Hello everybody. I'm sorry for abandoning this story for a while—real life comes before my hobby, and sadly it's been harder finding a second job than I'd hoped. I haven't forgotten this story though, so here, have an extra long chapter as reward for your patience.

I see a lot of you have good theories on Jack's godhood. They're all very good – I actually considered a lot of those possibilities myself while brainstorming for this prompt! However, no one's gotten it quiiiite right, though some of you are on the right track. I left a few subtle clues in this chapter for those of you who like figuring out the mystery of why Asgard worships Jack as a God. If anyone gets it right, I'll definitely give you a shoutout at the end of next chapter.

With that in mind, thanks for waiting, here's Chapter 5.

Scattered Puzzle Pieces

Hawkeye is very observant and never misses a thing.

His teammates think he is the quiet one. While true—being legally deaf makes conversations rather frustrating—he chooses to wait and watch instead of talk. Patience is a virtue; there's a certain pattern, a certain logic to the world that can only be found in the details.

Hawkeye is very good at seeing the little things—and sometimes, those little things are the most important of them all.

On Christmas Day, he notices several things.

First thing in the morning, Steve shivers a bit when he comes downstairs. He pulls his robe tighter to ward off the oddly chilly air and glares at the fern patterns frosting the smaller side windows. Clint knows he's never been fond of ice.

Natasha has an odd look on her face when she picks up her present from beneath the tree. She rubs her thumb over the From Santa tag like she's a naughty child who's never seen that name before. Clint can't help but wonder if she's thinking about the red on her ledger.

Thor helpfully cleans up after all the presents are unwrapped. He recycles the discarded wrapping paper, and his nine Dear Santa rough-draft letters along with it. Nine seems like a suspiciously high number of re-writes, especially for Thor, so Clint fishes one out of the trash and reads it.

Bruce spends the evening immersed in thick books, reading. Not his usual material—science journals, medical textbooks—but, instead, Norse Mythology. Titles like Norse Gods and The Nine Realms and Jack Frost: A History sit on the spines. Every time Clint turns around, Bruce has a different volume, so he knows Bruce isn't doing leisure reading, but research.

And Tony—Tony scowls. All day. When the others' backs are turned, when he thinks no one is looking, Tony scowls at the presents and scowls at the fireplace and scowls at the security cameras lining the walls. After the Christmas commotion has died down, Tony finally excuses himself and holes up in his workshop. Before bed, Clint peeks in and sees Tony scowling at his computer.

Clint knows better than to dismiss these signs as nothing. Together, they all have a weird sense of logic around them, like a jumbled set of jigsaw pieces scattered across the floor. There's a larger picture here—something unusual, something important. And he can almost see it.

He has the pieces. He just needs to put them together.

Tony is at his wits end.

"Is there any tampering to the cameras or alarms, Jarvis?"

"No sir."

The chances of Fury being the culprit are dwindling into the single digits.

"No signs of hacking in the mainframe?"

"None, sir."

If it was Fury, he must've been test driving one hell of a high tech spy suit.

"Are any of the locks forced? Basement? Back door? Garage? Rooftop?"

"Not one, sir."

Because for the life of him, Tony cannot figure out how his mystery intruder entered, let alone escaped.

It's late, and he's standing in his office with the evidence splayed out on screens and desks before him. He's been standing here for hours, arms crossed, scowling at the data. Because no matter how hard he looks, no matter what angle he approaches the problem, nothing seems to be particularly out of place.

At first, the lack of evidence was worrisome, but now it's just annoying.

"No broken windows, no security breaches, no outside interference, no gaps in the video tape—" Tony slaps the top of the computer screen he's working on, and it glitches out slightly. "When did our mystery visitor even sneak in?" he mutters to himself.

It was a rhetorical question, but Jarvis answers anyway. "12:23 am, sir."

Tony blinks.

"…What?"

"12:23 am, 45 seconds, 2 nanoseconds, a visitor was logged in to sensors on the top floor, Mr. Stark."

"You—are you saying you knew there was a break in and didn't tell me?"

"Yes sir."

Tony wonders if it's possible to strangle a computer. He's been working at this puzzle for a couple of hours, and yet Jarvis seems to have had the answers all along.

Well, then again, he can hardly count against Jarvis—he's just a computer, albeit a smart one. AI or not, he can't carry out an order that's never given. "Whatever. Just tell me who, what, when, where, why."

"And how?" Jarvis asks, all dry wit.

"And how."

