AUTHOR'S NOTE: Are you as keen to see Thor and Hawkeye talk to each other as I am? In the movies, their orbits intersect only briefly: in the pouring rain in New Mexico; making a stand on the streets of Manhattan; silently chewing on shawarma; and in Central Park, when Thor takes Loki back in chains. The only comment we have from one about the other is Clint's laconic, "I'm starting to root for the guy" - spoken even as his arrow was trained on Thor's throat. And let's not forget that it was Thor's kid brother who raped Hawkeye's mind. Oh, my. Hello, fan fiction!
Now, while I have a passing knowledge of Norse mythology, I'm not familiar with the Marvel comic version of Thor. I see him as a man not unlike Steve Rogers, whose cultural frame of reference is … different. That fish-out-of-water element can be funny, but Thor is not a fool. Far from it. He is a future ruler - the Prince Hal of Asgard, still prone to laddish behaviour but increasingly able to make the tough calls, marching towards his Agincourt. As such, he can be expected to know a thing or two about people, even if their ways are as alien to him as his world is to them.
The MCU Asgard seems like a warrior society that looks a bit like an Art Deco/steam punk version of the Age of Chivalry. But it's laced with random fantasy elements, and so I feel perfectly entitled to make stuff up - like that thing with the names. What you call people, and when, is an important part of who they are, to you and to themselves. Thor would be far more careful with this than Ironman.
Finally – happy birthday, Shenshen1977!
Central Park
Even on a weekday afternoon, Central Park in July is a busy place. With school out for the summer, the air is abuzz with Frisbees and kites and the squeals of children. There are bikers everywhere, including where they shouldn't be, ringing their bells and shouting obscenities when joggers don't clear out of their path fast enough.
By mid-morning, the usual flocks of Filipino nannies have descended on the various bits of open grass with their expensively dressed charges, chattering away with each other in Tagalog and politely reminding little Olivia or Lucas to please keep their sunhat and shoes on.
It's an odd place to meet a God, but then it's not the first time Clint has come here for that purpose. The day is a gorgeous one and he has decided to walk up from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Manhattan base, where he'd been finishing his latest mission report. After hours spent cooped up in the lookout, his legs can use the stretch, too.
To say that he is curious would be an understatement. The summons (maybe that's not what it was meant to be, but that's sure how it came across) had arrived by email, via Erik Selvig's friend Jane Foster, the astrophysicist who'd given Coulson such a hard time in New Mexico and was sufficiently close to Thor to merit evac when the Loki shit storm hit. This is what it had said:
"I would meet the Warrior Hawkeye at the place of our parting, at midday on the day that bears my name."
Just how Thor himself might be communicating with his astrophysicist lady friend Clint also doesn't know, and frankly doesn't want to. The last thing he wants to see is any kind of direct wire to Asgard – who the hell knows what would happen if someone there were to dial a wrong number and get him by mistake?
On the other hand, the idea of a direct line to God is faintly ironic, given that Clint's latest mission had involved someone who'd used His instructions to bilk thousands of elderly followers out of their life savings. (The good priest had regularly laid claim to the droit du Seigneur among the younger members of his flock.)
He knows, of course, that Thor is not a god; that label was bestowed on him by ignorant Vikings who knew squat about inter-stellar gateways. (Not that Clint knows much more than them, except for a passing and unwanted familiarity with the materials needed to construct the fucking things.) Plus, anyone who's seen the guy put away six helpings of shawarma, three extra-large servings of fries, and four bottles of Pepsi (and heard the belches afterwards) knows that he's fundamentally a man. A man with an alien metabolism, and certain skills and abilities that come in handy in a fight, but … a man nonetheless.
By now Clint has rounded Central Park Lake and loosely bounds up the steps to Bethesda Terrace. He's a few minutes early – he's assuming that "midday" for Thor actually does mean noon and not four pm or something - and stops at a little concession cart on the Terrace to pick up a bottle of water. The vendor, an enormous black guy with a Mets baseball cap and a toothy grin, barely gives Clint a second glance as he dives into the fridge compartment of his cart.
"Beautiful day, eh, man?" he says as he rummages among the ice cubes. "Hot and dry. Good for business."
Clint is glad that the guy apparently has no clue who his customer is, and once again counts his lucky stars that he spent most of the Chitauri battle out of reach of people's smart phones and subsequent YouTube immortalization. The only civilians he'd gotten close to were the ones he helped off that bus, and they were too busy to come away with anything more than verbal descriptions of their enigmatic rescuer; he finds the sunglasses help, too. Steve isn't so lucky; given his size and that blonde hair, the poor guy can't walk a block without being recognized. Simple exchanges with folks like he himself used to be have become a rare pleasure for Captain America.
"Sure is. Actually, on second thought, make it two."
Who knows, maybe interstellar travel has the same effect as walking in the New York sun, and if Thor doesn't want the water, he'll have no problems downing two. He sticks the second bottle into the waistband of his jeans and hands the vendor five bucks, waving off the offer of an ice cream bar. Clint may have started out as a carnie from Iowa, but once you've had a proper Milanese gelato, edible oil product on a stick just doesn't cut it anymore, no matter how warm the weather. Natasha would be proud of him.
