Disclaimer: My inspiration to write this story (the line, "Thor's hammer leans a little to the left") comes from The Amazing Spiderman #502, as does the tailor, Leo Zelinsky.
The rest is my own.
Happy readings!
Thor's hair was in ribbons. Fat red ribbons. His blond braids waggled as he walked. As he stooped through the tailor shop's doorframe, he took off his winged helmet and shook his hair out.
The elderly tailor sat at his desk and almost forget to smile. "Good day, Thor."
"Too you as well," Thor said. "As you see-" he tugged at the front of his suit. A ragged tear spread across his chest from his left breast to his right shoulder, displaying a substantial amount of skin. "I've had an accident."
"Quite an odd placement for a tear," said the tailor, raising his eyebrows. "How did it happen?"
"Funny story, that," said Thor.
"Do tell."
Thor began to chuckle, and then threw back his head and boomed with laughter, his chest shaking with his guffaws. The tailor twiddled his thumbs, offered up a shaky giggle, and finally, Thor quieted.
"It's funny because I can't remember," explained Thor.
"I see." He didn't really see.
The Norse god gave him an abashed grin, the kind you give someone when you are ever so grateful that they understand you even though you're about as intelligent as a chunk of alabaster. After a short moment, Thor swiftly pulled his torn shirt over his head. "Not here!" hissed the tailor in response. "Secret customers go in the basement!"
Passing pedestrians stopped to gawk through the windowpane at the huge man with a hammer and abs so hard you could chop veggies on them. Thor lifted his hand in greeting, but the tailor ushered him quickly through the basement door. In the small cellar room, as the tailor began to pick at the broken threads of the torn uniform, Thor leafed through some magazines on the coffee table, the ones that the tailor had picked out specifically for the superheroes - cars, comics, and technology - but none of them caught the god's interest. Picking up a dead flower from a vase and wiggling it, Thor asked casually, "Have you ever been to Paris?"
"I regret to say that I've never," said the tailor after a moment of silence.
"I heard it's a very nice place."
"I've heard that too."
Thor started to rearrange his ribboned braids in the dusty wall mirror. He flexed his muscles and posed with his hammer. Then he asked, "Could I use your lavatory?"
"Down the hall, second door on the left."
Thor trotted down the hall, humming something from the Sound of Music. The tailor immediately relaxed in the absence of the Asgardian and started to work methodically on his sewing. He couldn't focus when the god was in the room. People he knew talked wonders of Thor, and the tailor's own grandson would sit up late at night asking for story after story about the cape-clad hero. How would his grandson react if the tailor were to tell him about how Thor waits for his suit to be sewn; sitting on the sofa, one leg daintily over the other, his massive chest bare, filing his fingernails?
He was thankful that Thor barely ripped or dirtied his clothes. The man was so fastidious about keeping his attire immaculate he might as well be Jean Grey.
So this tear! What was that all about?
He heard the toilet flush. Without willing it, he listened for the sound of Thor's footsteps, but only heard shuffling. He tied a thread and bit it off, growing nervous. He hoped Thor wasn't locked in the bathroom… the doorknob was complicated… He'd already lost a complete door last month, because that guy with the glasses and purple pants had gotten angry with the tailor's patch job, turned green, and split the door in half with his fist. And then, of course, he had needed his purple pants sewn up again.
Here came Thor. He bounced as he walked and the tailor noticed that he held a few magazines in his hands.
"Your soap is very pleasing," said Thor.
"What?" The tailor tried to catch a glimpse of the magazine covers.
"The soap in the bathroom is very fragrant... I'm going to assume grapefruit and honeysuckle?"
"How'd you know?" asked the tailor. He wondered when he had last put any soap in the bathroom.
Thor silently sat down, folded his leg over, and propped open one of the magazines. The tailor read the cover out of the corner of his eye; MODERN BRIDE.
There was quiet.
Then there was even more quiet. There was quiet for the rest of the time it took the tailor to sew the suit's tear, because the god was absorbed in dresses. The quiet was interspersed by little "Hmm"s of disapproval and "Ho"s of appreciation as Thor leafed through the bridal magazines. Once, an outright "OH!" burst from the man on the couch, and the tailor could not keep himself from glancing over. Thor caught his gaze, lifted the magazine page to present an image of a scantily clad model, then shook his head sadly and turned the page.
As the tailor tied off the last knot in the stitching, he let out a relived sigh. Finally. Thor began to rummage in his purse. Pulling out a handful of bills, he exchanged the money for the suit. He cast his hand lovingly across it, and then tugged it over his head, his ribbon-clad braids bouncing.
Hefting his hammer, he started towards the door. As he went, he looked down at the indistinguishable stitching on his chest and grinned. "That," he announced mildly, "will be the last time I ever attend one of Nick Fury's tea parties."