"Who, Master North, also known as Santa Claus. Time, 12:23 am. Location, rooftop. Purpose, present delivery. Method, flying sleigh."

Tony blinks. And blinks again. "Flying sleigh. Okay. Well. Glad we got that cleared up. Not only is that the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, but it's also—"

And he stops, just as his mind catches up with his mouth. What Jarvis said finally hits him full force, and Tony's mind grinds to a halt, his whole brain freezing, lips sputtering in utter disbelief.

"Did—did you just say Santa Claus?"

Natasha is not amused.

She and Steve are sparring in one of the sub levels—Block 38-B, a training room Tony designed just for them. Vaulted ceilings, various platforms, changeable terrain, even a scoreboard to keep track of their wins and losses. (Currently—Cap: 37, Widow: 41)

Sparring is part of their nightly routine, now; on quiet evenings, they take to the practice courts. It's become a game of skill and subterfuge. Steve's super strength is balanced against Natasha's catlike agility. Natasha's underhanded tactics often catch him off guard; Steve's strategies keep her on her toes. Overall, they are an even match.

But tonight something is… different.

After months of sparring, she's learned how to read him. She knows how hard he typically hits and how fast he can duck. And tonight, the Captain's blocks are shaky, and his strikes are weak. His movements can almost be described as lethargic. For whatever reason, he is not giving the fight his all.

She plays along for a while, hoping he'll pick up the pace and stop wasting her time. It doesn't work. Blow after blow, he remains slow, dull, and cautious. After five minutes stuck in warm-up mode, she finally gets frustrated and changes tactics. She feints left, watches his weight shift, and then roundhouse kicks him squarely in the chest.

He falls flat on his back with a solid, satisfying thump.

She scowls, hands on her hips.

"Are you going easy on me?" she asks, offended. "I thought I beat that silly notion out of you months ago."

With a breathless laugh, Steve shakes his head and sits up. "I wouldn't dare," he assures her.

"Then what is it? You're hardly trying at all. I came here to fight—not to dance."

He's still out of breath, thanks to that impressively solid kick, and so doesn't answer right away. All he can manage is a self-depreciating chuckle. He runs his hand through his hair—a frustrated gesture. It makes her pause.

Could there be another reason why he's not fighting hard? One he can't really control? Natasha racks her brain for other possibilities. Illness… injury… exhaustion…

Maybe because it's Christmas, she decides finally. It's the most logical answer she can produce. On the surface, it's a really stupid excuse—'he doesn't want to fight because it's a holiday'—but she's aware that people can get very depressed during the joyful season. Christmas sometimes means missing family or remembering dead relatives, or nostalgic longing for the past. And for Steve—who has literally lost his friends, his teammates, almost his entire culture by being frozen for 70 years—the effects of nostalgia might be more akin to grief.

It's her best guess. Reluctantly, she sighs, offering him a hand up, and he graciously accepts.

"You know," she says once he's back on his feet. "We don't have to spar today. If you're tired, take a break. I still have to try out my new Christmas present anyway."

"Present?" Steve asks, between deep breaths. He flexes his hands and stretches his shoulders. "You mean… that weapons bracelet you got from 'Santa'?"

She smiles. "Yeah, that one."

Her eyes flicker over to the corner, where the brand new weapons are laid across the bench. They're a work of art, really. Long, stiff black leather bracers, armed with a grappling hook, a pair of throwing knives, and spring loaded barrels designed to shoot needles tipped with various poisons. The materials are of good quality and well crafted, and on the inside, there are words writ in Russian pressed into the leather; an elegant, fitting name – Widow's Bite.

The corner of her mouth quirks in a smile. "It's a beauty. Though I don't quite follow the logic – I'm a 'good girl' all year, so 'Santa' rewards me by giving me a deadly weapon. Well." She says dryly. "I suppose I should give Clint a gold star for effort, at least."

Steve frowns, puzzled. "Clint? I thought Bruce was the one playing Santa Claus."

"He was? You're sure?"

"I heard Bruce and Tony explaining Christmas to Thor last night."

Natasha shrugs. "I just assumed. The bracelets are exactly my size, and Clint's the only one with access to my measurements."

"…Huh."

She shrugs again and brings the conversation back to the matter at hand. "My point is, I've got plenty to keep me busy. If you're tired, just say so. I won't mind."

Steve sighs, rolling his shoulders again. "I really am fine, Natasha," he insists, stretching out his joints until they pop. "It's just the cold."

