Chapter Text
Thor had never been one to partake in magic. It was never his forte, his talent. No, his strength was in battle, in his hammer, in the lightning that crackled from his fingertips. That was what Odin had said, anyway. That was what he was permitted to be talented in. Save the magic and the tricks for Loki, save being quiet and reading and books by the fireside for your brother. They are not for you to partake in.
But, Frigga had always had different plans. She'd taught the swooping curve of the blade to Loki, where Odin had been content to let him calcify. And to Thor, she had shared the gift of magic.
Nothing too fancy, of course. And not to the degree Loki had mastered.
A few simple glamour spells, some light healing here and there. For when his lightning burned in his veins and singed his skin, so he could heal his flesh as fast as it was ruined.
And the glamour spells, the illusions, for where the healing couldn't cover. For when he needed to appear strong, to mask the wounds of battle and plaster on an appearance of effortless victory.
He was grateful for that skill. It made leaving Nivadellir much easier.
Rocket was still worried about him, of course. After all, he'd been dead for about a minute - according to them, at least. And Tree still looked at him strangely, like he'd been told a lie he couldn't quite believe, but didn't have the evidence to dispute either.
But, Stormbreaker was in his hand, and his burns were gone. To them, he was fine. A shining God, capable of taking on a dying star without leaving a scratch - the lone survivor of Asgard. Indestructible, immovable. To Thanos’s blade or the stinging heat of solar flares, he would stand strong.
At least, that’s what they thought.
He would've liked to keep up that facade for longer. For the Avengers, for Bruce, for everyone.
But he was not as skilled as Loki. The magic had to fade sometime.
He just wished he'd been alone when it did.
He'd first noticed it in the aftermath of Wakanda. In the Quinjet ride home, back to the compound, he'd spotted the first hole in his design. A small patch of skin just above his wrist, burned raw. He’d covered it as best he could, of course. Strapped on his arm-guard just that little bit tighter, gritting his teeth against the brutal scrape of singed skin against metal. No one had noticed that - he was grateful, for the shield that grief brought him. People piled off into corners, split from the group to recover in their own sanctuaries. Silence settled across the ship, and even the hum of the engines felt disrespectful. The technology was cold and unfeeling, without Stark. It didn’t have the decency to offer it’s minute long silence for the dead of the world. No, not the world. The universe.
The death of the universe, no matter how many remained.
Bruce had sat close to him, or rather, as close as he dared. Where Thor stood against the window, staring out onto a dust-covered evening, Bruce sat close by. Leaving a space beside him on the bench, a warm hand resting just above the window-pane, a guise of a strained muscle being left to rest.
Thor knew what it was - an invitation. An outstretched hand, as carefully laid out as any lab experiment, placed deliberately to let Thor know he wasn’t alone. That Bruce was here, and here for him no less.
He was no more worthy of the warmth those arms would bring than he was worthy of Mjolnir. And so he stayed, cold, and bruised, and alone.
The next wounds weren’t so easy to hide.
The Avengers - or what was left of them - had begun to walk from the jet to the Compound. A short walk, a small matter of meters that he should have been able to make without assistance. Everyone else had. Everyone else had taken the hands that had been offered to them, hadn’t suffered from the sin of pride that he had fallen victim to.
A vain, greedy, cruel boy. Unworthy of the loved ones he had betrayed.
He shut his eyes against the memory, and took a step forward.
It burned. Fire, from an injury that had smouldered hours ago, reignited against his torso. An incessant, pulsing pain that shot up his side, the molten tendrils seeping into his lungs, choking out what little oxygen he had left.
One hand flew to steady himself, and for a few terrifying moments, his world turned dark and fuzzy. He wondered if this was how it felt, if there had been a delayed reaction somehow, and he was going to disappear like the rest of them. Like Vision, like Sam, like Wanda. If his own life was to join the consequences of his most spectacular failing yet.
“Thor?”
A hand, soothing and cold, wrapped around his wrist. Another one laid against his neck, holding him carefully, as if he was made of porcelain.
“Thor, what’s happening? Are you ok?”
Bruce paused, his breath shaky and fragile against his ear.
“Come on, say something. How do I help you?”
It took him a few long seconds to force out the next few words through bloodied lips, but he got there.
“You don’t.”
Thor wrenched himself upright, trying to find the effort to offer a reassuring smile, but even that fell flat.
“I don’t need helping. I’m fine.”
"Fine." Bruce echoed, and Thor was taken aback somewhat by the fury in Bruce's eyes.
Not directed at him, at least, not entirely. Those hazel eyes were fixed on the sky, over Thor's shoulder, somewhere in the middle distance.
Although, he wouldn't blame him if it was. If Bruce had to pick a time to hate him, this would be the perfect opportunity. The death of half the universe rested in his shoulders, the blood of millions staining his axe purple, if Bruce wanted to hate him then he was fine with that, he was fine. He was fine-
"Thor, I'm sorry, but no you're not."
Bruce's fingers tightened around the collar of his armour, soft skin cool against his burns.
"Do you...you honestly think I don't get it by now? That somehow I'll believe you when you tell me you don't need helping? After everything? Or...or what, you think I just don't care enough to doubt you? Because I do, I care. And I'm not gonna see you destroy yourself over this. So...there."
The scientists chest rose and fell, puffs of air flaring from his nostrils as he tried to get his breath back after...that.
He looked away, wiping at his nose under the guise of removing some of the dirt of battle, and Thor began to feel something in him unwind.
