cognitive_recalibration | For Thor (stopmjolnirtime)

For Thor (stopmjolnirtime)

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It’s not every day you get someone promising to beat down death’s door to rescue you from it, so please excuse Clint’s shocked, mooneyed face for the next several minutes.

He’s been living his life wrong, he decides, only slowly returning to chewing so that he doesn’t choke on the lump of pizza in his mouth. Why has he never gotten to know Thor outside of Avenging? The guy is beyond sincere and obviously a pretty great guy under the princely visage.

Maybe that’s because Clint Barton is not a good guy. He’s been doing his best to change that for years now but you don’t just clear a slate of evil deeds overnight. He honesty never may. Until a few moments ago, he’d been sure that the only person he honestly matters to was Tasha.

Phil’s gone after all.

Damn.

Damn, he doesn’t like feeling itchy like this. He decides it’s the dried blood and drops any other thought or reason for the sudden tingle.

“Uh. Wow. You know, that’s the coolest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

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“Ah, Jesus Thor. Year, we had better.” He loves Nat but each time he almost does, she tries to kick his ass. Unhelpful. Clint presses his fingers against his eyelids and then shoved another slice of pizza down his throat.

He needs to teach the guy about the internet. Stuff he puts on Twitter can and does get out. Especially because Natasha expects it to.

Clint finishes a few more fries and drops some money on the table. It’s too much but the waitress deserves a good tip for not immediately phoning her friends to come over and gawk at the pair.

Standing up, though? That’s not a good idea. Clint is still lightheaded from the blood loss and he hasn’t had any time to recover. He grimaces as he heads to the door. He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s been through worse.

Thor quickly finishes his share of their meal, standing to steady Clint without being too obvious about it- pride is something with which he is intimately familiar- and following along. At least until they're outside.

Then he steps up to rest an arm around Clint's waist, no matter how he might fuss. Might as well get ready to carry him to the nearest safe house, if Clint has one.

He hopes Clint has one.

Norns, let Clint have one. "Where can we hide that she will not find us?"

This has suddenly turned into a chase and Clint is here for it. He’s a little loopy from the blood loss but that somehow makes it more fun. Is he genuinely afraid of Natasha? No. She’ll baby him and he secretly likes it. He also kind of hates it too because it reminds him that he’s the toddler infant Thor sees him as too.

How they all must see him as.

It’s amusing to know Thor is also worried. The guy is invulnerable and he’s afraid of Natasha? Clint can’t wait to tell her that. It’ll be an ego boost.

Thor’s arm is a strange thing, but also a welcome one when Clint’s knees buckle. “Oops,” he groans, clinging onto the flannel. “Do you still keep a place at the Tower or HQ? She’d never think I was staying with you.”

Which is accurate. Thor and Clint aren’t usually a duo.

"I do still have my room at the tower- Friday will be able to provide additional security if we ask her nicely to help hide us." Friday may also insist on proper medical treatment but can be reasoned with, he's learned.

Thor steadies Clint as best he's able, considering their location, the tower, and adjusts his grip- how best to hold Clint without making him feel like a damsel?

On his back? No. Over his shoulders? No. The hug and fly is the most equal option available to them so that is what he does, gently tugging Clint into position and ducking into an ally for the usual windup with Mjolnir. "Hold fast- it won't be a long flight."

That’s it. No more walking. He’s going to get a Thor for his birthday and ride around in style.

Clint can tell he’s getting to the point of delirium, which does not bode well for him to hold fast to anything. He does his best, fingers wrapped around Thor’s shirt. Hopefully he doesn’t catch any of that long Loriel hair.

Then again, would Thor even feel it?

“Do you have a scalp of steel too?” he yells into the wind. It’s not important, but it speaks volumes to his general state of exhaustion.

Maybe Thor had been right. Red Wine fixed blood loss after all?