"The cold?" she blinks. She hadn't thought of that possibility.

"It makes my joints ache, that's all. It's irritating."

She's heard some of the older agents, with old injuries, make the same complaint. The comment sounds weird coming from the young super soldier Captain America. "But… wasn't over half of your World War II campaign fought in the winter?" she asks.

He gives a wry smile. "Tromping around in the snow and ice is one thing," he admits. "Being encased in it is another."

Oh. "…I didn't realize," Natasha says at last, shifting her weight as she thinks about it. It certainly makes sense, at least. She's more surprised at the fact that Steve actually brought the matter up in conversation. The whole 'being frozen' thing is a touchy subject for him.

To be honest, Natasha is curious. Steve usually avoids talking about his crash and the things that came after. So against her better judgment, she pries. "…Do you actually remember being frozen?" she asks carefully.

He pauses. "I try not to," he says at last. "If only because I start to remember Peggy, and Howard, and everything else I left behind."

He sounds bitter. Natasha blinks. Maybe her theory about Christmas Nostalgia wasn't so far off the mark. The old memories—the painful memories—are still on his mind.

The unease must be plain on her face, because he tries to explain. "I don't know," he sighs at last, running a hand through his hair. "All the memories, all the people I left behind… it's hard. Some days I just wish I could forget."

Her heart skips unexpectedly in her chest. "Why would you say that?" she asks, baffled. From what she understands, his memories are cherished ones—why would he wish, even for a second, to abandon them?

He meets her eyes squarely. "Being frozen—the ice, it took everything from me. If you had something you loved, and you were suddenly… had it taken from you… wouldn't you want to forget?"

She stares at him for a moment. Perhaps a moment too long.

Quite frankly it's a question she can't answer. Not only because her whole life has been spent in chaos and upheaval—but also because she's never had that perfect home, that happy moment where she wouldn't change a thing. She supposes there must have been some time in her life before the chaos—before she became a spy—but she was so young when she transferred to the Red Room facility. Her hypothetical happy childhood, if it existed, would have been short, and she didn't remember it anyway.

At last she shakes her head and steps back. "Well, either way," she says, resuming her fighting stance. "If it's the cold that's bothering you, we should keep sparring. It's good practice. We can't have you freezing up on the battlefield."

Hesitantly, Steve shakes out his shoulders and takes up his fighting pose too. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I know you're not exactly feeling patient with me right now. I can train alone—find a way to work around the annoyances by myself if you don't want to spar."

But Natasha shakes her head, not just because he's a teammate who needs someone to push him, but also because they could both use the distraction.

"It's fine," she assures him. "Besides, the best way to deal with annoyances is to push right past them. Trust me—just ignore it until it goes away." She puts her fists up.

Steve laughs. "What, that actually works for you?" he asks, incredulous.

She shrugs.

"Works on everything except for Tony."

"Jarvis, this isn't even remotely funny."

"My apologies sir, perhaps my funnybone. exe needs an upgrade."

"No Jarvis, I'm serious, did someone hack you? It was Fury wasn't it. This is revenge for the Helicarrier incident, I can tell."

"Although Master Fury has every right to exact revenge, I am quite frankly insulted that you think he could manage it, Sir."

"Well, someone obviously has," Tony mutters, pulling up three new security cameras to gain a better view of the rooftop. Still nothing. "One minute we're having a reasonable conversation, and the next, you're making obscene claims and insisting that Santa exists."

"If I may be so bold—I do recall last night, the exact same scenario happened between you and Master Thor."

"That's—not the point."

"The point, sir?"

Tony's got nine cameras up on screen now, covering every corner of the rooftop, hallway, stairs, elevator, and air vents between the rooftop and the Christmas Tree.

"The point, Jarvis, is that I've got eyes on every inch of the rooftop, and I don't see a single blip in the feed."

"I'm sorry sir. I'll schedule you for an eye appointment tomorrow."

"Jarvis!"

"Is 8 am too early? It seems they've got a 1 pm block open if you'd prefer."

"Oh, yes, 8 am would be perfect," Tony snarks back, checking his watch. "That way, when I get back, I'll have the whole day to gut your central processing unit and rebuild your personality programming from scratch!"

"May I suggest you do it sober this time, sir? That may have been your initial mistake."

Oh, someone's getting reprogrammed, that's for sure.

