Author's Note: My Revengers fic that failed. Yay!
Characters: Loki, Thor, Bruce, Brunnhilde, Asgardians.
Warnings: Some depressive thoughts.
Written: 2019 some time. :)
Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!
Her head is pounding.
Her hands are shaking.
Her throat is dry.
And it is, in fact, probably in her best interests not to commit the murder she's currently envisioning with vivid detail. Brunnhilde releases a tight breath through her chest and forces her attention to expand out beyond the fact that her solution to this is to bang some heads against the wall, stand up and storm off. It would be both rude, and get her more looks than she really cares to gather at the moment. Not that it matters much, their eyes that don't leave no matter what she does anyway. She is a long-dead hero, here for them to gawk at again.
She's not banging some skulls.
This isn't Sakaar.
She can't do that anymore.
This is Asgard, and here she is required to act as something else. She isn't allowed to solve all her problems by throwing something or going after it with a big weapon. Shattering glass won't solve anything. And this isn't even a problem, isn't it? She's merely just frustrated and wants to stop listening to old men whine.
Alright.
"Whining" is probably not a fitting word.
Expressing concerns over the fate of everyone present that are actually ligament is more accurate—but, still. Mind numbing. Her head hurts. Her hands are shaking and all she really wants to do is curl up in a ball of misery where no one can watch her, wrap a blanket around her pathetic heaping mass and run. That's all she's good at now, running away. Running and running and running until she can't breathe anymore because she's trying to escape the prison she's willingly walked into. She wasn't prepared for this.
She was not prepared for this.
She will never be ready.
Why did she think she was ready for this? She would somehow walk back into Asgard with a cape on and suddenly she would be prepared to take up the mantle of Valkyrie again? Ha. Ha. Ha.
"—do?" The voice snaps her back into the room, presently, and she jerks her head slightly as her focus clicks into place. Where it's supposed to be, instead of wandering off among her thoughts and remaining lost there. Which isn't something she's horribly opposed to.
She flicks her gaze up, hoping no one caught her daze, to the other occupants of the room. Eight others are seated on the chairs they could pull together (the Grandmaster doesn't exactly have a surplus of folding chairs, for the most part seating has resorted to the ground—which is nothing she's against, but the Asgardians haven't exactly been living in poverty for the last thousand years). Brunnhilde isn't quite certain how she got dragged into this, but here she is.
Lord Arkenson was the one who voiced the question (maybe? Brunnhilde's mind is fuzzing around the edges and when Thor introduced them about ten (fifteen?) minutes ago; so she wasn't paying as much attention as to ingrain the names of the six others in the room), but the details of what he said have been lost to her.
For the most part, the only thing that's been discussed is the "what now" situation. Brunnhilde has no recommendations, her survival skills aren't exactly the most healthy—focus, you idiot. She bites on her tongue heavily and stares at the floor heavily, shifting forward and clasping her hands together on her lap.
The floor is a mess.
Brunnhilde never really knew the Grandmaster to be one who cleans, but this is ridiculous. Dark, dirt smears skid across the floor, and it wouldn't be quite as obnoxious if the rest of it wasn't white.
Talking.
They are talking and she's supposed to be focused on that. Not how much her hands are shaking and her head hurts.
She tilts her gaze up.
"—I don't know." One of the women murmurs. "We have to get this under control—find something to help. We can't survive the rest of the journey like this. Midgard is nearly six months' time from Asgard. How will we provide for the citizens?"
Ah.
That.
Right.
No food, little water. They're flying slowly towards their impending death, and that is why the council meeting was called. Yes. Panic away. When her head hurts less and her stomach stops backflipping, she'll probably join them in that. At the moment, she's a little busy.
Stop it.
Thor, who is sitting beside her, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His hands have been flexing in and out with agitation since gathered for the meeting nearly fifteen minutes ago. The flexing is something she's assuming is a nervous habit, but she's not certain. She's known Thor for maybe eight days now; she has hardly had time to write an essay of his habits.
The men and women look considerably glum as to what the woman (Pettidottir, or Fydottir, one of them is redheaded, and the other brunette, but the for life of her, Brunnhilde can't tell them apart) said. She can't exactly blame them. Looking on the bright side hasn't exactly been the goal of the meeting. But it would be nice if they weren't determined to depress all of them to death—just a thought, and her personal opinion.
The group is what remains of King Odin's curia regis—Asgard's elite council members. Typically, it has twelve members: three women and nine men with the king and queen at the head and the king's adviser (usually a sibling or close friend) as a second in command. Today, it bares the six remaining members from Hela's skirmish, Heimdall among them; the Gatekeeper of the Realm has always been reserved a place on the curia regis—Politics was something that she had to study when she was training to become a Valkyrie.
She recognizes only one of the men from the council she left behind after the slaughter of her sisters: Thor's uncle, Vili. The man was not one she particularly liked nor did she get along very well with him. He's an aggravating person who has seen the darker parts of Asgard and helped King Odin with his endeavors to change everything: because of this, she's pretty sure that's why the only things he has to say now are negative or depressing.
"Are there any outposts nearby?" Thor asks, his tone is carefully even as he looks towards where Heimdall is seated on the other side of the room between one of the two women and Lord Arkenson (maybe, could be Sir Borison, but she honestly can't remember).
She's definitely nauseous.
Why do they have to keep talking about food?
Heimdall gives a slight dip of his head in answer, "About a day's time from here."
Good. Excellent. Maybe she can find something to make her stomach stop clenching and her head stop spinning round and round and round—
"How are we to pay for it, my king?" Sir Borison (maybe Lord Arkenson) asks, his voice is thinned, "We don't carry Asgard's treasury in our pockets and this...Grandmaster did not leave much on the ship."
Beyond party supplies and a surprising amount of bedding, yeah, not really. She has been wrangled into sharing a room with Thor, Loki and Bruce (the Hulk is still running amok at the moment and Brunnhilde can't say she's to terribly disappointed about that), but she has yet to step foot in it. When she needs to sleep, she finds somewhere far away from the designated "rooms" area to hunker down for a few hours.
Hours because space does not set or rise, but the engineers have hooked a timer to the lights. Twelve hours with them brightly buzzing and ten with them dimmed. It resembles night, but it's not like living on a planet with the moon and stars to announce the arrival of darker hours. Her sleeping schedule has always been a mess, but it's gotten worse since she stepped foot on the Statesmen.