"No-" Thor rumbles, trying not to yell. The flight is, as promised, short, and he's much more careful on the landing (Stark has feelings about cracks on balconies, rooftops, and the sigil left behind by the Bifrost and is not afraid to express them loudly and often.) "I got over being tender headed when everyone learned it was a good way to get me to break a grapple when I was...ten?"

Aesir fight honorably, sure but children?

Fight dirty.

Careful in steadying Clint, Thor guides them from the roof to the nearest lift, one hand texting Friday to please, please, please send up what a non medic can offer a patient with bloodloss and also could she be so kind as to not inform anyone that he has Clint?

It takes some haggling- promising to get Clint to clean up and rest but- "Ha! An alliance has been secured."

A beat.

"Friday won't snitch on us."

“Are you friends with FRIDAY too?” Clint asks, actually pretty impressed. He’s surprised he walking on his own, considering he can’t feel his legs, and he hasn’t really let go of Thor. “You have this whole secret life I never knew about.”

No Clint. You’ve kept your own secret life and you never open up to anyone and you make jokes to protect yourself and keep everyone else away.

Thor has never been anything but open and honest. To a fault.

“Gardens. Friends with Stark’s AI. You’re kind of great. Also, I think my feet are numb.” He knows he’s punch drunk. He can feel how crazy he’s getting.

"Yes. She's very helpful." Explaining cat memes, twitter, and references to movies that Thor has not yet seen, helping him curate a playlist of music to listen to while he tries to relax or work out-

Helping him remember where and when he is when dreaming of the Bifrost or Loki or Svartelheim rattles him by the spine-

She helps. Much like now, keeping their trip to Thor's suite very much on the down low and sending an ETA for a runner with fluids. He'll have long enough to get Clint cleaned up before that arrives. "You are as well, Clint. I'm going to carry you now-"

Easier that way, no matter Clint's pride, to lift him entirely and simply set him back on the sofa, frowning at their mutually bloody clothing. With a comforting squeeze to Clint's shoulder he grabs fresh shirts for them and a washcloth, more worried about Clint than himself. He's finished many a battle still covered in blood, this is no different.

Pride isn’t one of those things that really bogs down the archer. He is the typical punching bag, the guy that needs to get all the stitches after a mission, and he’s basically come to terms with that. Now, would he rather walk? Ideally, yes. But he had absolutely no fear of Thor dropping him.

And it helps that he’s still so wonderfully warm. And he smells good too. Rogers and Stark always smell like sweat and body odor after a mission, but Thor constantly has a sort of bready scent.

Clint tries to tell him about it but the words come out wrong.

He barely notices being placed on the couch, but having his shirt peeled off of him pulls uncomfortably at his skin and he opens eyes he didn’t realize he’d shut. “Aww, no, sorry man. I’m ruining your sofa!”

"I can have it cleaned." Thor shrugs, entirely unbothered as he starts wiping the dried blood off of Clint's skin, brow furrowed. This is something he's done for his friends more times than he cares to count- folding Clint into what is a centuries old post-battle ritual is something done easily enough. "Friday is sending fluids up, I may have to give you an IV so you are less dizzy."

He could have the runner do it but- it's a question of trust and vulnerability an they're both a little wary while wounded; Friday can walk him through it, he's sure.

It can't be that difficult. "Are you still having trouble feeling your feet?"

“Please don’t ask Twitter how to give an IV,” Clint mewls, trying to follow Thor’s hand with the cloth. He’ll be embarrassed about all of this tomorrow but right now he’s just trying not to be a nuisance. He’d been doing all right until the fries came and he’ll think back later that carbing up with low blood pressure and anemia might not have been the right thing to do. Oh well. He’d been shot! And flown around! And denied purple threaded stitches!

At Thor’s mention of his feet, he wiggles both in his boots.

“Still there. I feel em. But please don’t give me an IV.”

"I won't. Friday will assist, or send for a medic that will likewise be sworn to secrecy." In fact the only reason the fluids aren't here yet is she's likely waiting for some kind of sign Clint will accept that treatment.