Tony just sits there, fuming, glaring at the screens. He's heard Jarvis talk back to him before, but never quite so insistently. But what makes Jarvis's ridiculous claims unbearable is Tony's own inability to come up with a better explanation. "Santa did it" is starting to sound almost reasonable. And it frustrates Tony to no end.

At last, he gives the nearest screen a solid smack, watching it glitch out again. As the picture sharpens, he glares at the empty room. The video's only movement is Thor on the couch, snoring.

It angers him—not what's on the screen, but what isn't. He's a man of science, and he works solely on proof. Sure, the evidence sometimes has to physically slap him in the face before he notices it, but at least it's there. Here—there's nothing but silence.

"Well Jarvis, let's say you're right. Santa visited us last night. Seeing as how we don't have a chimney—" he rubs his temple, rolling his eyes. "Do you see the problem, Jarvis? No Chimney, no Santa."

"Well of course not. He used the roof access door."

"The door, of course. How silly of me. And how, exactly, did he get in?"

"I admitted him, sir."

"And we're back to this again," Tony mutters.

Tony sits back, grumbling to himself. He crosses his arms and settles a glare on the monitors. There's a number of things he could say to Jarvis, certain things about how he expects invaders to be kept out, and how break-ins are no laughing matter when his team might be at stake, but all that is irrelevant as long as Jarvis is convinced that the intruder was not an intruder at all.

And that doesn't even touch the matter of why said intruder isn't appearing on the screens.

"If you let him through the door, Jarvis," Tony says finally, pointing to the screens. "…then where is he."

"I don't understand the question, sir."

"Where is he?" Tony repeats. "Because I don't see him anywhere on the cameras. There is no bright red sleigh. No flying reindeer. No Rudolph, no magic elves… And no jolly, portly, bearded man putting presents beneath the tree!"

For a moment, there's silence. Then,

"…And yet, sir," Jarvis says, "There are still presents beneath the tree."

Tony pauses. His eyes glance at the last security camera, rewound to an hour before sunrise. There are indeed several presents there, unaccounted for, with From Santa scrawled across the tags.

"…Fair point, Jarvis," he admits, turning a puzzled glare back to the cameras.

At the beginning of the night, there were no presents beneath the tree. At the end of the night, there were several. If there was no Santa, how did they get there—and, now that he thinks about it—when?

Maybe he's been approaching this wrong. Instead of looking for the weak spot in his security, he should be tracking the presents. Find the person who put them there, find the intruder.

"Rewind the tape." Tony orders. "Show me everything that happened after I left the room that night."

Obediently, Jarvis rewinds the tape, his sarcasm gone now that his argument is at least being heard. The recording resets to the previous night, as the Avengers' impromptu Christmas party finally ends and the guests are starting to trail off to bed. Tony watches himself leave the room, followed by Bruce, and finally Clint, who's the last one out, stopping only to have one last word with Thor.

Tony's eye flicker over to the tree. No Santa gifts yet.

Now it's just a game of patience.

Tony crosses his arms over his chest and settles into an unflinching stare at the screen. Time to find his Secret Santa.

Time passes. Expectedly, it's rather uneventful. Except for the first few minutes of watching Thor write (and rewrite—and re-rewrite—) his letter to Santa, the recording is unexciting and bland. It's almost funny when Thor nods off on the couch, granted. But for a good solid hour, there's no movement beyond the demigod's chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Tony keeps his eyes glued to the screen anyway. He's determined to find his answers, even if it demands a few hours of his undivided attention.

So he watches. And he waits.

At the 12:23 mark, Tony unconsciously sits straighter, sharpening his concentration even more for any sign, any change. It's not that he believes Jarvis's story—it's just that, if Jarvis's story has any truth to it at all, the most probable time for the break in is now.

And for the first few minutes, nothing seems to happen. Nothing at all. And just as Tony is sitting back, frowning in disappointment—that's when it happens.

A tiny, but sudden, shift. It's the smallest change, and Tony almost doesn't catch it.

But when he does, he wonders if his eyes are deceiving him.

Suddenly, there are presents beneath the tree.

.

After Christmas cleanup, Thor decides to take advantage of his unexpected bounty of gifts. Bruce helps him with the DVD player so he can watch his new Disney Princess movie collection, and by dinnertime, he's finished Princess and the Frog, Sleeping Beauty, and is halfway through Mulan.

"Enjoying yourself, Thor?" asks Bruce when the Asgardian pops into the kitchen for a late night snack.