Thor nods slightly and runs a hand through his hair, a slight wince tensing between his shoulders and his eyes tighten. Brunnhilde stares at him for a long second, confused. Wince? Is he in pain? As far as she's aware, he's fine beyond his missing eye. She swore to defend the crown until her death and she's held to the promise as best she can over the last few days between her aching body to keep Thor from doing anything stupid.
Loki, too, is technically thrown into the equation, but she's seen little of him since he was requested by the healers for aid, so she hasn't worried much. Even now, the prince was unable to attend the meeting because of this, despite his place at Thor's right side. Thor asked him to be his adviser and though it would have been among the last positions she would have given him, Loki accepted.
Thor.
Her mind is a mess.
He winced.
Where is he in pain?
"I know that Loki stole a great deal from the Grandmaster," Thor says, carefully settling his hands on his lap and flexing them again. Brunnhilde pauses for a second, processing that.
Oh.
She hadn't really thought to question where all the supplies they would need to house people would come from, but Loki had apparently thought ahead. In the brief time she's known him, he's done that. It annoys her to no end. His mind doesn't seem to stop, buzzing around and around until he's mapped out in vivid detail everything that is to happen from today until six years from now. "But I'd have to ask him if he thought to take money."
Probably.
Wait—He stole money from the Grandmaster?
Norns he's an idiot.
He has a death wish, or he's a lot better of a thief than she gives him credit for.
The curia regis seems to shift uncomfortably and the other woman leans forward, long brown hair falling off her shoulders, "Should we really be trusting funds from Sakaar? It's practically nowhere— will it work as currency here? Time is disjointed around that realm, it could be far outdated."
Yes. She knows.
"The ships still run as well as Asgard's." Thor points out. Not...not exactly. The Statesmen runs fine at the moment, but Asgardian engineers have looked at the engines and the power sources, and from what she's seen and heard they haven't been to impressed. The fact is, is that if they don't all give out on starvation or dehydration, the ship is going to. They're kicking a dead horse into running, but, according to Korg, it was the biggest ship the Grandmaster owned.
Lord Fredilson sighs under his breath, "We're all doomed to starvation."
"Indeed." Lord Vili agrees, his eyes narrowing and the thick, bushy white eyebrows he's currently sporting making a show of hiding his lids from view completely. "If we had simply thought ahead of the consequences for what this was meant to be—it all could have been avoided."
Thor flinches visibly. Brunnhilde lifts her head to faintly scowl in the man's direction.
Negative, per usual.
There was no other way—Brunnhilde knows this. She watched Hela kill her sisters in less than an hour and leave their bodies to rot with her on Helheim. King Odin's contingency plan was for Asgard to go up with Hela; it's fate has been sealed since the firstborn's banishment.
"What's done is done," Heimdall says firmly, "we must focus on what is now. We will aim for this outpost to gather supplies—make trades if we must. We will find a way to provide for the citizens."
"But what if we can't?" Sir Borison (or Arkenson) questions, his voice is faint. "We can't give them false hope—we shouldn't, it's cruel."
"It is more cruel to leave them with none." Heimdall says firmly. "We will inquire of the prince about the funding, and we will gather what we can for trading in the meantime."
The room remains quiet, and a few awkward stares are passed between them.
"I'll talk with him," Thor offers when no one else jumps up at the prospect of it. He turns his head towards Heimdall and Brunnhilde notices something that she hadn't in the blinding lights from the ship before. Thor's face is pale and his hair is slick with sweat around the edges. He bares heavy shadows under his eyes as well. He looks ill. "Is he still with the healers?" Thor questions.
"Yes." Heimdall affirms, giving a slight dip of his head.
Thor nods once and turns to look towards the curia regis. "Is there anything else that needs to be further discussed?"
"No, my king." Lord Fredilson says. His voice is stiff.
The other members give slight shakes of their heads and Thor nods once before rising to his feet, posture slightly hunched.
Sick.
He's sick.
And he hasn't said anything.
Brunnhilde eyes him heavily for a long second before standing as well. "I'll join you," she states and Thor side glances her for a second before his lips thin and he gives a slight nod.
She glances back at the council for a final time before she and Thor exit the room, slipping into the abandoned hall adjoining it. Going left from here will lead them to the bridge where the Asgardian's typically gather during the day, but going right will lead to the sleeping chambers after a bit of navigation. Forward is where it dips to the lower levels and that's where they've been keeping the ill. Dehydration is starting to become a problem, even with the rationed water. The food is nearly gone, but any water that remains is nearly drained clean.
Thor begins to move forward and Brunnhilde stays at his side. They walk in silence for nearly two minutes before he tilts his head towards her. "Is there a reason that you joined me?" He questions. She wants to grind answers out about whatever it is he's sick with and she'd prefer to do it in private.
"I'm bored?" She offers.
Thor raises an eyebrow, "I have my doubts."
She rolls her eyes slightly and releases an annoyed breath before looking at him again, "Are you well?" That sounds direct. Should it be that direct?
He's holding his spine weird, that's why his posture looks so obnoxious. Chest injury?
Now he's watching her wearily. "I...I don't understand why you're inquiring about—" He starts to say, but Brunnhilde's patience gives and she lifts up a finger to jab him in the chest. Thor winces immediately and makes a pained noise, hand coming to cover the area as he smacks her arm away at the forearm with his other.
Yup, definitely a chest injury.
She lifts her gaze to his face and lifts an eyebrow.
Thor doesn't hold her eyes and bites at his tongue heavily, looking embarrassed. "I...um…" He stutters.
"Idiot." She bites out.
She sighs through her teeth and latches a hand around his wrist dragging him forward through the hallway. She's had more than enough time over the last few days to do a complete map out of the ship with her feet. She hasn't gotten everywhere yet, but most places she's visited or at least glanced at. As part of her training, she was required to memorize elaborate maps and pathways in and out of the palace for the protection of the royal family. It's habit now, and one that she relies heavily on.
Thor begins to shove out excuses and protests to her actions as they move, but she's ignoring him. He needs medical attention, so he's going to get it, kvetching or not.
"Valkyrie—" Thor tries again, he sounds desperate, "please, it is not as bad as it seems—stop, stop, they are busy and—"
Valkyrie.
Angry Girl.
Scrapper One-Forty-Two.
She's all titles now, isn't she?
Brunnhilde snorts and glances back at him through her braid. "I'm not dragging you off to the healers, Majesty."