Which is, situation being what it is? Sixty forty that he won't.

Maybe closer to eighty twenty.

"...we would both prefer you have the anemia seen to, but if you do not want it? We cannot force it." He'll just sit back on his heels and stare up at Clint on the sofa, offering his saddest, most worried of all possible eyes.

“Can’t I just drink some Gatorades?” Clint mumbles, no longer fighting (weakly) back against Thor. It actually feels good to have that blood wiped from him. As it dried, it pulled at his skin in the worst sort of way. He kept expecting it to hurt, but the wound, the bullet, everything had been fixed by that magic rock.

Of course, the moment Thor stops, Clint opens one eye and glances at the big blond.

Oh no. He kicked the puppy.

“Ugh, Thor, stop, fine, whatever you want,” he groans.

He couldn't claim that wasn't his intention- Thor can't remember who it was on the team that said his sad eyes were a weapon of mass destruction, but using them sparingly does enhance the effect. Clint relenting wipes away that somber expression and replaces it with relieved joy, just as the medic arrives with the line and IV stand.

Thor steps aside to let them sweep in, prep the skin of Clint's arm, insert the catheter and set the IV to drip. All in all it takes-

Very little time Thor will have to wonder about that, but the medic sweeps right out again without saying a word aside from promising to keep this to themselves, and Thor's significantly more at ease knowing Clint will be feeling better soon.

"Thank you, Clint." Like the archer's done him some great favor- and he has.

In all honesty, Clint had been somewhat asleep for the medic. He blinked and missed the entire interaction and so waking up with the IV stand set up and Thor still beside him, the archer actually believes it was the Asgardian who had done it.

All right, Thor, he sees you!

The bump in liquids has already helped and the headache that had been building behind his eyes is starting to subside. He squints, and lifts a hand up to his forehead.

“What are you thanking me for?” he asks, shifting a little so it’s easier to look at the prince. “You saved me a thousand times tonight.”

"For calling. For allowing me to help you. For trusting me to do so." Thor knows he's not everyone's first call for medical help or evacuation. Something needs killing? That's when they call for him. When they need something broken, not when they need something mended. Not when the situation calls for delicacy.

Gently, Thor reaches up to smooth his hand through Clint's hair, warm palm settling on the nape of his neck much like he does for his brother, for his friends. "For knowing I will hide you without question and trusting me to watch your back while you are wounded. It is not an easy thing."

Know what’s not a terrible way to spend your time? Laying in Thor’s couch and getting your hair stroked. Yes. Clint is a strong and independent archer and yes, like so many of the Avengers, he’s been touch starved and abused since childhood. Clint is a little different though. He doesn’t shy away. He’s not the cat that sinks his teeth in when a hand comes close.

Would he normally just let Thor stroke his hair like this? Well, no. Normally he would not. But he’s too tired to put distance between them and besides, it’s nice.

Sue him!

“Hey now. You’re officially my first choice for medical emergencies and get away driving now, buddy.”

"And should you call? I swear to answer." With more concern and swiftness than he had this time. Truly, Clint reaching out while bleeding at all should've been cause to worry and-

He will ruminate over his failure to act quickly later. For now? Thor leans in, nudging his forehead against Clint's in a show of contrition and sincerity before standing to settle on the sofa, glad to have Clint here, safe and whole and recovering. "Until you feel it safe to return home? You have sanctuary here."

He'll do his best not to let on that he has company.

Clint holds his breath as that big blond head comes his way. He’s not sure what’s about to happen. Thor could head butt him (RIP archer) or kiss him (what does he know of Asgardian customs?!) and Clint had decided to just stay still rather than react.

He just blinks at the other, looking owlish, as he moves away. His breath is released in a haphazard grunt.

There had been something terribly intimate about the touch of their foreheads, but unlike Thor’s plan to attack the evening’s beginnings, Clint is going to put all of that from his mind.

Thor’s affection, while not exactly weird, is a little frightening. Maybe because Clint enjoyed jt.