"Immensely!" Thor answers, snatching up a plate and helping himself to half the chicken. "The lady reminds me much of Lady Sif, my good friend. A fine warrior who faces scrutiny from others for fighting despite her station and gender. Who knew Midgardians faced such challenges as well?"

Bruce hadn't been aware that Asgard had trouble with misogyny. Even the gods had problems, he supposed.

Instead of voicing his surprise, Bruce just chuckles and laces his fingers. "I never would have thought you'd be interested in Disney, of all things. I wonder whose idea it was to give you that for Christmas?"

"Why, Santa of course!" says Thor.

…Ah. Right.

Bruce stops a moment to marvel at the fact that no one has corrected Thor on that little misconception. In the end, he decides to let it go. If his teammates have chosen not to spoil things for Thor, then Bruce decides he shouldn't either. Shrugging, he tactfully changes the subject.

"Anyway," he begins, trying to order his thoughts as Thor rummages through the fridge. "If you're taking a break from your movies, do you have a minute? I was actually hoping I could ask you a few questions."

"Questions?" Thor repeats, popping open a pickle jar.

"About Jack Frost," Bruce clarifies. "And about Asgard. Just for—clarification."

Thor pauses, his face twisted in the oddest expression. Finally he turns away, adding more food to his plate. "…Exactly what needs to be clarified about Asgard?" he asks, his head disappearing back into the fridge.

"Just a few things," Bruce assures, biting back on the truthful answer: Everything. The Norse texts are hardly faithful to their real-life counterparts. There are so many contradictions and mistakes in the Norse texts that Bruce is absolutely brimming with questions. But Thor seems oddly wary of the request, so Bruce decides it would be best to approach the problem slowly.

Again, Thor pauses, his back turned to Bruce. After a moment of thought, he resumes scraping leftovers from the tupperware. "I am sorry—I cannot help you," he says.

Bruce blinks. "Are you sure? It'll only take a minute," he promises. "You can be back to your movie in no time—"

"It is not that," Thor says, apologetic. After dumping the dirty Tupperware into the sink, he fishes a bottle of ale from the cupboards, still not looking at Bruce. "It is the topic that concerns me. I had hoped to keep my mind off the subject for a few days."

Off the subject of…? Bruce frowns. "Is there trouble in Asgard?"

At this, Thor turns around, finally meeting Bruce's worried eyes. "On Asgard? Nay, not on my homeworld. Do not concern yourself—truthfully, it is a matter which even I ought to ignore, but—"

Thor's eyes go distant, clouded with a flicker of darkness so worrisome that Bruce wonders if he should warn the others. But before Bruce can ask, Thor just shrugs, takes a swig of his ale, and goes back to dressing his dinner plate with more food.

"I hope you understand," he says, his voice suddenly much lighter. "I simply wish to relax for now. Perhaps we may talk another time?"

Bruce hesitates. He eyes his research, the books and notes spread out before him on the table. His notes—the observations, lists, timelines, and charts he's made to help make sense of the source material—look like a knot of nonsense, or a set of scattered puzzle pieces. It's tantalizing. Something under his skin is itching to put this puzzle back together, to ask all these questions he should've asked when Thor first joined the team. There's just so much he wants to know—there's a whole new world out there, and so many new things to learn.

But it's Thor's behavior that stops him. Bruce can count the number of times Thor has been genuinely upset on one hand, and the demigod has never seemed this anxious before. Despite his brimming curiosity, Bruce backs down. He can wait a few weeks if he must.

"All right," he says. "…Some other time."

Thor gives a decisive nod, more to himself than to Bruce. "Thank you! I appreciate your patience. Actually, if you wish, you are welcome to join my movie. Mulan is about to march to war, and it is truly exciting!"

Bruce tries to remember how Mulan's storyline goes, and he winces. Thor stopped just before the movie's most heart wrenching scene. That should do wonders for distracting Thor from whatever is bothering him, at least. "Ah, no thank you," he declines. "I'll just… go back to my research, I suppose."

Inwardly, Bruce sighs, picking up the closest book. His eyes sweep over the convoluted bloodlines and family trees, and then his own notes, riddled with names, dates, and lists trying to separate symbolism from fact. What a mess. He'll never figure this all out on his own.

Bruce sets it aside, turning to watch Thor add more food to his plate. Thor is busy turning his late night snack into a ten course meal. Unsurprising, as he missed dinner. He adds leftover mac'n'cheese, asparagus, pineapple, blue jello, tortilla chips, and garlic dip to his plate of chicken and pickles.