He looks lost. "Then why…?"
She shakes her head slightly and sighs under her breath, pulling him forward. There's a medical closet near the Healer's Room-Hall-whatever they decided to call it that they can take things from. She was trained in medical arts when she joined the Einherjar.
Thor apparently realizes that she's not going to answer any of his questions and wisely clamps his mouth shut. She's fine with this. She's under oath to protect him, not talk to him.
They reach the closet (really more of a small room) and Brunnhilde opens the door and shoves Thor inside, flicking on the single light bulb. Thor staggers a few steps, but before he's regained his footing, she's shoving him onto one of the crates present for a makeshift seat.
The medical supplies is nothing they're short of. She's been through a few of the crates and otherwise messy piles since they arrived here and there is more than plenty for future and current injuries. Tonics, potions, bandages, pretty much anything she could think of—but no healing stones. Not that she really was looking for any, but they aren't present. It's something only native to Asgard that only reacts with Asgard's atmosphere, so even now they would be useless. But still, she has come to rely on other methods beyond the enchanted rocks. Like rags, water, and gauze.
Loki probably took all of this, too.
Thor mentioned he was late when they were on the Bifrost.
This, along with the rest of his thievery, is likely why.
If only he'd assumed they would be in space for more than a few days, perhaps the panic as they run out of necessities to sustain life would be less. She forces herself from her head and clenches her shaking hands into fists, turning to look back at Thor for a second as she gathers supplies she's assuming she'll need.
"Alright, shirt off." She commands.
Thor hesitates. He looks like he would rather have his leg being chewed on by a wyvern than speak with her. She feels about the same. If he didn't look so ill, she would let this slide and only bring it up again if he collapsed. And isn't that terrible? If her commanding officer could see her now...what shame she would feel.
Brunnhilde's a mess that helped destroy the land of her ancestors, broke her oath to never drink of alcoholic beverages, sold both princes of Asgard into slavery—even if Loki managed to win his freedom by defeating the Grandmaster's chosen victim—and now she couldn't care less if either of them were to abruptly kick the bucket.
Alright.
Yes, that's a lie, but she should care more.
She took up Dragonfang again and pledged her life to Thor's throne, but now she doesn't know how to go about doing that. Or if she can. She's not fit for this anymore. The woman who left Asgard to stop Princess Hela's release with her sisters is not the one who stands in this small closet trying desperately not to vomit.
Who is she supposed to be now?
Her hands won't stop shaking.
She feels sick.
A clenched tightness in her chest that doesn't go away or ease with time.
Sick and sick and sick.
Focus. Thor. Injured. She needs to do something about that. "Off." Brunnhilde repeats, her voice is pinched but she could care less. She looks back at Thor, "I need to check the gaping wound your hiding, so off."
He stares at her pleadingly, but her resolve refuses to waver. His jaw clenches firmly with discomfort before he moves to start undoing the latches of the armor he's been wearing for four days straight. No, longer; he wasn't given a change of clothing on Sakaar save the one he was allowed to fight Hulk in. Eight days now, then?
Only very few of them have any spare clothing and it's going to start showing and smelling soon. Brunnhilde is not among that lucky group. She lived in her ship and that's on Sakaar, and the clothing she left on the Grandmaster's celebration of birth ship is with the rubble of Asgard. She has the undergarments of her armor (a black shirt and pants) and that's it.
She blows out a breath as she watches Thor fumble, but doesn't take a step forward to assist.
Thor carefully sheds his armor, wincing and Brunnhilde can see him biting at his tongue every few seconds. His pain tolerance is something to be noted—she, too, has been slammed by Hulk and it is nothing to laugh over—but it doesn't seem to be helping him any here. The shirt he's wearing was likely a deep gray at some point, but it's splotched with deep stains in some areas that Brunnhilde can see an effort was made into washing them out, but it didn't help.
After a second, he carefully pulls the clothing away from his skin. She nearly drops the supplies with surprise. His chest is a mess of bandages swinging back and forth from one edge to another, but some of it is stained with pus or blood. She thought maybe a single wound—that would be it. A long gash or something. Norns she was not expecting this.
Brunnhilde swears, loudly.
Thor looks up at her, blue eyes wide. In the dim lighting of the single bulb, his face looks anxious.
She shakes her head as she leans forward and pulls of some of the stained bandages, seeing the broken, raw and blistered wounds. There a mess across his torso from multiple blades; in a few areas, it's stitched together, but the threading is sloppy and they're the worst of the infection. The damage is not nearly as bad as it should be, blood clotting appears to have happened and the damage to the tissue doesn't seem to severe which reassures her that he is healing, but it's not at the speed it should be. Brunnhilde doesn't think it will be possible to avoid scarring. They aren't close enough to Asgard for that anymore.
His healing factor, like hers, is probably much weaker the farther away they are from Asgard. They need more food consumption for the effects to be magnified to the point they are—were—were on Asgard. Brunnhilde has spent a great chunk of her existence away from Asgard (whether on errands for the king or Sakaar), but with food intake she's managed to keep her healing factor up to speed. She imagines that all of them are feeling the effects of Asgard's natural filling of this stripped away suddenly. She isn't. She was on Asgard for less than two hours before it was ripped from the cosmos.
When did this happen?
She looks up at Thor as she begins to unwind the messy bandages. "What happened?" She demands. He looks like he fell into one of the frozen ice streams on Jotunheim. She has seen effects of such, it's not pretty.
He looks at her, but he seems slightly dazed.
"Thor." She presses.
"Hela." Thor girts out between clenched teeth. Brunnhilde's lips thin tightly.
Oh.
She releases a breath out through her nose, trying to remain calm. "This was three days ago, Majesty," she says slowly, tossing the bandages to the side, "how much worse was it then?"
Thor looks abruptly uncomfortable.
He should.
She's going to kill him. Then Hela again. Maybe she'll kill Hela again first, then Thor.
"Only six healers survived from the palace," Thor says at last, though his voice is very quiet, "I...I am not as important as everyone else. It will heal on its own given time."
She blinks at him, startled. Why is…? He's serious. Of course he's serious. Stupid, selfless idiot. Brunnhilde cusses again and shakes her head with disbelief. "You're daft, Majesty."
Thor looks at her, but his expression is more confused than offended, "What?"