“Uh,” he says and clears his throat, “thanks? I mean, thanks. I’ll get out of your hair in a few hours.”

"I'd rather you remain overnight. I remember rest is vital for recovering after an injury of this kind and will feel better knowing you've somewhere safe to do so." It won't be the first time he's sat watch for an injured ally, even if he's keeping watch for another ally.

Though he will make certain to text Natasha or have Clint text her eventually, to let her know he's safe. That will need doing.

Right now? Resting. Clint is breathing alive, and as safe as anyone could possibly be on Midgard, courtesy of Mjolnir on the coffee table and Thor himself tucked against his side.

You know what? When in Rome. Thor’s the one who initiated all of the nice, warm contact tonight and Clint is hurt! Okay, not exactly anymore but he needs to rest! There are no pillows handy, but Thor is there— What’s the literal worst that could happen? He drool on Thor’s thigh and Thor tells everyone and Tony makes a 3D animation of it and it somehow gets leaked to the entire world and Doctor Hawkthristrap stops following him on Twitter?

Exactly. Not that bad. With a scoot, and mindful of the IV, Clint transfers his head to Thor’s lap and closes his eyes.

“Overnight is only a few more hours,” he points out.

"To your mind, perhaps." Thor doesn't bat an eye at the shift in posture, tugging a throw blanket off the back of the sofa to drape over Clint, one warm, broad hand smoothing through his hair in even passes. Something to soothe, to steady, to offer comfort after having been so seriously injured. "But while it is Friday night to you- it was Saturday morning for me."

His logic is entirely sound, Clint, just roll with it.

"So I aim to keep you overnight until Sunday." Which will give Clint plenty of time to rest, eat, and relax in safety before having to face the firing squad of Natasha's pointed opinions about what is and isn't an appropriate time to ask for help.

Oh. Oh, all right. So now it’s Netflix and chill after a first date consisting of a magic rock and some pizza? Clint isn’t going to argue the blanket. He will argue, in a few hours, that he should at least be allowed to shower and put on non-bloody clothing. Unfortunately, he can’t argue now because he’s yawning a Mighty Yawn and that takes a lot of the fight out of him.

Huffing as if he’s not enjoying himself, Clint touches the place where the IV has been inserted into his elbow bend and almost closes his eyes again before they snap up towards the Asgardian.

“You guys don’t keep humans as pets right…?” Even if that kinda seems like a good existence in his exhaustion addled mind. “Not complaining about any of this but I want to make sure that you’re not equating mascot with pet..?”

Where he'd been smiling with great fondness and affection, languid and warm as the setting sun- that falls away into almost sorrowful sobriety. "...Clint."

The hand on Clint's scalp settles on his nape again, thumb ticking idly along the tendon where neck meets shoulder, Thor choosing his words with more care than he normally manages, due to the realization that something said in jest may have cut rather than provided levity. It wouldn't be the first time but-

He's trying to be better. "When I said you were our mascot- I was teasing. You are a valued and valuable member of our team, and a dear friend to me. I know modern midgardians are more...reserved with their fondness for one another, but I assure you; I am not treating you like this because I see you as lesser, fragile, or as a pet. I am...attempting to offer comfort to someone I care for."

“Oh.” Clint settles back in as if that explanation had been enough. He’s never known Thor to lie, never known him to be manipulative. If the guy says he cares for Clint and isn’t trying to recruit him to be a lapdog in the most literal sense of the word, he believes him.

The archer turns, setting his calloused hand over Thor’s knee. He’s plucked so many strings, held onto so many high wire swings and ropes, that this hand is all hardened skin and muscle. His eyes close again and he sighs.

“For the record, I do feel comforted. And I’m sorry that I’m not really good with the whole being cared about thing. Weird new concept,” he laughs softly.

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Aw clint, it's okay. You can have nice things.

Nice things don’t last!

he is a relatively indestructable nice thing! He'll last!

Damn. Solid points.

Sometimes he has them! Sometimes.

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