Bruce doesn't bat an eye at the odd assortment. Since August, after witnessing Thor make a 'breakfast sandwich' out of bacon and scrambled eggs stuffed between two poptarts, the demigod's eating habits rarely manage to rattle him anymore.

And what do they eat on Asgard, anyway? Another question drifts into his mind. Bruce scowls. He drops the Norse Mythology book onto the table, letting it fall open to a page dedicated to Loki, and he stares at it. There's so many questions he really shouldn't ask, but Bruce has never been good at containing his curiosity before.

So when Thor picks up his plate and makes his way for the door, Bruce can't help it. There's one question that has been bothering him all day, one that just cannot go without an answer. Hesitating, he scratches his head, scowls at the book, and asks.

"Did Loki really give birth to an eight legged horse?"

Thor chokes and spits out his drink.

Eyes going wide, Bruce's head snaps up to look. Thor, in his surprise, has nearly dropped his plate. In a mad scramble, he dips low for balance then recovers, with only a few bits of pineapple tumbling off the side. All the while, the demigod is coughing, his other hand sloshing alcohol on the kitchen tile as he sways.

Bruce half-rises from his chair. "I—I'm so sorry, I—are you all right?" he asks, turning red. What was he thinking, asking a question like that?

Thor's coughing slowly gives way to laughter, and in an instant, he's coming over to the table. "Where in the nine realms did that question come from?" he laughs.

Bruce tries to reign in his emotions and calm himself, pressing his fingertips against his forehead to hide his embarrassment. He stares down at the book laid open on the table, to Loki's obviously-highly-inaccurate family tree. "Just—I'm sorry, just forget I said anything... uh, enjoy your movie—?"

But Thor won't be deterred. He sets his plate aside, plucks the book out from under Bruce's nose, and despite the mortal man's protests, begins to read.

And laugh. Loudly.

"Oh, if Loki were to see this now—" Thor says, then blinks, a broad smile gracing his face. "A fantastic idea! I think I shall take this to him!"

"…Please don't," Bruce begs, head hung low. According to lore, Loki had many, ahem, colorful children, including a black wolf, a giant snake, an eight legged horse, and the goddess of the underworld. The absurdity must be off the charts.

Chuckling, Thor looked up. "No wonder you have questions," he says, touting the book. "I have never read a tale so tall!"

"Well, yes, uh," Bruce stammers. "When you mentioned Jokul Frosti last night, I realized I didn't know hardly anything about your culture. I thought I'd read up on Norse Mythology—you and Loki appear in those stories. But it was written over a thousand years ago and… well, obviously there are some... inconsistencies."

"You have a talent for understatement." Thor comments.

"…So I've been told."

Thor regards the book for a moment, then shrugs. "I suppose it is not too inconsistent," he says at last, earning a stare from Bruce. "My father, Odin, does indeed have an eight legged mount named Sleipnir—but he is not—" Thor snorts again, suppressing laughter. "—He is not my brother's offspring."

"I'm sorry," Bruce says again, turning even redder. It is lucky that the Hulk is triggered by anger, not by embarrassment. "I knew some details were off, but I'm still trying to separate fact from fiction."

"Are there a lot of strange things written about Loki?" Thor asks, curious.

"Yeah. You too," Bruce says. He opens his notebook to a page he's compiled on Thor. "You were very popular. There are several passages about you. Details concerning who your family is, what your weapons are, who you're married to..."

"—What?"

At this, Bruce stops and looks up. Thor is staring at him, jaw agape.

Bruce fumbles with his words. "Who you're, uh, married to—like a wife, or...?" Thor's vacant, stunned look is answer enough. "—You know what? Nevermind." Bruce fishes out a pen and crosses off numerous lines from his research.

"It says I am married?" Thor repeats, stunned.

"Well, yes—"

"…To whom?"

"Uh," maybe this was a bad idea. The Norse Myths are starting to look less like inaccurate myths, and more like ancient OTP fanfiction.

"Should I be concerned by your silence?" Thor asks.

"No, no, Thor, It's just that…" He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself. "This is just one of those contradictions I told you about. Most of the Norse gods are actually listed with wives… lovers… children…"

"…Children?" Thor repeats.

Bruce's response is to blush and snap his notebook closed. "I'm sorry for asking. You said you didn't want to talk about this…"

Thor is already thumbing through the Norse Mythology book, looking for his own page. Bruce sighs, puts his head in his hands, and waits for Thor to find what he's looking for. It's not like he can stop this now.