She sighs and leans forward, plucking a rag from the medical supplies and grabs the water canister at her hip—the small ration that she's been given for the day—and dumps a generous amount onto the rag. She can go thirsty, it's nothing she hasn't done before. Her throat already feels like it's on fire, so this can't be much different.
Her hands are still shaking and the water tips out with less control than she wanted.
"Valkyrie—" Thor starts with disapproval. She doesn't care. It's not his water, it's her's and she's not the one who has at least eight stab wounds on his chest with a variety of bruising elsewhere. Hulk, she's assuming, is the culprit behind that. Why didn't anyone think to ask Thor about being wounded, she saw him get stabbed on the bridge by his sister and said nothing. Why didn't she think to ask about it before now?
She presses the cloth against his wounds and wipes the worst of the blood and yellowing infection from it. She cleans his torso as much as she can and, after smearing some of the antibiotics on the worst of the wounds over the stitching, she covers them with bandages tightly and sits down next to him, releasing a breath. She caps the bottle shut that's mostly empty now—save perhaps a small handful—and wipes her hands on her pants.
Thor awkwardly pull his shirt on over his chest again, but doesn't move to pick up the armor. He looks strangely vulnerable without it. Smaller. Norns, he is so much younger than she first thought. They had just celebrated his birth when Hela attempted her escape. She never saw the christening, but given the rough estimation of time from then to now, he must be somewhere along the lines of exactly Midgardian mid-twenties. Younger, likely. Twenty-three?
She tilts her head up towards him. "Does Loki know?"
Thor tenses, closes his eye, then shakes his head. "No."
No one would blame her if she throttled him. "...Did anyone before me?"
Another shake, but this time it's mute. Brunnhilde leans forward and rests her aching head in her shaking hands. She was not prepared to deal with this today. She doesn't know a time when she would be, but right now, she just...she feels young and helpless again.
"Valkyrie," Thor's voice is hesitant, "did...did I anger you?"
What?
Anger.
She's always angry. Yes. He did anger her.
She looks up at him between her fingers, "Yeah." She runs her hands across her face, suddenly exhausted. "You look awful. When was the last time you slept?"
"Sakaar." Thor admits with a slight shrug.
She stares at him incredulously.
How the bloody—this is fine. Fine. It's all fine. She whacks his arm with frustration and he looks towards her face. "That's it." She declares, her patience has slipped and Thor keeps dancing on it's grave. It was never excessively large to begin with, but she can feel the frays slipping between her fingers and she can't get them to clench tight enough.
"Get up, you're going to bed." She says, rising to her feet.
"But, Loki—" Thor tries. She lifts up a hand, cutting him off. Right. That. Money. Location. She can ask him, it doesn't have to come from Thor.
"Shut up."
"But—"
"Shut up." She avers firmly, "I'll take care of it. Now, I can drag you there or you can walk."
Thor pauses for a second and looks like he's actually debating it before he sighs and rises to his feet. "Right. You'll tell me of the results?"
"When you wake up." She assures. "C'mon, Majesty."
000o000
They're almost to the sleeping quarters when she nearly rams face first into Bruce. She rocks on her heels, tilting away from her toes as Bruce scrambles backwards, surprise evident in his expression. His hair is a bit of a mess and there's a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but he looks otherwise fine. Brunnhilde has been keeping slight tabs on the Hulk, but from her understanding he was mostly following Thor around.
They were teammates on Midgard, from what she's put together.
"Bruce!" Thor exclaims, his expression is alight with surprise and jublicance. "It's good to see you!"
"Yeah! Hey." Bruce agrees, looking strangely out of place. His hands keep shuffling awkwardly towards the sleeves of his long shirt. It looks like an Asgardian robe, but where it came from is a different story. Bruce looks between them for a second before his shoulders slump with relief. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you." He reassures.
Thor moves forward and gives him a quick embrace though she notes that he's careful with his torso. He's been doing it for days, and now she notices? Some Valkyrie she is.
"How are you?" Thor questions.
"A little tired, mostly hungry." Bruce admits with a slight shrug. "Heimdall found me and explained...about it. I'm sorry about Asgard, Thor." He says sincerely. "I wish we could have found something else to stop your crazy sister."
Thor's expression grows tight for a second—but it's so brief she half wonders if she imagined it. "Yes. Well. What happened happened and there is no need to dwell on the past."
Asgard is a place, not a people.
More fidgeting with the sleeves. Bruce nods, "All the same, though. I...um, I've been looking for you."
Brunnhilde shifts her position slightly, folding her arms across her chest and leaning into her hip so she can watch their expressions a little better.
"What can I do for you?" Thor's energy is a facade.
"Hulk. Hulk wanted…" Bruce pauses, then rewords with: "He smelled blood on you and—yeah. He couldn't do anything about it, but I'm a doctor so, um," he shrugs awkwardly. Brunnhilde's shoulders slump with relief and she quietly thanks anyone listening as she gives Thor a shove towards the Midgardian.
"Great. Put him to bed." She commands, "I already checked him over and cleaned what I could."
Bruce looks surprised and helps steady Thor from the imbalance, his gaze resting on her. She forces herself to remain calm under his gaze despite her itching urge to run. She wants out of their stares.
Away from Thor, so she doesn't have to be reminded constantly of her failure.
She wants out.
Away.
"I'm going to go talk with Lackey." Brunnhilde says quickly. Before either have time to argue, she turns on her heel and walks away; but, in honestly, it should have been labeled as "bolting".
000o000
The medical room smells as she was expecting: antiseptic and stale. Neither helps the nausea spinning in her stomach.
The walls are a faint orange with white trim wrapped around the top as a border, but it still feels bare and lifeless. Lights are buzzing from the ceiling at their full capacity, giving a gritty feeling to the room, which in turn adds to the lifelessness. Despite this obnoxious lighting, it doesn't seem to be enough for the healers. She can spot some magical shards floating through the air acting as smaller, more focused bulbs of light. It's unpleasant. The room is large, but feels smaller from the people littered across the floor.
Many of the people are adults, but she spots a few sickly children towards the edges being gently caressed by either their parents or one of the healers. There are whispered conversations being spoken between the ill, but none seem able to raise their voices loud enough for the sound to be pulsing. There are no cots, no mattresses, nothing but the cold, barren ground and a thin blanket for the ill and injured.