He sits down on the stone railing, cracks open his bottle, takes a deep draught and looks up at the sky. It's a cloudless cerulean blue, just as it had been that day in May when Thor had taken his … brother back home, to face whatever passes for justice in Asgard. The Terrace is exposed, sunny and sparsely populated; there's a handful of tourists snapping photos of the lake and the grand apartment buildings fringing the park, the water cart, and that's about it.
Nobody is paying any attention to the guy in jeans and a t-shirt – something that's about to change, Clint figures, as he finishes his water. Last time the place was used for a beam-out to Asgard, S.H.I.E.L.D. had blocked off access to the terrace and most New Yorkers were still cowering indoors or watching re-runs of the battle on CNN. Floating down a sparkly bridge in broad daylight might just attract some attention …
Oh, well. Can't be helped.
Clint assumes that the reason Thor picked this spot for a meeting is that he still has the coordinates programmed in somewhere, and whatever mechanism he uses will pretty much spit him out in exactly the same place.
What Clint doesn't know is why.
And what he doesn't want to admit to himself is that he's getting a tad apprehensive, given the imminent arrival of a guy from a place where mind control is … Shit. Get a grip, Barton.
Eleven fifty-nine. He looks up again, grateful for his sunglasses. Damn, that sun is bright.
As if on cue, a single beam seemingly streams down from the sun, towards a spot in the paving stones a few feet away from where Clint is sitting. It comes out in pretty much the exact spot he'd figured, based on his memories of …
That Day.
He swallows down the memory of the bile that rose in his throat when he made himself meet Loki's eyes - through dark glasses, yes, but still … they were so … so blue … so full of contempt … and the tesseract was right there, beside him and … Clint crumples the empty water bottle in his fist and calls on the echo of Natasha's voice, whispering a crude joke in his ears as she tried to get him to relax, when all he really wanted to do was run, or strike.
Much to Clint's very private relief, Thor's entrance lacks the explosive drama of the tesseract-engineered one that Loki made in New Mexico. There's an odd sound though, kind of like the reverse of a popping cork – only reasonable when you have something suddenly taking up space, where there was previously only air. But even though air displacement and movement are part of Clint's truck and trade, any further analysis ends there – because.
Thor isn't the most inconspicuous of people at the best of times, and when he's turning up out of basically nowhere, sun glinting on black metal armor, red cape and long blonde hair flowing in the breeze and all that – well, it's kind of … others might say awe-inspiring but Clint doesn't do awe, so he'll settle for impressive. He slides off his perch and walks towards Thor in his usual loose, stalking gait, determined not to let his tension show.
"Hey, man, good to see you," he says neutrally, extending his hand in greeting. "Been a while."
"It is good to see you, too, Friend Archer," Thor growls in that outdoor baritone of his, and takes the archer's hands in both of his, shaking it vigorously but - thankfully - not squeezing too hard. Clint's phalanges and metacarpals will live to handle his bow another day.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I was not sure …"
Whatever it is that Thor's not sure about, Clint is absolutely sure it can wait. For now, the chorus of 'holy shits' and 'what the fucks' emanating from the assorted people on the Terrace suggests that maybe the priorities here are relocation and a lower profile.
"Formalities later. Can you do that thing where you change your outfit? To something less dramatic, and more seasonally appropriate?"
It takes Thor only a few seconds and a look at the various gaping mouths to appreciate what Clint is trying to say. He gives a small nod and his armour unravels from his feet up, turning into blue jeans and the same light-blue shirt Clint remembers him wearing in New Mexico. Good enough. Sure beats that pompous buffalo hat Loki put on to impress people.
Now as for the gawkers … Clint pulls his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge out of his jeans pocket and holds it up. If you don't look to close – and people won't, they see what they expect – it could be NYPD.
"Official business," he intones in his best gravelly don't-fuck-with-me-I'm-a-cop voice. "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along."
He turns to Thor.
"Let's get out of here, before they start snapping photos. Believe me, you don't want to get your face on Twitter. At least I don't."
He gives a thumbs up to water cart guy - whose mouth is still hanging open - and bounds down the steps towards Terrace Drive, hoping Thor will get the hint and follow. He does, and a few minutes later, they're just two guys strolling through the park on their day off, one of them rather larger than the other.
Now, Clint can be silent with Natasha or Steve for hours, and be utterly comfortable. But walking beside this … this giant of a man, who could squish him - and the trees lining the path - like so many ants, the silence seems more awkward than anything. And since Clint doesn't do awkward any better than he does awe, he decides to ask a simple question that's been niggling at him ever since … well, whatever. Purely professional interest – getting in and out of his tac vest can be a royal pain.
"Just how do you do that thing, anyway? Those new clothes ones real, or an illusion?"
Thor shrugs diffidently.
"They are what you see."
Well, that isn't exactly an answer, unless you're into metaphysics, which Clint isn't; he tends to leave that sort of thing to dead poets and German philosophers. But it's probably all he's going to get, and to Thor it probably makes prefect sense. It's all in your frame of reference. Maybe something less complicated then, to start a conversation. In the interest of direct contact he pushes his sunglasses up on his head and turns to Thor, trying to catch his eyes.
"Water?"
Clint pulls out the bottle from behind his back, once they have reached the lake and anonymity has been restored.
"Here, I got that for you, in case you're thirsty after the trip. But it's okay if you don't want it."
Thor stops in his tracks and reaches for the bottle, cradling it in his hand for a moment before seeking out and holding Clint's eyes.
"You would share water with me."
