made in Arkham were some of the closest I ever had... well, at least until I came to the Nexus."

She reaches forward to put her hand on his, to encourage him to lighten the grip on that fork. "And now I have even more good friends."

It takes a conscious effort to drop the fork to the table with a dull clink, but he doesn’t feel any more at ease, nor can he meet her eye. His hand twitches like he wants to pull away, needing to do something but with no idea what. And that, perhaps, is the worst part of it. The war is over and there is nothing left for him to do. No goal to work toward. No real reason to do anything other than what he’s been doing so far, even knowing that he can’t cope like this forever.

She’d been a healer, she’d said. Or something like one. “Did Loki ask you to do this?” His voice is quiet, nothing like the boisterous man he once was, and even Thor is not sure why he’s asking. What difference it would make. Loki is not a healer, especially of the mind, and neither is Fonn. And though Eir survived the massacre and the culling that came after, even Asgard’s most skilled healer knows more of the body than the mind. And Thor cannot tell her of his need anyway, too ashamed of what he’s become. He is still the king, and he is supposed to be a beacon of strength for his people, especially in these dark times. But he can’t.

"Loki didn't specifically ask me to do anything." Harley shakes her head slightly. "I can tell that he does think of you, as he does consider you his Brother. And he has so much on his plate. You both do..."

She leans back in her chair. Sipping at her tea. "I am here because I wanted to see you. Because you are my friend."

And if he needs someone to break down with... she would be able to handle whatever he throws at her. Without a word to anyone else. Maybe he has to hear that.

"I ain't going to tell anyone what we talked about. That ain't anyone else's business..." Or even if he talks at all. It seems he is only comfortable with a few words right now.

"He is my brother," Thor says on reflex, because Loki's parentage matters far less to him than centuries of brotherhood. But then his breath catches, because the Loki that Harley knows is not the same one that Thor saw murdered before him, no matter how similar - or identical - their fates had been. Their shared histories. He lost Loki, and still has him, and it should be easier to mourn his brother when he can still visit him, talk to him. But all it's done is make his heart confused, conflicted.

Thor fumbles for the orange juice and takes a drink, forgetting for a moment that it's just juice and nearly recoiling at the unexpected sweetness, rather than the burn of alcohol. Some of it ends up in his beard and he swipes at it roughly with the back of his hand, clearing his throat to cover for his error, not nearly as successfully as he's hoping.

It has been a rare occasion in his life when Thor has ever felt the need for private counsel, and then it had always been with his closest and dearest friends, the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. Heimdall, sometimes. Or his mother, or on even rarer occasion, his father. But they are all dead, now, except perhaps only Sif. Wherever she is, she is beyond his knowing, and so he cannot go to her, either.

These are darker days than he has ever faced. And now he does it alone.

There's a liquid brightness to his eye, and he swipes at that too before tears can betray him further. Maybe... maybe it is best that it's Harley, right now. Someone he shares little history with, someone who knows what it is like to be driven to the brink and lose the way back, someone who does not see him as her king, or worship him as her god. But talking is difficult, especially about this, when he knows the panic will claw at the inside of his throat, waiting to be released at the wrong word. And yet... "I don't know what to do."

Edited 2019-06-21 00:29 (UTC)

Harley was not questioning Loki's parentage. It was more to the fact that she knows that Loki has been doing a lot of soul searching himself. And having Thor -- even another dimension's Thor -- in his life has meant the world to the other God. They are both confused and conflicted.

"Okay. Here is my two cents. You are stuck in this limbo of suffering and guilt. And there is no easy way out of limbo. Especially if you might be thinking you deserve to be there." Harley speaks softly.

"In my opinion, there are three options. One, you have the drive and passion to fight your way out of limbo. It is a hella of a climb, with lots of obstacles. But honestly, I think your fight has left you."

"Two, you drop to the very bottom, and go broken. That ain't easy either. It takes a strong person to be broken and just let everything out. It takes an even stronger person to find empowerment from that moment -- of that pure explosion of emotional truth. And find themselves to snap out of everything."

"And three... stay in Limbo. A quite sad option, since you eventually will push people who care about you away. And you lose that last sense of yourself."

Harley tilts her head. "But the thing you should know... is I am here for whatever direction you want to take. You want a fight -- I can help you fight. You want to break -- I can help you break. You want to stay in Limbo -- I will stay with you, even as others might not stay."

"I am here."