It reminds her of a battlefield of fallen warriors, and Brunnhilde flicks her gaze away. She processes this in about three seconds before taking another step into the room, keeping a steady hand against the doorframe for support. She feels eyes flick up to her, and does her best to ignore it, searching among the sea of heads for Loki's dark hair with little success.
A young woman with straight, but messy, blonde hair materializes beside her suddenly and Brunnhilde nearly jumps. Bloody sorcerers.
"Can I help you?" She asks, expression furrowed as she stares Brunnhilde over with a professional gaze. She's looking for injuries. This is a medical bay, Brunnhilde doesn't really have any other reasons to be in here unless she's sick or dying. But she's neither. The girl's accent is thick, she was likely born in the upper class of Serenity, the capital. Those from further out in the outskirts, usually beyond Speckle Point and the Whitewashed Cliffs have a thinner drawl. At least, it was the last time she was there.
Everything is so different, but hardly seems to have changed.
Brunnhilde forces herself to stay present, then draws herself together. "I'm looking for Loki."
The woman's brow draws together tighter, "The prince? Last I heard he was helping Erei with Idrissa's daughter." She makes a move take a few steps away, but Brunnhilde clasps her upper arm, stopping her. She hasn't been in this room, she has no idea where Idrissa is, or even who she is. The only Asgardians she knows are few, and she's barely been acquaintances with them for more than a few days.
Brunnhilde's lips thin and she nods, "Where would that be?"
The woman's face flushes with embarrassment for a second, "Oh, sorry; it is over there," the woman gestures towards their left where Brunnhilde, after some angling with her head, can see the familiar raven head. She nods her thanks and releases the healer, moving across the room quietly and quickly as to avoid waking anyone who is resting. But no one really appears to be sleeping and their eyes follow her.
She can't say she's fond of it.
Brunnhilde gnaws on her inner cheek tightly and reaches Loki after a few more paces. He's sitting on the ground cross legged, hand resting on a small girl's forehead. His eyes are closed as he breathes rhythmically. Across from him an, older woman is beside a younger one who has the girl's hand between her own. The older woman—Erei, was it?—is conversing quietly with the mother as Loki...does whatever it is he's doing.
Sorcery's not her forte.
In her youth, it was considered shameful for warriors to learn it, so Brunnhilde never did.
Guessing by Thor and Loki's fighting styles, that particular way of thinking changed, or at least laxed during her absence.
Erei looks up at her and her gaze briefly flickers with surprise, before dipping in respect, "My lady," she addresses. Loki's expression twitches, but he doesn't look up at her. The mother's eyes rise and she locks with Brunnhilde's gaze. After a second, her eyes flicks to the white lies on her face and recognition sparks.
"Y-You're the last Valkyrie." She says, her words stuttered. Do people have to keep reminding her of that?
"Yeah." She grits between her teeth. Be nice. She quietly chastises herself.
"What can we do for you, my lady?" Erei questions.
"I need to speak with Lack-Loki," she corrects herself mid sentence, "when will he be done with...that?" She gestures lamely in the prince's direction and Erei's eyebrows lift with slight amusement. Brunnhilde stifles a gnawing sensation of embarrassment that roots itself in her stomach. Why do people expect you to know everything when they admire you? She's an idiot when it comes to sorcery, alright, why can't they accept that and move on? She hates this demeaning attitude.
Erei faintly smiles, "He's putting her in a healing trance for a few days," she explains, "I can take over, it is time that he takes a break, anyway." Erei sends an exasperated look in the raven haired man's direction before turning to the mother, "Fli will be fine; the wound is healing neatly, even now."
The mother's hand tightens around her daughter's, "I know, I know—but she's all I have now and I—I—" Tears threaten to spill and Brunnhilde is momentarily paralyzed. What on the Nine is she supposed to do if the mother breaks out into hysterical sobs? The only people she's good at comforting are those she knows and that's with a broom in hand from several feet away as she pats them on the shoulder with the bristles.
Erei rests a hand on her shoulder with sympathy, "I understand. I feel the same over my husband, rest easy." Erei releases a breath and rests a hand on the girl, Fli's forehead. After a second she turns towards Loki, "My prince," she murmurs, "I am taking over now."
Erei's eyes slip shut and her body relaxes abruptly as Loki jerks forward with a jolt. His head whips up and his green eyes open as he fumbles with his fingers looking as if for all rights he was tossed into the ocean and can't tell which way is up. After a few hissed breaths, he settles and glances at Erei for a moment, then the mother, then appears to realize that she's standing on his right.
He turns his head towards her and his eyebrows flicker with something she doesn't understand. Surprise? Frustration? Brunnhilde's lips thin and she suddenly realizes how much she doesn't want to be in here.
"What?" Loki's voice is thin.
"I need to speak with you." She says, forcing her gaze to remain on him, unlike the way it would much rather wander away. She clenches her twitching hands at her sides.
"On?" Loki presses.
By the Norns, can't he just agree and they can be done with this?
"Thor sent me." She answers; not really, she volunteered, but what difference does it make? She has no desire to go bubbling out the fact that they're all set for an impending doom in a few days into a sickbay. These people need hope and a reason to get better. The information she has won't provide that.
Loki's lips thin tightly for a second before he releases out a breath and tilts his head back to the mother. Unlike the clear frustration in his gaze when he looked at her, when he turns to the mother he's all smiles and laughter. "I apologize Missi; I'll return as soon as I can."
Missi nods her thanks and Loki smiles once more at her before rising to his feet. His heels grind heavily into the floor, looking as if he's trying to keep himself from toppling over face first, and it's not really a pleasant thought.
She buries her shaking fingers next to her legs and attempts to throw the headache into the back of her mind. Loki turns towards her and Brunnhilde thins her lips before turning around and walking towards the exit. Loki's footsteps are quiet as they follow her.
When they've slipped from the stares of the sick-people and out of the room, Brunnhilde doesn't stop. She guides him several more paces down the hallway before turning, then pauses. In the bright, almost painful lights of the medical bay, it's really hard to see anything, but here, in the dimmer lighting Brunnhilde can make out Loki's features with more ease. Loki looks exhausted. His eyes are rimmed, his hair is a mess, but tucked back into a ponytail that's falling apart. He's wearing the same green shirt and pants since the last time that she saw him, which was Thor's "coronation" several days ago.
Not much of a crowning.
At least, not by Asgardian standards.
Loki's eyes narrow as he stares at her for a second, something flickering in his gaze. He's quiet for a moment longer before wetting his chapped lips and asking, "What was it that my brother wanted?"
