#thortony

It takes him a few moments to understand he isn’t lying under an open sky. The faded blue glow comes from a ceiling lamp somewhere to his left where it provides enough light for visibility, but not so much that it would blind him. It spills over curved walls like a waterfall, giving every surface a slightly fuzzy look that briefly makes him wonder if he’s still dreaming. That is when he realizes the ceiling is also curved and fitted with rows of murmuring air ducts that keep the space pleasantly cool. The soft pillow under his head carries a faint scent of lavender. Above him, a faded Stark Industries sticker sits over a white plastic slat. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the monotonous roar of engines and the muffled howl of the wind.

So he's on the Quinjet. That bodes well. Now if only he could figure out the rest.

He props himself up on his elbows and immediately feels the world blur at the edges. The gurney underneath him groans in protest but remains secured to the wall, its wheels firmly locked. Still, he tries to tread carefully as he grasps a side railing with an unsteady hand and gingerly reaches up with the other. His fingers meet a thick pad of gauze pressed over his left temple, kept in place with more gauze that wraps around his forehead in tight, thin strips. Dull pain ripples through him when he takes his hand away, causing the room to gray out. When his vision starts to clear, shadows crowd his peripheral vision, speaking in hushed, urgent whispers.

He’s awake.

Is he okay?

Thor? Can you hear me?

He wants to reply, but his mouth is dry as a bone. Even if he could speak, his thoughts will not translate into anything coherent so he just nods in the general direction of the voices. Soon, there is a warm hand cupping his face and a thin beam of light shining directly into his eyes. When the same hand carefully readjusts the bandages, the leaden weight in his head recedes just enough for recognition to trickle in.

“Alright,” he hears Bruce say through a fraying cloud of mist. “Pupils are responsive, even-sized and there’s no intraocular bleeding. So far, so good.” The man leans away, flicks off the offending light and lays a firm hand on Thor’s arm. “You alright there, bud? You’ve been out cold for about three hours.”

Moss-green eyes peer into him, seeking an answer Thor does not have. The dull throbbing in his temple spikes as he closes his eyes, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of events scattered across his mind like glass from a broken window. “Banner...” he mutters, as his tongue finally unties itself. “What happened? How...?”

His memories rush back before he can finish speaking, filling in lost time in short, quick flashes. A HYDRA cell hiding out in the Andes, a stormed military base, a well-oiled defense system waiting to strike. Tony in his comms, talking really fast about remote activation. A rush of cold air beside him, as something large and deadly tore the clouds to ribbons. A sharp intake of breath, a blur or red and gold, a loud curse that preceded a collision in mid air. And then, oblivion.

He opens his eyes just in time to spot Tony materializing behind Bruce with a can of energy drink and a bad case of helmet hair. The tension written upon his face in deep, worried lines eases up when he notices Thor’s sitting form, but his eyes remain hard and serious. "What happened?” he echoes in an almost incredulous tone. “You took a GTAM to the head is what happened! Next time do me a favor and shout a warning instead of shoving me out of the way. I promise I’m faster than I look.”

The words still carry that breathless laugh that only sneaks into Tony’s voice in times of extreme stress. Bruce shoots a reproachful glance in his direction. By now, he is probably beginning to question Steve’s decision of sending out only the three of them. What seemed like a simple mission at first had quickly taken several unexpected turns that almost required a Code Green at one point. Though they were ultimately successful, Thor is sure it will be a long time before Steve decides to split the team up again.

He shrugs and blinks away the red spots still dancing a merry jig before his eyes. Remains of dried blood speckle his left arm and shoulder when he looks down, trying to stabilize his field of vision. “I noticed it too late,” he says in a hoarse tone. “And you didn’t notice it at all. I had no other choice.”