"Oh!" Upon finding the passage, Thor laughs out loud. "I'm to marry Lady Sif?"

"…Please tell me she isn't your sister or something."

"No—she is a good friend. And a fine warrior. But she has never shown a courtly interest in me."

With a quiet laugh, Thor hands the book back. "Thank you for showing me this 'Norse Mythology.'" He says. "Father has mentioned it once or twice, but I've never actually read it before. I do not put much stock in such predictions, but they are entertaining to read."

Bruce accepts the book back, and blinks. "Predictions?"

Thor meets his eyes, and suddenly understands. "Oh—you thought—" he laughs. "Banner, these stories, these myths—they never actually happened. They are not my History."

"Then what are they?"

"Prophecies."

Bruce does a double take. "…Prophecies?" he asks, incredulous. "Like, divination? Magic?"

"Yes." Thor looks down at the book of Norse Mythology, at the flowing golden text pressed into the leather cover. "You say these were written a thousand years ago—the date seems consistent." He says. "A thousand years ago, my father, Odin, came to Earth to defend it."

"Against what?"

"Jotunheim," Thor says. "The Jotuns—The Frost Giants—they attempted to invade Midgard in the past."

"Invade? Why?" Bruce asks.

"I…" Thor pauses. "I do not know, actually. Father told me the story when I was younger, and I always just assumed the Frost Giants were monsters who need no reason to fight. But there must have been one."

Bruce nods, understanding. "So, you and your father came to Earth, and people wrote stories about you…?"

"I? No." Thor interrupts. "The year, in your world, was 965 AD. I would have been a child at the time, barely old enough to walk. And Loki was an infant. But my Father was old enough—he would have spoken to the native people there. And the mortals who met Odin tried to see his future." He nudges the book. "They wrote it down, and thus, your Mythology is born."

Bruce frowns deeply. He's more than a touch skeptical of 'magic'. Once, he would've scoffed at the idea of accurate magical prophecies. Nowdays he is more open minded, of course—being on a superhero team has that effect, he supposes.

"So if these are prophecies—we could tell the future from them?" Bruce says finally.

Thor sits straighter. "That would be unwise," he warns.

"…I know they're not 100 percent correct," Bruce says carefully. It's quite obvious the stories have gaping plot holes. "But," he continues, "The people who wrote this never met you—yet they knew about Mjolnir, and your lightning, and other things. There's a passage that even warns about Loki's betrayal, and that didn't happen until, what, last year?" Bruce looks at his notes. "If these are prophecies, maybe they can tell us if Loki will escape, or strike again. I, for one, would appreciate the warning."

Thor sighs, scratching his chin. "I know you mean well, but it is a poor idea," he warns again. "My father knew of these mythologies when he hid the Tesseract on Earth. But he raised Loki anyway, because it was right. Prophecies can cause trouble."

Bruce scowls, but doesn't say a word. Thor, sensing his doubt, sighs. "Let me tell you the story my father told me," he bids. "Then you will understand."

"…All right," Bruce says, sitting back.

Thor clears his throat, and begins.

"Long ago," he says. "Before Midgard existed—before even Asgard existed, there was a time called The Golden Age."

"In that age, there was a king, from house Lunanoff, named Tsar Lunar. He ruled the Constellation Court with his wife, the Tsarina. It was a time of great prosperity. Their technologies were advanced. Back then, there were many worlds, and travel between them was common. The people were happy, healthy, and flourishing."

"But in this paradise, there was also darkness. Wretched creatures called Fearlings roamed Space, creating havoc, destruction, and terror. They threatened to consume everything. The Tsar Lunar asked for guidance—and the Wizards of the Golden Age looked into the future."

"They made a prophecy," Thor says, pointing to the Norse mythology book. "One much more accurate than these. Back then, they had divination down to an art, an exact science. The Prophecy said: 'To fight the Fearlings, muster a great army, led by Kozmotis Pitchner. He will lead to Victory.' So the Tsar Lunar did just that. He placed the army under Kozmotis' command and sent them off to war."

"…And this Kozmotis guy failed?" Bruce asked.

Thor shook his head. "Nay. Kozmotis Pitchner and his army succeeded. He was a noble, pure man, and fought the darkness with courage. The army marched to every corner of the Universe and captured every wisp of darkness, and imprisoned them. Kozmotis was named the Golden General, and his soldiers were hailed as heroes. But—the Prophecy did not tell what happened next."

Bruce leaned forward, curious.