That. Right. Focus. Her head is spinning. Round and round and round it goes.
Stand still.
She digs her fingernails into her palms and the sensation is painful, but offers the settling she wanted.
"The curia regis meeting." Brunnhilde blurts, her mind suddenly connecting the dots between the two of them. She quietly curses her headache and continues before Loki can say something to make her feel worse: "We discussed what needs to happen—how we're going to survive and all that—in an admittedly less than positive point of view, but I'm not one to judge. Summarization: we're running out of food."
They have three more days if they're lucky.
Loki's breath escapes him slightly and he presses a hand against his temples, "I know."
"Heimdall said there's a trading post about a day from here. We need money. Thor wants to know if you thought to steal any when you escaped Sakaar." Brunnhilde finishes, then looks at him expectantly. Loki's eyebrows rise with slight surprise.
"Yes, I did," Loki says and Brunnhilde feels something in her chest release with relief. "Everything I could grab from the Grandmaster's slave fighting," his voice is hollow, "the rest I left for the citizens who still remained."
Wait. What? Brunnhilde blinks at him, then asks slowly: "You stole the Grandmaster's fortune?" It's nothing to laugh at, she's seen it. How much of it Loki managed to commandeer, she's uncertain.
Loki looks flustered, "I didn't exactly have time to go running around collecting a beggars income. I took what was there and left."
Brunnhilde lifts up her hands in defense, "I'm not complaining. I'm actually a little impressed." She admits, if with reluctance. Loki stares at her as if she's grown a fifth limb from her forehead. Brunnhilde ignores it the best she can. "Where is this great stash stored? I need to tell the curia regis about it."
And, if she can, catch a few hours of sleep. Her headache is getting to the point of unbearable again.
"In the lower levels. It's in containers marked as "science equipment", it was the only empty space." Loki explains.
Brunnhilde nods and her stomach flips violently. She barely represses the urge to lean over and heave her insides to an exterior level or release a loud moan of discomfort. She clenches her shaking hands at her sides and forces herself to stay focused.
It's a simple thing, playing messenger, why can't she do this?
Loki's staring at her oddly again.
She hates it when he stares at her.
Why does he have to have one of those stupid stares that can parse a soul apart?
Brunnhilde nods and smacks her lips together, "Right then, I guess I'll be off." She makes a move to step forward, but stops at Loki's question: "Are you ill?"
Yes.
Yes. Help me. She can't do this anymore. Her head is pounding, her stomach is spinning and her limbs keep twitching.
Help me.
Yes.
She needs assistance and she can't—
"No." She says firmly, "I'm not sick, Lackey, I'm busy." She takes a step forward, but Loki steps in front of her and stares at her face.
"You're pale."
"And you're not?" Brunnhilde hisses.
Loki doesn't mask his irritation, but nonetheless plows forward: "Your hands are shaking, and you have a headache if your continuous squinting is anything to go by."
Great. He's been staring at her. Has anyone the politeness to avoid gawking at her? "It isn't your concern." She bites. She doesn't want to deal with this. She doesn't have the time. She's finally being useful again and now Loki isn't even letting her do that—
"Valkyrie." Loki's voice is firm, "I am just trying to—"
Her name is Brunnhilde.
"You're not my bloody mother," she growls, "so get off." She violently pushes him away from her. Loki staggers several steps, expression suddenly wary. She flexes her fingers in and out and tries to will her feet forward, but they aren't going anywhere productive. Or anywhere at all. Move. Move.
Loki's watching her as if he's afraid she's going to hit him, but he isn't tense in a running position.
She forces herself to breathe, if raggedly.
She's not going to hit him, even though she really, really wants to.
The prince's eyes are wary, and she releases a deep breath through her teeth, then forces herself to meet them. "Lower levels, science equipment," she repeats, looking at him for confirmation. After an initial hesitation, Loki offers it with a curt nod.
Brunnhilde nods and walks away from the dark-haired man, trying her best to quell guilt.
She hasn't found much success by the time she finds the curia regis.
000o000
The last time he can remember his lungs feeling this compressed with anxiety was several years ago. The Avengers had been living together in the tower for almost four months before Clint plopped down beside him one morning, chewing halfheartedly on an apple and said that he needed to get a pilot's license for the Quinjet. He'd stared at the archer for a long moment with disbelief, but nonetheless found himself at the controls a week later, Clint at his side. The panic had arrived when Clint had left him in charge. Driving a car is not like flying an airplane and he'd spent the entire flight trying not to throw up, crash, or disappoint his teammate when he did succumb to the inevitable a panic attack.
That panic is not unlike his current.
He has had to learn to control his emotions over the last several years for fear of releasing his other half, and though it has helped in the past, it doesn't take the edge off of his current spiral. The anxiety is pressing against his lungs, squished between his sternum and his collarbones making it impossible to breathe deep enough.
Bruce has never actually slammed someone over the head with a shovel before, but the urge is getting quite tempting. Just grab the handle, tense the muscles and give a good, hard swing to the back of the messy blond locks. Problem solved and he can walk away in peace. Unfortunately, he has his doubts it will do much other than mildly irritate the receiver of his swing; Asgardians are like that.
He's been working in the medical field for over fifteen years now, and has long since come to the realization that patients can be difficult, but when people who you know are patients, it's even worse.
The Avengers would often bring injuries to him all the time after missions or from stupid stunts. All of them were awful as patients. It was annoying to no end because he just wanted them to sit still and do nothing, but they wouldn't listen and he'd end up throwing his hands up in the air with frustration and declaring that he's done.
Thor was no different.
And he still isn't.
Bruce only has a basic overview of the ship from what Heimdall told him—and when he briefly got lost looking for his teammate—so his navigation isn't at its best, something he isn't to partial on. When he lived in New York, he knew the streets around the Tower like he does the periodic table of elements; he rarely gets lost. This is different, and it isn't helping anything.
It takes them likely double the amount of time it should have to find their shared sleeping quarters and Bruce struggles for a moment with the keypad that acts as a lock before they can enter. Space is complicated, he has come to realize with growing concern and despair. Space is very complicated.
The room is small and dark, smelling faintly of dust with a side of burning hair.
It's not exactly pleasant.
Bruce bites back a reflexive gag as Thor stumbles forward and slams his hand along the wall, looking for a light switch of some sort. The room has no windows, and it's pitch black save the steady hall light slowly streaming into the space.