Tony doesn’t reply, shaking his head with overt frustration. It isn’t clear if the sentiment is directed at himself, at Thor or at the entire situation. Before Thor can figure it out, Bruce’s training kicks in again, as he starts firing out questions about names, dates and nausea. When he slips away, satisfied with the answers he got, he seems oddly pensive, hands folded into long sleeves as he settles deep into the co-pilot seat. His face, reflected in the Quinjet’s windshield, bears the look of a man who was caught off guard on his day off.

Tony, in turn, lingers beside the gurney and drains the rest of the energy drink in one gulp. “Guess I gotta fix that rear view mirror,” he says offhandedly and casts a pointed glance at the bandages. “You’re lucky it just grazed you. If it had hit you straight on, your head would have been reduced to chunky salsa. Then who’d be my co-op in Resident Evil?”

The breathless laugh is back, punctuating his every word as Thor returns a chuckle of his own. “You’d find someone else. Barton is an archer. That requires strong, nimble fingers.”

“It sure does. It also requires interest in anything that isn't management sims. Why would anyone want to play something that feels like a job?”

“We just thwarted a HYDRA cell planning a bio-terrorist attack. I think you’ll find some similarities between this and the mission we left on pause.”

“Alright, smartass, point taken.” Tony leans against a curved wall, tapping his fingers over the wall  in a restless, stumbling rhythm. “You good? Comfy? Want some salted peanuts or something?”

“I’m alright.” Thor pauses, noticing the subtle shadow that lingers over Tony’s face just long enough to deepen his frown. “You’re troubled.”

Tony breathes a suffering sigh, like Thor has just stated the glaringly obvious. “Of course I’m troubled, Sunshine. If you get killed, we’d never live it down. Can you imagine us showing up on Asgard with a coffin and a bunch of condolences? Yes, we know your people have a lifespan best measured in centuries but we managed to break your strongest guy in less than six months. Talk about an interplanetary embarrassment."

He crumples the empty energy drink can against his knee as a grim smile touches his lips. The brown eyes stare out the porthole to his left, as if determined to avoid him at all costs. That strange, inscrutable expression settles in them again and Thor thinks of fellow Asgardian warriors, too proud to be helped to their feet or be dragged out of the path of a Marauder’s crossbow bolt. In the few months he has known Tony Stark, he has never come across as this kind of person. He is ready to reevaluate his first impression until another, much more somber memory bubbles up in his mind. That of a Nidavellir scout, the only survivor of a mine collapse, kneeling before an altar with a very similar look. Though Thor was very young back then, too young to be part of a royal delegation, he could never bring himself to forget that look of penitence, grief and shame. It wasn’t until they left Nidavellir that he learned how the scout’s brother had pushed him to safety, right before the mountain claimed him and the rest of his kin.

Now that he thinks about it, the scouts eyes were a very similar shade of brown.

He wants to say he’s honored by Tony’s concern. He wants to tell him he has nothing to be ashamed of. He even wants to boast that he is a lot harder to kill than the team thinks, even if that’s bending the truth a little bit. Most of all, he is touched to merit that look after spending only four months in their company.

Instead, he reaches out and gives Tony’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t plan on dying,” he says. “Someone has to watch your back in the air.”

Tony turns around to raise an eyebrow at him. For a second, the shade of a proud Asgardian warrior wakes in his stare and fades just as quickly. “No one plans on dying, Point Break,” he replies and clasps his hand over Thor’s wrist, returning the firm grasp. “Get some rest. We should be home in two hours, unless the weather is bad.”

“It won’t be. I’ll make sure of that.”

Tony lets out a genuine laugh, free from the hidden weight of stress. “You know you’re driving meteorologists insane, right? I know a weatherman who’s ready to fist fight you on national television.”

“I could let the storm roll in, if you prefer. The Quinjet could use a power wash.”

“On second thought, let’s avoid turbulence today. You still look like undercooked chicken.” Tony leans away from the wall, ready to take his place in the pilot’s seat, but stops after a few steps to aim a pointed glance at Thor over his shoulder. “Thank you, by the way. I owe you big time.”