Maybe it is the Allspeak, or maybe Thor's mind is more broken than he'd thought, but he does not understand half of what she is talking about. He still listens, though, and tries to take it in, absently picking at the omelette which is getting cold on his plate. It is probably delicious but he can barely taste it, as if he cannot even allow himself to enjoy food anymore. Still, he's eating, and that is more than he had been doing when Harley arrived.

"I don't know what I want," he admits after a long moment, pushing little bites of egg around his plate with the slightly-crumpled fork. Aside from another drink. "I don't... there's no way to fix this."

He'd hoped. He'd really, really hoped that there would still be a way. That they could use the Stones to reverse the culling, and at least bring back half the universe, even if there was no hope for the murdered Asgardians. For Loki, and Heimdall, and a thousand others. He had staked it all on that hope, and it all came crashing down on him.

"Maybe the reasons there is no way to fix this... is because it is not meant to be fixed." Harley points out.

"Look at those eggs... I broke them. There was no way to fix the broken shells. But I was still able to make something out of the mess."

"I..." She points at herself. "Am broken. I am a mess. And I am not some project for someone to try to fix."

"If you are so caught up in finding a fix... then it ain't no wonder you are stuck in limbo. Looking for something that just ain't there."

"And by looking for that one particular thing... you miss everything else."

"No, I... I know that." Norns, he wishes he didn't. Wishes he still had some kind of hope. Something to keep him going, a promise of a better tomorrow. That he wouldn't look out on the tiny village and realize that this is it, forever.

Long live King Thor.

It is no secret that he blames himself for not stopping this, but it is a short leap to call up the memory of the Titan, sneering at them, secure in his victory that could never be undone. A tight fist seems to squeeze around Thor's chest, and his breathing harshens again. "It's my fault."

"It sucks hard what happened. And seriously, every single person who is left behind on your Earth lost someone. You'all are going through survivor's guilt."

Harley arched an eyebrow. "How the fuck is any of it your fault?"

If only the guilt that Thor carries was only the kind felt by survivors. That, he knows how to deal with. Feeling responsible for the murder of trillions... that is something else, and he does not know how to begin to cope.

There is a reason he has hardly spent a full day completely sober since Wakanda.

"Because I should've... should've..." Gone for the head. He can't say it, not without that voice slithering into his ears, and the metallic snap that followed, heralding the doom of half the universe. His voice chokes in his throat, the bands around his chest squeezing the breath from his lungs, and he abandons any attempt to continue eating in favor of pressing a hand to his chest as if it could do anything to halt the panic in its tracks.

It's his fault. His fault.

Harley moves, and goes to kneel by his side. She can see the panic building up... and him desperately holding it back.

"Sorry hun, but the should haves mean nothing. He would have done it, half a dozen different ways, no matter what had happened or no matter who was there. Sometimes the bad guy gets his win. And people get hurt."

"You just letting him continue to best you..."

No. No she doesn't understand, and he can't explain, not when it's a struggle just to breathe let alone speak. He could've done it. He could've. But he didn't. He had to savor it, to make the madman suffer instead of ending the threat. Trillions of people would be alive now if he had.

All Thor can do his shake his head, rubbing at his chest and rocking unsteadily, as if the waves of anxiety were physical ones, battering at his crumbling defenses. By now, he knows better than to think that this will kill him, that the crushing sense of impending doom is nothing more than an illusion - or wishful thinking, maybe - but it doesn't make it hurt any less, doesn't lessen the fear that twists in him like a knife.

He struggles to rein in his breathing, to find focus in the patterns others have helped him with, but it's difficult when his own body is rebelling against him. It feels like an eternity before it has any effect, heart pounding as though he has been in battle, though he has never wanted a weapon in his hand less than he does now.

Harley might have not heard the facts behind the situation -- but she does understand what he is feeling. That Thor holds himself responsible for not stopping Thanos.

And when he starts to rock unsteadily, she stands slightly to wrap her arms around him. She doesn't say anything, just holds him in that moment to give him a sense of something. The presence that she promised to be.

A hug is the last thing he'd expected, but he doesn't pull away either. Up close, it is easier to feel her breathing and try to wrestle his own into following, her arms a warm solid anchor to reality despite the fear sweeping him away.

It will be several long minutes before he begins to calm, the metal fingers of his left hand twisted tightly into the fabric of her shirt as if it will keep him rooted. It takes effort to let go, something he cannot blame on the prosthesis, and Thor swipes at his cheek to dry the dampness. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Even a God Can Need a Friend [Open to friends]

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