His hand is only met by the cold steal of paint, unable to find anything that feels remotely like a light switch, or a dial-like-thing that Bruce saw on the ship they commandeered from Sakaar on their way to Asgard. He bites back slight embarrassment and tugs the long sleeves of his borrowed clothing over his fingers. "Ah, Thor," he questions, trying to catch the Asgardian's attention.
After a second, Thor looks back at him expectantly. Bruce gestures vaguely towards the wall, "Is there a light in here or…?" He trails off awkwardly. Thor's head flicks to the ceiling and Bruce follows his gaze. A bulb. Thor is looking for a bulb. Of course. He should have done that first, idiot.
"No," Thor says after a second, "no, I don't think so."
Great.
Bruce sighs and steps out of the doorway, spotting a faintly glowing ring he assumes opens the door from this side. The small space doesn't look as if anyone has stepped foot in it, which isn't a great sign. They've been here for three (four?) days now, and four people, including himself, are supposed to share this. Have none of them have been in here since the Statesmen left Asgard?
Bruce flicks his gaze across the space once more. After a second or so, he spots the silhouette of bedding piled on the floor. Blankets and a few small pillows. It isn't much, admittedly, but he's grateful there's even that. They could have less. Bruce has slept on less before.
He sighs under his breath and shifts forward, "You should sleep." He says to his teammate. Thor looks back at him for a second, expression thinned.
"But I have to—"
Bruce lifts up a hand, then gestures to the bedding with his other. "It wasn't a request." Thor hesitates and Bruce shakes his head. What he would give for something to knock him unconscious. "Thor," he says gently, "please. You're sick."
"My father—" Thor tries again, but Bruce grabs his shoulder and steers him towards the bedding, kneeling down to grab one of the blankets. He spreads it out and shoves Thor towards the ground with little effort, a true sign of how exhausted the blond must be. Thor's tense muscles release and Bruce swings the blanket from off of his shoulders, handing it to the Asgardian.
"I wish we had access to Stark Medical," Bruce admits, "I could be more helpful."
Thor looks up at him and Bruce can't help when his gaze lingers on Thor's missing eye. He has no idea how it happened, or when beyond the fact that it was somewhere in the Bifrost battle. He has seen Thor walk away from explosions and only had the edge of his cape mildly charred, and something took his eye.
It rouses a protective frustration in him, and Hulk.
"You've done enough," Thor assures, his tone is quieter. "Valkyrie nearly took my head off when she learned. Thank you for not doing that."
He's seen enough hidden injuries between his teammates he is, unfortunately, used to it.
Bruce nods, "Of course, I'll leave so you can sleep." The words "tell Jarvis if you need something" are on the edge of his tongue, but he swallows them with effort. He is not at Avengers Tower anymore, and Jarvis is dead. Habit. He's spent too much time in Stark Medical.
Bruce lingers for a moment longer before quietly exiting the room, leaving Thor alone in the pitch-black space.
He egresses into the hall and turns to the left, intent on finding food. Heimdall's conversation had been brief, but thoroughly detailed; the Asgardian is clearly experienced with giving only the necessities. A ration is wrapped around food, but he doesn't care. He'll eat anything they can give him. His stomach is twisting aggressively with pain. It's what happens after a Hulk-out: he typically sleeps for ten or more hours straight, consumes half a fridge, then feels uncomfortably tight in his skin for days to follow.
He hasn't had the opportunity to sleep yet, so he can feel his bodies' sluggishness, and the growing discomfort with his skin is prominent. Anxiety is poking through these with a hot rod and throwing it to the side as if it doesn't matter. He hates this. He knows one person on this ship personally, and there's only a handful he knows of, but one of them attempted his murder, the other Hulk knows, and Heimdall is someone that Thor has spoken of briefly.
Thor doesn't talk about Asgard.
At least, he didn't when Bruce lived with them, things could have changed over the time he was missing. Whenever anyone would bring up the subject, he would clamp and direct the conversation so off of the topic with ease it wasn't hard to see the regal training slipping through. He was more than happy to detail about other Realms, just never launch into such excitement when Asgard was addressed.
There's also the fact that he's been away from Earth for years. Tony, if Steve doesn't beat him to it, is going to tear his head from his shoulders with frustration when they arrive. However long that takes. He has no idea how many light years away Asgard is from Earth, he didn't think to ask. They could be in this small ship with it's recycled air and stale taste of despair for years.
And the thought horrifies him.
Bruce hates being in a cage; captivity makes him anxious (and Hulk thrives on such emotions). A cage is still a cage no matter how big it is. The Statesmen is supposed to be their salvation, but it doesn't feel like that. Not to him.
He is very alone here.
Bruce sighs through his teeth and plows forward through the quiet hallway. Despite his initial trouble with finding the sleeping quarters, he reaches the main deck with minimal difficulty. People are scattered across the room in small gatherings, talking quietly or sleeping and Bruce is fairly certain he can see an attempt at school going on in a corner.
He has no idea where to go from here. He can't spot any familiar faces, and he digs his fingernails into the edges of his sleeves sharply at it. People are staring, and he wishes they would stop. He takes a few steps forward and scans across the room, looking for a space to hunker so he can watch what others are doing before attempting to mimic them.
He could just ask, but he doesn't want to intrude.
Or seem stupid.
When he finds a place to settle, he's left alone. The Asgardian's watch him from afar, but no one makes any attempts to speak with him. This is fine. Bruce doesn't want to talk with anyone anyway. He's not even sure what he would say—sense Thor has been meager with details on Asgard, he's pretty helpless as to their culture differences. He could say something offensive without meaning to or accidentally declare war on something or—yeah, he's grateful they aren't trying to talk with him.
Bruce remains here for a while, long enough that the Asgardians stop staring and return to their normal tasks, seeming to ignore his existence completely. Bruce begins to daze slightly, flexing his fingers in and out as he tries to quell the discomfort of his stretched skin. It's thin and uncomfortable, nothing unusual, all it lacks is the typical burning heat the follows. He's not disappointed at it's absence.
A figure is in front of him, suddenly, and Bruce whips his head up, startled. Hulk buzzes in the back of his mind, drawing more present at his discomfort.
In front of him is Loki, green eyes sharp and calculating as he plays with some sort of writing utensil between his left hand's fingers. Bruce never heard him approach, and neither did Hulk, who is now wary and quietly murmuring in the back of his mind. Shh.