Yeah? Cue cultural reference check. Water. Sharing. Asgard. Good or bad, Barton? Fuck if he knows. Where's the Lonely Planet Guide To The Nine Realms when you need one?
"It's pretty warm out today," Clint offers, projecting rather more confidence than he feels. "And you've come a long way. Was buying one anyway, thought you could use it."
Thor smiles broadly in response, displaying a set of rather impressive canines.
"Thank you, Friend Archer. That was most thoughtful of you."
Good, then. Phew.
Clint watches his companion drain the water in one large gulp, and holds out his hand.
"Here, I'll get rid of that," he says, and pitches first his own, then Thor's bottles into a garbage can a hundred or so feet down the path.
"You have the most excellent aim, my friend," Thor comments, and Clint glances up at him, now mildly suspicious. Whatever reason his supposed teammate came back to what he calls Midgard for, it probably wasn't to comment on the patently obvious. Maybe he's feeling just as awkward about this rendezvous as Clint is?
Time to cut the crap.
"Yeah, people have mentioned that, once or twice. But tell me. Why'd you ask to meet me?"
The big Asgardian grows still, and his face takes on a solemn expression as he looks down at Clint.
"You are right to wonder, Friend Archer. I came for a reason."
He takes a deep breath before continuing.
"I would speak to you of my brother."
Oh, shit.
…..
Thor walks silently beside the man he knows as Hawkeye, the Archer. They fought side by side in honourable battle, broke bread together when the day was won, but they have never really spoken.
He has other names, the Archer - names that Thor does not feel free to use because his comrade-in-arms has not formally shared them with him. It has been simply an absence of opportunity; that the Archer would do so Thor has no doubt, especially given this welcome gift of water. But proprieties must be preserved.
Clint. Barton. Those are the names the Lady Natasha had called the Archer, in that small and shattered place where the six of them had gone for their meal. She had said them repeatedly, as if to recall the Archer to their presence, to himself; at times he had seemed so far away, so lost in thought. Or perhaps she had meant to reassure herself that he was there with her, by naming him again and again?
It had been clear to Thor then that the formidable flame-haired woman warrior and the silent Archer were more than comrades-in-arms, more than what he himself was to the Lady Sif. While there are great differences among the peoples of the Nine Realms in how they carry their bodies and move their hands, the pull between these two had been as undeniable as that between a planet and its sun or moon.
Clint Barton. Hawkeye. What had his own brother called this man, when he forced himself into his mind, made him fight his battles? Had he called him anything at all, in those days when he held him in thrall?
It pains him still, Loki's second betrayal – his utter rejection of his home and family. But Thor also knows that it had been the Archer who suffered most at Loki's hands. It is a harsh thing, to lose one's self; Thor himself had suffered only a removal of his powers at Odin's hands, never the imposition of the Allfather's will on his own. What was done to the Archer is forbidden under all the laws of Asgard, ranked akin to the taking of a maiden's body against her will.
Erik Selvig had suffered too, of course, but he at least had been allowed, in a way, to follow his own dreams - to learn and to discover the very thing he was already studying. The knowledge Erik acquired while doing Loki's bidding may yet be able to be turned to good. For Clint Barton, Loki's power had brought nothing but the death of friends, doubts of his loyalty, and a loss of self.
Still, Thor hesitates to start the talk that he had requested. He knows that it will be difficult and as his mother has often reminded him, he is a warrior, not a diplomat.
The Archer throws the two clear drinking vessels into a green container. His aim is uncanny at the distance, and Thor comments on it – quite unnecessarily he knows, but the silence between them is stretching - and is promptly rewarded with the question he feared.
"Why did you ask to meet me?"
Thor suppresses a sigh.
"You are right to wonder, Friend Archer. I came for a reason. … I would speak to you of my brother."
A shadow crosses the Archer's face at this, as black as Nidhogg's wings when they darken the moon. Thor knows he must say more - lest the Archer thinks he would plead his brother's case, in the face of the supreme violation he committed against this man.
"Do not be concerned. I would speak of him, not for him. His deeds were heinous - a betrayal of all that Asgard stands for. Loki remains under lock and guard deep beneath the Allfather's palace."
"Good," the Archer replies, his mouth a grim line, his eyes hard as flint. "Make sure he stays there. And don't bother saying hello for me."
Thor reflects on that last remark for a moment, and concluded that it is likely the Midgardian form of humour that Darcy Lewis calls 'sarcasm'. Something that can serve for both defence and attack, but is generally best appreciated for its wit and ignored for its substance - like Ironman's utterings.
"Allow me to explain, Friend Archer."
The Archer's gaze turn away from Thor for a moment, following a flock of birds as they wheel through the sky. His eyes hold many colours, the Asgardian notes, colours found in the sea and the sky and the Earth, colours that appear to change with the man's mood. When Loki held him, they would have been the singular bright blue of the tesseract and the ice of Jotunheim. At the moment, they are mostly jade green and stone grey. Hard, but better.
"Sure," the Archer says. "Go ahead. Should be interesting. But if you don't mind, I think I want to sit down for that. It's lunchtime anyway, so let's go find a pub or something. There should be something towards Madison."
A pub. Thor remembers this word, from the evening he spent in convivial drink with Erik Selvig. Some things are indeed best shared over a meal, it is true, although Thor cannot help but suspect that the Archer simply wishes to postpone their discussion for a while longer. It is a fair request, and he nods his consent.