"The Constellation Court became complacent. They banished the army in times of peace. General Pitchner, the last soldier, was sent to guard the fearlings' prison, and—the darkness escaped, and corrupted him. The fearlings twisted his soul to become like them. He became a monster named Pitch Black. The Golden General who once led warriors to victory now led an army of evil. He spread destruction and chaos to every planet, every galaxy. And the Golden Age fell."

Thor locked eyes with Bruce. "Pitch hunted down every member of the Constellation Court, until the last battle with the Tsar Lunar. And then—he vanished. My father was born in the Dark Ages, at the end of Pitch's rule. He was but a lad. When Pitch disappeared, Odin gathered the survivors and rebuilt the universe."

"The people of the Golden Age tried to rely on prophecies, and that led to their demise. Asgard has tried to learn from the past. We still use lost technologies from the Golden Age to help promote peace. But—we are wary of misusing Prophecies such as these." Thor taps the Norse Mythology book. "We are aware of them, of course—we all know the story of Ragnarok. We try to learn from those stories… but we do not rely on them."

Bruce nods. Of course they'd know about Ragnarok—a story that began with fimbulvetr and ended with the death of Midgard and Asgard alike. But, after hearing this story, it made sense why Thor and the others didn't follow it too closely.

"You are a good man, Doctor Banner," Thor says. "I do not mean to scold you. I simply wish for you to understand the consequences of relying too much on Prophecies."

"I understand," Bruce says, setting the book and his notes aside. He looks straight at Thor. "And thank you," he says, genuinely. "I know you didn't want to answer questions right now, but you did anyway."

Thor laughs and thrusts himself away from the table, grabbing up his food. "I will tell you more about Asgard soon," he promises. "—The real Asgard, where I am unwed, and Loki does not have a horse for an heir."

Bruce chuckles, blushing slightly. "Ok. In a month or two, then."

"Oh, sooner than that," Thor says.

"…Sooner? I thought you wanted to keep your mind off… things." Bruce still isn't sure what Thor meant by 'things'.

"Yes, at the moment, there's a worrying matter which I cannot do anything to fix. But when—if—Jokul Frosti answers my letter, that should change. I need only wait until then."

"Letter—?" Bruce repeats, puzzled. Then he blinks. "Oh, the one you wrote to… Santa."

"Indeed! Hopefully he will find a way to forward my message to the Great Jokul Frosti. I have faith in him—if he can accurately deliver so many presents in one night, surely he can locate the Eternal God of Winter."

"…Ah…" Now Bruce feels slightly ashamed. His and Tony's antics unknowingly got Thor's hopes up. He wrings his hands slightly, wondering if he should tell Thor that Santa is just a Myth on par with the Norse Mythologies, and that the letter likely never made it out of the tower. "Er, what happens if… if your letter don't get an answer?"

Thor sighs, then shrugs. "Then I do not. Jokul is elusive, and he is busy. I will resign myself to the path fate has left me."

Bruce hesitates, caught in indecision. Thor just admitted that, without 'Santa's' help, the letter would never be delivered anyway. Either way, the letter won't reach its destination. Maybe it's better to let Thor hope—but, then again, what if the letter was urgent? Bruce shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"…What was in that letter, out of curiosity?" Bruce asks at last.

Thor, halfway to the door, pauses. He doesn't answer right away; he bites into a chip and chews it slowly, stalling.

At last, he answers. "Asgardian business. A… request."

His voice is quiet and subdued—Bruce wonders if he's hit a nerve. He looks over the top of his glasses. "What kind of request?" he asks carefully.

For a long time, Thor just stands, something dark dancing behind his eyes. He's gone perfectly still, consumed in thought, and Bruce cannot imagine what has brought this reaction out in Thor.

At last, Thor frowns and turns away, walking towards the door.

"It was a summons. A call for help," Thor answers quietly as he leaves. "…One that I can only hope will be answered."

Side note: The movie 'Thor' creates itself a plothole in the opening scene: Odin says after they defeated the Frost Giants, they immediately went back to their homeworld Asgard, and Odin/Loki/Thor fell into Norse Myths and Legends. But later in the movie, it's shown that Loki is just an infant when the battle ends, and Thor couldn't be much older, so how did they wind up in Norse Mythology? As adults?

Seeing as how official Norse Mythology has Thor as a redhead, and Loki is Odin's Brother (not son!) we can just safely assume in Marvel!Verse that the Norse people probably had no idea what they were talking about.