Bruce swallows and tries to bury his disconcertment, but he doesn't have much success. Loki's eyes are shadowed and his clothing is rumbled, but he looks far healthier than Bruce remembers him being on Earth. Still, though, Bruce doesn't want to get tugged into some sort of murder-plot, or be a victim, so he leans back as far as he's able along the wall, trying to bury his unease. Judging from Loki's expression, he isn't very successful.
Loki watches him for another moment, then sighs briskly. "What are you doing?"
Bruce stares at him. Hiding, admittedly, but he doesn't exactly want to go blurting that out to Loki. "I...um…" Bruce stutters, drawing his hands closer to his torso. "It's…" What is it? What is he trying to say? "Thor is sleeping," he ejaculates, "and I didn't want to bother him, but I didn't know where else to go and…" he trails, trying to scramble enough words together to finish the sentence properly. Nothing is coming to mind. "Yeah." He concludes, mentally wincing.
Loki's shoulders relax a slight amount, but it might just have been him shifting his position. Bruce isn't sure, Loki is not an open person with his body language and his face is an empty sheet of paper, this is unlike the Avengers were. Even Natasha and Clint were easier to read, to an extent, after Bruce got to know them better. His stomach gives a painful tug at the reminder of his team and he forces it to the side.
"You're hiding." Loki states plainly, sweeping up Bruce's jumbled sentences into something unambiguous.
Bruce tenses at the words and rubs at the back of his neck. "Um…"
"Don't bother with excuses," Loki says before Bruce can come up with any probable ones, "your face says everything."
Bruce thins his lips and tries to clear his expression, but the most he does is make his eyebrows join across his brow, furthering his anxiety into being obvious. Ugh.
Loki gives a slight shake of his head, and Bruce snaps his jaw shut before staring up at Loki's face when he commands: "Move; you're atop the water jugs."
What?
Since when?
Bruce flicks his gaze down to the crate he's perched on, then quickly scrambles to his feet, embarrassed. Ah man. He's been here for hours and no one mentioned to him that...great. He is helpless when it comes to these matters, and it makes him want to smack his forehead against something very hard. Everything is scribbled out in Asgardian text; he had no idea what it said. He wouldn't have taken up that as a hiding place if he knew and—
The Asgardians were staring at him.
Not because he's him, but because he unintentionally blocked supply to their water.
Perfect.
Bruce is fairly certain that his face is tinged so he ducks his head, but Loki isn't looking at him anymore. As soon as Bruce shifted, Loki moves to pull the lid off of gray container. There's a level of tightness in Loki's movements, but he grabs one of the small water-bottle looking things from within the confines of the space, then firmly presses down on the lid to the large crate. It clicks into place a moment later.
Loki turns to him and Bruce averts his gaze, but he can still feel the stare.
"You look ill." He says thinly, after a moment. Bruce whips his head up towards the dark-haired Asgardian for a second, flabbergasted. Did Loki just inquire about his health?
"What?" Bruce questions in surprise, then runs the words around his head again, "I'm not sick."
Loki's hand draws back and his eyebrows lift slightly, "You are dehydrated at least."
And he knows this how?
Bruce's lips draw together thinly and Loki releases a quiet breath along with a stream of words in his native tongue before shoving the water bottle towards his chest. Bruce takes it on instinct to keep it from clattering against the ground and makes a noise of protest, "I can't take from this—" He starts to argue, but Loki is already digging another from the container and shoots him a look. Bruce isn't Asgardian. It's not his to have.
"Take it. Everyone is given one per day. I'm assuming you haven't found the food, yet, yes?" He questions and spins his fingers over the top of the second water bottle. It vanishes from view and Bruce nearly drops the water bottle with surprise. He knows that magic exists, he lived with a man who wielded lightning from a hammer for years, but that was just normal. This...isn't. He's never seen a portray of sorcery like this. It seems so fluid, easy, and natural.
He wants to understand it, but he has no desire to prod.
Loki stands in front of him stiffly, a thin silver package between his fingers that's outstretched to him. Bruce pauses, then looks up at him with slight surprise. Loki's expression is clear of anything helpful, and Bruce hesitates before reaching his hand forward to take the package from him.
Loki's expression clouds with minor irritation. "I've done nothing to it," he assures, "if I wanted you dead, Bruce, you would be."
This doesn't instill him with any confidence.
Hulk rumbles quietly in the back of his mind, offering Loki a warning.
Bruce grips the package tightly and gives a slight nod, "Yeah, um, thanks."
Loki nods and gyrates, before pausing to look back at him, "You're a healer, yes?"
On a technical term, no, he isn't. He was nearly finished with his training to become a trauma surgeon while getting a degree in general medics when his professor recommended him to a scientific course. He took up gamma radiation a few months later and didn't look back. So no, he doesn't have an "official" degree in medicine, but he has practiced it enough recently—but it's not recently because it's been two years—that he feels fairly confident in his abilities.
Bruce shifts his feet, "Um, sort of, I don't have an official paper or anything, but, yeah."
Loki eyes him for a second, "If you could offer aid in the medical bay it wouldn't be unwelcomed, the other healers are exhausted."
Loki looks that way to, but Bruce doesn't say as much.
"I don't know much about Asgardian psychology." Bruce admits, "Thor never really needed me to put him back together." Thor has had as many scrapes, bruises, and broken bones as the rest of him, but he's always healed quickly and Bruce has never had to worry extensively over him.
Loki's lips thin tightly, "Yes, well, we aren't asking you to perform surgery." Loki hesitates on the last word as if not familiar with it. "If you could spare at least spare moment," he avers, then tilts his head forward again and promptly walks back towards the crowd.
They part for him silently, though Bruce can see a number of lingering stares. Some look soft while others are hard.
Bruce knows enough from Thor's half hearted ramblings of complaint in Stark Medical to know that Asgardian healing is based mostly off of magic. He doesn't have any; Loki must know this. Why wouldn't he? Nonetheless, he requested Bruce's help.
Why is Bruce stopping?
He can help with this.
He's a doctor.
There's a twist in his chest, a ache in his stomach, and he doesn't understand why—He needs to offer aid in order to be useful here, and the medical side of things might be the only one he can do anything with.
Bruce lingers for a second longer before he readjusts his grip on the foodstuffs and quickly takes off after the dark-haired Asgardian.