They mostly walk in silence, asking occasional small questions of one another. The Archer inquires about the length of the journey from Asgard, and how much time has passed for Thor while he was there. Thor, in turn, craves news about the wellbeing of their comrades-in-arms. A couple of the Archer's jesting remarks about Ironman make Thor laugh; by the time a suitable eating establishment has been selected, his companion's eyes have lost their stone-hard look.
"The steaks here are huge," the Archer ventures as they settle at a shady table outside, in a small square on the street that is fenced off against passers-by. Thor notes with approval that his companion has selected a seat with his back to the wall, whence he can observe all goings-on.
"Although having seen what you can pack away, you won't have any problems dealing with that." The Archer pulls out his wallet and gives a brief look inside. "Good," he nods. "We're covered. Got the S.H.I.E.L.D. AmEx with me. Way I figure, Fury owes you a decent lunch. Services rendered, and all that."
Thor remains silent; whatever has just transpired does not seem to require his comment. As for the fare, he had been happy to follow Ironman's lead the last time he dined in a Midgardian inn, and so he invites the Archer to issue the commands. The latter does so, requesting something called a hamburger-the works-no-veg-extra-pickles for himself, as well as a tankard of ale for each of them.
Their meals arrive quickly. The Archer's dish proves to be sliced cheese and bacon atop a piece of meat surrounded by bread, dripping with an assortment of multi-coloured sauces. Volstagg would enjoy a meal like this, Thor muses; the opportunities for mischief and entertainment appear to rival its value as sustenance.
"This looks interesting, Friend Archer." Thor nods to the waitress, a comely maiden with a dark ponytail who is still holding his plate. He tests out the words, "Hamburger, the works. Bring me two of those as well, wench."
The serving maiden stares at him, her mouth open as if she would say something, but the Archer shrugs at her and says, "Never mind my friend, he's not from around here. Vench is Norwegian for 'young lady'. No disrespect intended. And yes, that's in addition to what he's already ordered."
The young woman snorts, deposits Thor's slab of meat and small strips of potato in front of him with a fiery look and an audible bang, and stomps back to the kitchen.
"A spirited maiden," Thor remarks around his steak. "Did my words offend her in some way? And what are these leaves?" He sticks his fork into the decorative parsley quizzically. "Are they meant for eating?"
The Archer gives a half-grin – the first Thor has seen on him since he mentioned his brother – and shrugs again.
"Personally, I don't touch that green stuff. Rabbit food, not fit for warriors. But I wouldn't call a New York woman 'wench,' if I were you – whether she's serving in a tavern or no. They're liable to pull out a can of mace or a Taser."
Thor actually winces a little at the unhappy memory that comment evokes; the Archer raises an eyebrow but foregoes the obvious question. Instead, he grips his hamburger with both hands, as if for reassurance, and focuses a wary but unwavering gaze on Thor. He is ready.
"So. What was it exactly you wanted to talk about?" He takes a large bite and waits.
Thor, in turn, chews thoughtfully for a moment – the meat is succulent and pleasantly flavoured, and must be given its due – before responding.
"I know it cannot be easy for you to speak of these matters, even now. I will be quick. And fear not – I will not speak of what he asked you to do, Friend Archer."
The Archer relaxes a little at that but then cocks his head, a bit like a bird.
"Clint."
Thor blinks back his surprise and swallows, his blue eyes wide. Does the Archer know the gift he is giving - and at this time, of all times?
"You would give me your name? Now?"
"Well, yeah. If we're going to have this talk, which it seems like we are, and you came all the way across the universe to have it, you may as well call me by name. Clint. Or Barton. Either's fine."
"I have but one name to offer you in return, Clint – I am Thor."
The Archer has used his name before of course – the customs are different here on Midgard, Thor knows, and people call others more freely by their given name. Or they make up names as Ironman does, with affection or contempt.
"Thor."
Clint lifts his glass in acknowledgment; Thor raises his own in turn. Midgardian customs are different from those of Asgard, but the Archer appears to have grasped the notion of the exchange, and Thor is pleased to follow his example in how to celebrate it.
But now Clint waits for him to continue where they had left off, patiently, expectantly – and Thor finds himself without the words for a moment. Some beginnings are more difficult than others.
"I would know more about what made my brother do the things he did. The why, not the how."
The Archer raises a single eyebrow and takes a sip of his water, to allow him to compose his response.
"You mean, apart from being a megalomaniac with a penchant for world domination? I thought he told you. Didn't you spend some quality time with him on Stark's patio?"
"He told me what he wanted me to hear, no more. All he would let me see was his hatred, and all I could see in him in turn was my brother. I cannot trust his words, or my ears."
Thor's brow furrows in concentration as he tries to find a way to say what he must without offending.
"Friend Archer – Clint. It must be painful to remember the time when my brother held you in thrall. But … it is understood by my people that the mind-bond Loki forced upon you would open a window into his own thoughts, on occasion when he was unguarded. I wish to understand him, so we can prepare better, should there ever come a next time."
He knows he sounds almost pleading now, but that is secondary to impressing the importance of his mission upon Clint.
"I need to see him through your eyes. I believe those to be very clear, Clint."
The Archer gives a shot laugh, entirely without mirth.
"How come you're not asking Selvig? He was there too, you know. Thought you guys were close."
Thor nods.