A knot that he'd carefully tied, in the confines of a dying star. Threads and fibres that he’d knitted together, each memory serving to remind him painfully of the black hair and pale skin that he’d left behind in the wreckage of the Statesman.
Golden shimmers filled his vision, and for a moment, that was all he saw as the tight feeling in his chest morphed into something else, some feeling comprised of burning coals and choking sulfur that bloomed under his ribcage, choking the storm inside of him, and threatening to plunge him into darkness entirely.
Golden, like the stars Odin and Frigga had left behind in their wake. Like the walls of Asgard, tainted with the blood of an empire. Like the glove that had snapped half the universe to dust and ashes.
The last of the illusions faded, and Bruce’s grasp only got that much tighter.
“Thor…”
“Don’t.”
Thor’s shoulders tensed under his hold, his eyes screwing shut against the onslaught of a different kind of heat rapidly building behind them - the faint sting of the few tears that had escaped were enough to remind him of his place, his duty.
A statue. The Kings of Asgard are strong and brave. They do not shed tears.
“Don’t say anything, please. Just…”
At last, he felt his body begin to give in to his minds need for rest. His legs shook, and the armour across his back was an unwelcome strain against his bruised body.
“Just help me. Please.”
Bruce nodded, his expression unreadable. Faint green lines forced their way back under his skin, leaving him pallid and pale.
Your fault. You did this to him. This was your burden to bear but you revealed it to him, and now he suffers.
“Tell me how.” The scientist’s voice was gentle, now.
A quiet coaxing, trying to shift Thor towards movement, towards sorrow, anger - anything but this muted apathy, like the nerves that had lit up the skies had been crudely cut out, leaving behind a shell. The black backdrop of space, unlit by stars.
“How do I help you?”
***
It was 3 in the morning by the time Bruce had finished.
Thor had fallen asleep some time after that, in part to the stack of chamomile tea Bruce always kept in supply, but mostly thanks to exhaustion.
He ran a tired hand down his face, tapping a few more formulas onto his laptop, although the numbers were really starting to blur together at this point. Usually, he’d take this opportunity to clamber into bed with Thor. That’s what they’d done on the Statesman, anyway. The last fragile peace they’d shared together, limbs intertwined, eyes on the universe that stretched out in front of them and a foolish sense of hope fluttering in their chests.
Hulk hadn’t seen fit to show him what had happened to the Asgardians. He’d locked that memory far away, along with himself, resigning to the back of Bruce’s mind, leaving him alone with the eerie feeling of a loud mind gone quiet. But he knew it was bad.
It just hadn’t been revealed how bad until the battle had calmed. Until he was able to see past the storm clouding Thor’s eyes, to look into them and see...nothing.
There was never nothing in Thor’s eyes. There was always a spark, an ocean, a raincloud, something for him to latch onto and never want to let go.
And it had only gotten worse from there. Worse, Thor shied away from his touch. Worse, Thor stood alone on the plane ride back, staring out of the window with an expression etched on his face that Bruce couldn’t even fathom.
Bruce had seen a lot of pain in his life. His own, Hulk’s, the people that he’d hurt and others that he’d tried to save. He thought by now he’d be used to dealing with it, with the tears and the anguish that came from a loss like this.
But, then again, there hadn’t been a loss like this. A sickening unification, uniting the planets in tragedy, stretching across the outreaches of space.
Bruce had thought he’d known pain, but the sound of Thor’s choked sobbing as he removed his armour - piece by piece, as gently as he could, whispering again and again that it’ll be over soon, I promise, you’re doing so well, just a few more pieces and then we’re done, I swear.
The muffled whimpers as Bruce had tried to maneuver the now half-asleep demigod into the softest t-shirt he could find, each flinch and wince of pain when a tender spot of skin had brushed against the bedsheets.
That had certainly disproved his theory.
He glanced down at the sleeping figure beside him, huffing a soft sigh as he allowed his fingers to trace the shorn patterns of Thor’s hair.
The full force of a dying star. At least that’s what Rocket had said.
The concentrated heat of a supernova, the roaring storm before the deathly quiet of a black hole. That was what Thor had subjected himself to. All for an axe that lay abandoned in the corner of the room, the faint smell of cleaning liquid clinging to it from a half-measured attempt to wipe the Titan’s blood away.
Thor had looked at the future, looked at the burning ball of gas, at the bruised skin and the pain it would take just to get through it, and decided that it was worth it, for an axe.
Or, the worse option, Thor hadn’t looked at the future at all. He hadn’t considered surviving - he’d just done it anyway.
Bruce felt his throat tighten, and let his hand drop to the side of Thor’s face, still feeling a semblance of the unnatural heat leeching the cold from his fingertips.
“You’re an idiot, y’know that?” He murmured, rubbing his thumb dutifully against the sharp line of Thor’s jaw.
Still caught in the throes of sleep, Thor muttered some kind of half-response, lost between where half of his face was pressed into the pillow.
“M’not.” The demigod shifted, pushing his face closer towards Bruce, chasing the cool warmth of his hand against his skin.
“You are. And when you’re more awake, we’re talking about all of this.”
Thor made a noise of protest, one blue eye cracking open, still somehow managing to shine through the dark with an eerie glow of leftover lightning.
“But not now?”
“No, not now.” Bruce shut the lid of his laptop, shifting his legs under what thin sheets Thor had been able to stand, moving to wrap his arms around his thunder god’s shoulders.
“Get some sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.”
“You’re not gonna leave?”
“No. Not again.” He felt the broad shoulders begin to shake under his arms, as his nose met the freshly washed hair that still managed to retain a faint smell of smouldering.
“I’m never leaving you again.”