[ it's impossible to have a conversation with valkyrie without the inclusion of alcohol. this, thor cannot really complain about, given the amount of ale that's been thrust upon them from who knows where in honor of who knows what โ the resettlement, perhaps? or the ongoing festivities celebrating thor's coronation now that they're safely on midgard? thor finds it hard to remember what they were talking about at all, if it was even important. he's starting to think it probably doesn't matter. ]
[ a warm buzz courses through his veins, similar but not in entirely the same as the way lightning crackles beneath his skin. he hears valkyrie address him, and then give me your hand and he almost responds what for? until he looks down and realizes his knuckles are still bloody. right, of course. they'd been sparring. hand-to-hand, it seems. without mjolnir, and the loss of asgard's armory, he hasn't been left with many options. there are plenty of swords, collected from those who had fought valiantly against hela's hoard, but he still hasn't found one that carries the right weight, the right balance โ and valkyrie won't let him have hers. he's asked. frequently. and very nicely. as her king. ]
[ it take him a moment to finally offer his hand to her, the volume of alcohol he's ingested in such a short time making his movement sluggish. the last time he drank this much, he was much younger and half as wise. if he listens closely enough, he can almost hear the boom of volstagg's laughter and the lilt of fandral's jests, a distant echo of another time. ]
Thank you. [ he hears himself say, and perhaps he means for this distraction, or for something else. everything, maybe. ]
[ it has been a long, long time since someone has thanked her and meant it sincerely. longer still since it was one of her own people, let alone her king. gratitude before the battle for asgard was found in payment โ which fed a habit, which fed a need to forget. she'd told thor that she wouldn't quit the former but do her best not to fall back into the latter. and it's been hard as hell, she slips up still, and she's relearning what it means to not only hold herself to a higher standard but to be who she once was. valkyrie was a title; but as the last, it may as well be her name, too.
thor is king, now. but he is still young enough to wear the mantle of who he once was before the crown, too. so she feels no need to stand on ceremony with him. she doesn't hold back when they drink or when they fight. she doesn't mince words. but she's just drunk enough now to let the walls come down a little, holed up as they are away from the celebrations.
she asks for his hand and he offers it and without further ado, she tugs him down onto the floor to join her. she doesn't remember sitting (falling?) but that's nothing new; she knows, even with the room gently spinning and decades out of practice, that she is still one of the best. maybe she won, maybe she let him win, maybe it was a draw. but they're on the floor now and she reaches for her half-empty bottle of liquor to pour a splash on his bloodied knuckles. ]
Sorry, [ she mumbles, not really meaning it. but she's got a towel slung over her shoulder and rather than using it to mop the sweat off her face, she dabs at his hand, frowning a little as if that will make her eyes focus better. her lip is bleeding, slightly, but it just makes her smile. that old warrior spirit, maybe. ] Don't know if you should be thanking me for this, though.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ a warm buzz courses through his veins, similar but not in entirely the same as the way lightning crackles beneath his skin. he hears valkyrie address him, and then give me your hand and he almost responds what for? until he looks down and realizes his knuckles are still bloody. right, of course. they'd been sparring. hand-to-hand, it seems. without mjolnir, and the loss of asgard's armory, he hasn't been left with many options. there are plenty of swords, collected from those who had fought valiantly against hela's hoard, but he still hasn't found one that carries the right weight, the right balance โ and valkyrie won't let him have hers. he's asked. frequently. and very nicely. as her king. ]
[ it take him a moment to finally offer his hand to her, the volume of alcohol he's ingested in such a short time making his movement sluggish. the last time he drank this much, he was much younger and half as wise. if he listens closely enough, he can almost hear the boom of volstagg's laughter and the lilt of fandral's jests, a distant echo of another time. ]
Thank you. [ he hears himself say, and perhaps he means for this distraction, or for something else. everything, maybe. ]
no subject
thor is king, now. but he is still young enough to wear the mantle of who he once was before the crown, too. so she feels no need to stand on ceremony with him. she doesn't hold back when they drink or when they fight. she doesn't mince words. but she's just drunk enough now to let the walls come down a little, holed up as they are away from the celebrations.
she asks for his hand and he offers it and without further ado, she tugs him down onto the floor to join her. she doesn't remember sitting (falling?) but that's nothing new; she knows, even with the room gently spinning and decades out of practice, that she is still one of the best. maybe she won, maybe she let him win, maybe it was a draw. but they're on the floor now and she reaches for her half-empty bottle of liquor to pour a splash on his bloodied knuckles. ]
Sorry, [ she mumbles, not really meaning it. but she's got a towel slung over her shoulder and rather than using it to mop the sweat off her face, she dabs at his hand, frowning a little as if that will make her eyes focus better. her lip is bleeding, slightly, but it just makes her smile. that old warrior spirit, maybe. ] Don't know if you should be thanking me for this, though.