"I did ask Erik Selvig, through my Lady Jane, but I fear he had no insights to offer. All he recalls is his delight in the tesseract and what it taught him. But you …"
He seeks out the Archer's eyes again and sees the storm clouds gather in them, watches them as they darken from blue to green.
"You, on the other hand, were privy to his plans and his ambitions." More softly, almost in apology, he adds, "Leaders, even bad ones, share much with their generals. And I understand that you are trained in the observing of people."
The Archer reflects for a moment, turning his glass round and round in his hands, and looks up as if searching the sky for an answer. His eyes fix on a large bird that glides high above the street canyons in search of prey; he follows its circles as if it might give him strength. Perhaps it does. Finally, he begins to speak, in a voice stripped of feeling.
"'I want to rule this world, not burrow in it,' Loki said to me. We … his mission required a distraction, and he grew a fucking horned helmet and golden armour. He wants to be seen, Thor, to be paid attention to. Whatever he does, he needs people to see him, worship him. Kneel before him. Simple success, achieving his objectives will never be enough for Loki. He has to make a splash."
Thor takes this in and nods again, slowly, but remains silent. He knows there will be more.
"He kept talking about testing his mettle. Wanted to know about the Avengers Initiative. Like he needed to prove that he was better than them in a fight, even if the fight wasn't strictly necessary to achieve his goals. Only an idiot seeks out a battle on purpose, but Loki has hubris to spare."
"Hubris?"
"Sorry, forgot you're Norse, not Greek. Pride. Arrogance. Thinks he's so good, the world owes him whatever he can get, and that he can get anything he wants."
Thor swallows hard at this; the word – hubris - may be new to him, but its meaning is clear, its significance shamefully familiar.
"Upshot is – it wouldn't matter who Loki's working with or for. Everything is and always will be about him. Reason or strategic planning have nothing to do with it. He just … wants."
Thor sighs and shakes his head.
"I had hoped for a suggestion of remorse, or insanity - a sign that he was not … so much like me. As I was." He looks up at the Archer, the pain darkening his eyes.
"Whatever Loki is, Clint, he learned from me."
The Archer – Clint – leans forward, an intent look now on his face.
"We're not responsible for our brothers, Thor. Yours hates your guts, so I suspect imitation wasn't on his agenda. He's basically nuts. Mine was a prize specimen, too; nothing to do with me, either. Best you can do is make sure yours doesn't get the chance to pull one over on you again. Because he will. Nothing to do with you, your father, or Asgard. So get over it, and get ready. Wallowing is useless."
He smiles, a little ruefully. "Easier said than done, of course. But - you gotta try." Clint bites his lip, hesitates, and comes to a decision.
"Perhaps this will help convince you that you didn't make him into what he is. You see, when he looked inside my head, he …"
Thor notices the difference in the Archer's voice - hesitant, almost hoarse now. He sits a little straighter in his chair to receive what he is about to be given.
"… he found Natasha. And … he made me want … he made me want to kill her. Just because he could. You see, Thor, he enjoys turning things that are good into something vile. Gets off on it. And that's not because he watched you or learned from you or hated you. That's just … him. His own warped fucking cesspool of a mind."
Thor nods his understanding and his thanks, and leans back in his chair; he will have to think on these matters some more. For now, he lets out a deep sigh and stares up at the sky in his turn. The bird of prey is circling there still, and Thor follows its flight for a moment with his eyes. The bird offers no answers, of course, but a welcome distraction.
"That bird, Clint. It looks like it belongs in the wild, not here in the city. What do you call it?"
The Archer smiles a little now but doesn't look up; if he is bothered by the deliberate change in topic, he does not show it.
"That's a hawk."
"The bird that gave you your other name?"
Thor has been raised to believe in omens; having this bird watch over them as they spoke is auspicious indeed. The Archer has spoken more than his true belief; he has spoken truth.
Hawkeye shrugs, his features schooling themselves into a smile for the waitress, who has just delivered Thor's two hamburgers. The table is getting crowded.
"Yep, that's the one. A lot of them have turned into city hunters, go after pigeons mostly. They think the buildings are cliffs."
Silence reigns for a minute as Thor attacks his food and contemplates the two hawks, the bird and his human namesake. He considers what to say next, once his mouth is clear of food, but is deprived of the opportunity when Clint speaks again.
"Now you tell me something. Since we're here."
The words are spoken like a challenge, and the Archer's gaze is calm and clear.
"Can you be killed?"
…..
Obviously, the question is pretty personal as these things go, at least in cases where the answer is in any way in doubt. Not the kind of thing you'd admit to any Tom, Dick or Harry either. But it's something that's been bugging Clint for a while and he is, frankly, a bit pissed off about the spot Thor put him on with this little play date in Central Park. As far as he is concerned the guy owes him, so now's as good a time to ask as any.
Interestingly, Thor isn't fazed – or if he is, he doesn't show it. The guy is many things, but naïve isn't one of them; the poker face suits him rather well. And given the potential ramifications of a response, Clint isn't surprised at the stall that follows.
"Why do you seek that knowledge, friend Archer?"
"No reason, really. Just … curious."
Clint almost grins when Thor puts his finger on both the lie, and his reason for asking.
"I doubt that, friend Archer. It is about my brother, is it not?"
No shit. The answer would be dynamite intel, in case his former slaver decides to turn up again. (Or even just if Clint were to come across him again somewhere, somehow, with nobody looking.) And it's a fair cop, Thor wanting to know.
"I did have an arrow pointed at his eye socket. What would have happened if he hadn't surrendered?"
"Would you have loosened the arrow?"
Clint doesn't hesitate.
"Abso-fucking-lutely."
Thor sighs. Yes, under similar circumstances to those the Archer had suffered he, too, would seek his opponent's death – brother or no; in defense certainly, and possibly in revenge.
"Then Loki would have died. But know this, Clint, he is not of Asgard, but of Jotunheim. I have seen the frost giants perish, including by my own hand. They are indeed mortal."
Clint does grin now - at the non-answer, the obvious diversion, and the sincere cleverness with which all of it was delivered.
People don't give Thor enough credit for subtlety, given the way he talks, the way he fights, and that flashy outfit he wears. The way Clint figures it, Thor's shtick is probably normal for where he comes from – he is an alien, after all - but underneath the Hollywood appearance he's as crafty as the next guy when it comes to politicking and strategizing. Hell, he has to be, if he wants to run that realm of his. How someone might act in any given situation depends pretty much on their frame of reference, and that's something Clint always makes a point of considering before drawing a conclusion (or a bow string).
"Noted," he replies, his nod signaling his willingness to let the matter drop. But there's something that he thinks Thor should be aware of. It's only fair, if they're to fight side by side again some day.
"Just one thing you should know, though. You remember New Mexico, when you barged into that S.H.I.E.L.D. compound they set up around your hammer, to get it back?"
Thor frowns a little; his memories of that time probably aren't happy ones, since he'd lost his powers. But the way Clint figures it, that's just too fucking bad. Won't hurt to remind the guy that everybody has days when … they're not exactly themselves.
"Well, you won't know this, but I was there that day too, up in a crane, with an arrow trained on your carotid artery. Watched you knock out security guards one after the other, like a game of whack-a-mole. Kinda fun, actually."
Clint shakes his head at the memory, and how he'd told Coulson that he was starting to root for that big unknown hurricane of a man who was tossing the pros around like dried leaves.
"Coulson never gave me the order to let fly. So I didn't. Could have, but didn't. Thought you should know."
Thor has stopped chewing and stares at Clint thoughtfully in the wake of this revelation, his brows pulled together slightly. But if he intended to make a response, he doesn't get the chance; Clint's smartphone rings, a short, imperious little beep that causes a smile to ghost across the archer's face. He gives his lunch companion a small, semi-apologetic smile and turns sideways to speak.
"Hey. … Having lunch with Thor. … Yep, the very one. … Tell you later, okay? … Hey listen. Care to join us? He's only on his third plate, so we may be here for a while yet. … Sure. I was just about to order coffee. Okay, see ya soon."
He sticks the phone back in his pocket and motions to the waitress.
"Hope you don't mind. I asked Natasha to join us. Don't think the two of you have ever really properly met either, have you? I mean, apart from Manhattan?"
Thor actually beams. Clint thinks that it's probably because he's relieved that the conversation can turn to lighter things now, but maybe he's actually happy to see Natasha again. (Clint sure is – he got in from his first post-Loki mission late the night before, and it's been over a week since he's seen her.)
"It will be a pleasure to meet the Lady Natasha once again," Thor says, at just about the same time as the waitress comes over. "She stood bravely against the Hulk, and my brother's army. A true warrior, like the Lady Sif."
The waitress seems to have forgiven Thor his earlier misstep in light of the business he's bringing to the place, and actually smiles a little at them. Four complete lunch orders from a table for two – and visions of a commensurate tip - have taken the edge off her resentment, it seems.
"We'll need another place setting," Clint says. "And do you have – what do you call that salad, with the squishy cheese and tomatoes and basil? My partner always orders that, so might as well get ahead of her. She'll be here in about fifteen minutes, so no rush."
"I think you mean the Caprese salad," the waitress offers, rolling her eyes at the species of ignorant male she is forever doomed to be serving.
"Yeah, that, and some garlic bread to go with. Oh, and another mineral water … and a double espresso for me, please."
He looks at Thor, whose interest appears to have stirred at the mention of more food, and raises his hand in warning.
"You don't want that Caprese stuff, Thor. Trust me. More rabbit food. Get some dessert instead."
Thor points at a neighbouring table, where someone is on their third slice of pizza.
"How about some of this pie?"
Clint snorts, and shrugs. "Sure, go for it, big guy. Not as sweet as you might think, though. But, whatever. Your call."
Thor hands his two empty hamburger plates to the waitress, and smiles artlessly up at her when she asks him if he's serious about having pizza for dessert. Her voice borders on the indulgent, even as she glares reproachfully at Clint, for his apparent willingness to mislead his poor foreign friend. Whatever skills Thor possesses, awakening the protective instincts of tough women is clearly up there.
"Would you that I have something else then, my lady? I have learned that many Midgardian sweets are pleasing to the palate. I welcome your suggestions. I do like pop tarts."
Clint observes with interest as the erstwhile 'wench' melts at being referred to as a lady, even as she is mildly horrified by Thor's idea of a dessert. He doubts the 'lady' routine would work on Natasha - but then again, a few months ago he would never have thought he'd find her reading Cosmopolitan for anything other than research.
"The mud pie here's pretty good." The waitress is practically cooing now. "I can have Rupert cut you an extra big slice, if you'd like."
"Mud? That does not sound very appetizing."
Thor frowns and looks to Clint for translation, if not enlightenment. Clint can't help but grin. Frame of reference, indeed.
"Not quite what it sounds like. Much better, in fact. Tell you what, bring us two." He turns from the waitress back to Thor.
"And if you don't like it, Natasha will eat it. Apparently, dessert isn't bad for you when someone else ordered it. She's been stealing mine for years."
The waitress recovers the menus before her odd patrons can change their minds again and disappears back into the restaurant. Thor is obviously just as relieved as Clint that the conversation has taken a new turn, and leans back in his chair to take advantage of the changed mood. He crosses his arms in front of his chest in the classic defensive posture, and Clint wonders just what could be next; this conversation has been all over the map already.
"Tell me something, my friend. And pray pardon any intrusion into matters that are private. But the Lady Natasha and you … you do not just fight side by side, is this not true? You are betrothed?"
There's something about the complete artlessness with which Thor broaches this particular subject that cracks Clint's defenses before he ever even got the chance to put them up. But then again, he did get those inexplicably good vibes that day, in the New Mexico rain; seems like Thor is one of those people that just … are. Like a force of nature, or something.
"Emm … I don't know about betrothed, exactly. But …" He can't help breaking out into a grin that manages to be both embarrassed and smug at the same time, and that makes Thor's eyes crinkle in knowing amusement in turn. " Yeah. She's … We're… Emm… Yeah."
If Thor has noticed Clint's sudden inability to string a coherent sentence together, he doesn't give any indication of it. Instead, he nods with the utmost sincerity.
"She fought for you, your Lady, when you were in Loki's thrall. That was clear to us all. My brother was not wise to cross her. And this is something of what I wish to speak also. You see, I seek …"
Thor briefly fumbles for words himself now, before mustering the guts to carry on and it's dawning on Clint that this regal warrior is as close to showing a piece of his own soul as he has just asked him to do. But he's not sure he could handle another dissection of Loki's rotten mind, this time involving Natasha. There be monsters. He schools his features into his most neutral expression, and awaits developments.
Thor starts again, his eyes fully trained on the empty table before him, and his fingers wound up a little in his napkin. Clint just waits, ready to fire.
"Midgardian women are much different from those of my world, Clint. I found this with my Lady Jane, and her friend, Young Darcy. I would seek your wisdom so I can avoid missteps."
Clint is as close to speechless as he has ever been, and drops the neutrality as his voice cracks on the words he just manages to force out.
"Let me get this straight. You want … ummm … relationship advice? From me?"
Thor might as well be asking him to crochet a doily; the disbelief in Clint's voice would cause a lesser man to sink into the ground with a mumbled apology. But Thor is from Asgard, where people are obviously not easily deterred – or else not attuned to nuance - and just looks at him in blue-eyed expectation.
"Of all my fellow warriors and friends here on Midgard, only you and Ironman are close to a woman. But I believe that Ironman is not a suitable person with whom to discuss the fairer sex. He would simply take the opportunity to jest, and these are serious matters."
Clint can certainly see that. He's come to appreciate Tony, up to a point, especially after the little stunt the billionaire pulled on his behalf with the WSC. But ask him a straight-up question, and you'd be hard pressed getting something other than a stream of quotable quotes; you'd have to dig out what you need between the snappy lines. Not the sort of thing Thor would excel at, he suspects.
That said, Clint hasn't really given the nature of his changed and changing relationship with Natasha much specific thought, beyond admitting to himself that it's the best thing that ever happened to him (apart from Phil Coulson). And so he remains silent for a moment, watching the waitress weaving in and around the wrought iron tables as he tries to come up with a response.
Given Thor's reticence to engage Stark, Clint rather suspects that the Asgardian wants neither a manual on How Best To Please An Earth Girl, nor an exposé on potential technical incompatibility à la Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex.
But if he's not interested in physical things, then what does he want? And what could Clint Barton possibly have to offer?
Images start to race through Clint's head: Natasha, gliding across a sparkling dance floor in Vienna, her eyes flashing up to the man on the balcony, there to ensure that she will leave alive. Natasha, a whirling dervish of death in a dark, dank alley in Medellin, five bodies between her and her injured partner. Natasha, holding perfectly still as he stitches up a nasty gash in some nameless hotel room in Minsk, her porcelain skin marred with purple contusions.
Natasha, smashing his skull against hardened steel, but not hard enough to do what caution and her professional training should have told her to. Opening the restraints in the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical bay.
"Trust."
"Trust?" Thor is clearly waiting for more, especially given the time it has taken Clint to come up with his answer.
"Yeah. Trust. Oh, and respect. Without that, you got nothing. Been there, actually. Total disaster. But I don't suppose that's any different in Asgard, is it."
Thor looks at him intently but remains silent, clearly still very much in listening mode, and so Clint continues - warming up to his topic as he goes.
"Here's another thing. Your partner has to believe you have her back. And she has to have yours, or it just won't work."
He nods curtly, as if to punctuate his remarks. Thor, in the meantime, has gone from listening keenly to slightly puzzled.
"You do not mention love, Friend Archer. You speak of your dealings with the fairer sex as you would of a comrade in battle, or a fellow warrior who guards your flank."
It's Clint's turn to look bewildered. Well, yes.
"Don't know about you, or how they do things in Asgard, but I want a partner. An equal. Fuck that 'fairer sex' crap. That's the second time you've used that. If you think your … Lady is something different - or less - than what you are, or if she expects that kind of thinking from you, well, than you either have the wrong partner or the wrong attitude. Remember the waitress, and that wench comment of yours? Wouldn't wash with your Doctor Foster, I can guarantee it. Natasha would have my balls."
He replays what he's said so far to see whether he's actually making sense, but Thor seems be with him still – or again - and so he lands the final blow. Or whatever.
"And yeah, it's about risk. Which is why I think you're really asking me for advice, right?"
Thor nods guiltily.
"Yes, you are right, Friend Archer. I do not know whether my Lady … whether Jane would even wish to be with someone as different as I am from her. And so I hesitate to declare myself to her."
Clint is pretty sure that Thor is sliding dangerously into Dear Abby territory now, and is starting to feel hunted again. Fortunately, a taxi pulls up on the curb beside the restaurant's patio enclosure, and he can make out the fiery red hair inside. Phew.
Time to get off one more thing, and then he's safe - high and dry.
"You gotta stop thinking you're taking a risk by being with your partner, or you're shit together, when it matters. Take the jump." He considers this again as he watches Natasha get out of the cab.
"Guess taking a risk like that is the same thing as trust, in a way. Only it's trust in yourself."
It's not entirely clear to Clint whether Thor has gotten anything of what he's been trying to say – hell, he's an assassin, not a counselor, and routinely gets what amounts to an C minus in 'inter-personal relations' in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s psych evals. But he gave it his best shot, didn't laugh at the guy, and that seems to have been appreciated.
Thor confirms as much.
"Thank you, Friend Archer," he says with a slow nod. "I will think on what you have told me, and how it may apply to … my feelings for Jane Foster."
Clint blinks a little at Thor's blithe mention of his feelings; not something he thinks he could ever do so readily.
Moments later, Natasha's small, strong hand on his shoulder sends a jolt through him – it's been a week since they've even been in the same city – and he briefly reaches up to cover her fingers with his own.
"Hey," he says, failing to keep the smile out of his voice.
"Hey," she replies and gives his shoulder a squeeze as their eyes lock for a moment.
Thor leans back in his chair and envelops them both in one of his beaming grins. As if on cue, the waitress appears with a tray containing her Caprese salad, garlic bread and mineral water, as well as two mud pies and a double espresso.
"My, Barton," Natasha approves as she sits down in front of her meal. "Your social skills are improving. You're almost ready to be taken out in public."
To Thor, she explains, "He never orders vegetables. It's against his religion, I believe."
She delicately plucks a slice of basil-topped tomato and mozzarella off her fork with immaculate red lips, before pointing the fork at Clint's mud pie. Her mouth is still full when she asks, "You're not planning on eating all of that, are you?"
"Wouldn't dream of it, darlin'."
She rolls her eyes at the hillbilly endearment. Clint does like to play up to his carnie cliché on occasion, usually when Maria Hill is around, but Natasha pretty much had this one coming.
As it turns out, Thor rather likes mud pie, and is beginning to eye the half piece Clint has kept for Natasha with a calculating gleam. Besides, Clint really wants some private time with his partner, whom he hasn't seen in a week. Time to throw a distracting flare.
"Don't you have somewhere you'd rather be, Thor? Like Tromsø?"
"You think I should go there, now?"
Thor looks a bit like an overgrown teenager now, that perfect blend between eager and insecure – a look Clint recognizes rather too well, as one he's been forced to suppress as little as ten minutes ago.
Clint shrugs.
"Yes," he says simply. "You should. Since you're in the neighbourhood anyway. Surprise her. Just maybe try and find a less conspicuous place to take off from than Bethesda Terrace. Maybe one of those rooftops would be good."
Thor looks up to the still-blue sky, where the hawk has now been joined by its mate in drawing lazy circles above the city. Natasha, in the meantime, is giving Clint the 'I expect a full explanation about all this, stat!' look.
Thor has clearly made up his mind and gets up, reaching for his empty beer glass before reconsidering and letting his hand fall to his side.
"You are certain that Director Fury will not object to compensating the host for this meal?"
"He won't be offered a choice," Clint nods. "Go ahead. Roof's a-waiting."
Of course, he'd meant for Thor to take the elevator to the top of whatever building suits his fancy, but he should have known better; it's pretty clear from his stance that the Asgardian intends to leap up instead. So much for anonymity. (As it turns out, Thor's little display gets Fury off the expenses hook, when the manager figures out just who has been having lunch in his establishment and insists that it's on the house – call it a New York thank you. Sometimes being recognized isn't so bad. Clint leaves a good tip for the suddenly star-struck waitress, though.)
Before he takes off for the roof Thor turns to Clint, the expression on his face serious now, as if he has made an important decision.
"You asked earlier if I could be killed, Brother Archer."
He hesitates briefly, his unclouded blue eyes holding Clint's as he speaks and his hand extending to his teammate once again. Natasha looks from one man to the other, her slightly parted lips the only indication that she is aware that something important is about to be said.
"It is well that you did not loosen that unfailing arrow of yours, that day in New Mexico."
Clint does not respond immediately, his breath having momentarily failed him in light of the magnitude of the gift he has just been given. But then he clasps Thor's hand with his own, watching it almost disappear in the larger man's grip; when he speaks it is with a solemnity he doesn't usually feel.
"Yeah. I'm glad too, Brother. More than glad."