[Post Infinity War piece. Any Endgame spoilers must be tagged and minor in comments]

[juststeverogers]

It starts out like a joke of questionable taste. Captain America, Black Widow, Rocket Raccoon, and Thor God of Thunder walk into the Plaza.

What that it were a joking matter. All of them are pale, beaten, and filthy. None of them says much to anyone commenting to them while they wander past people. Natasha's eyes are wide and panicked, her head turning every which way as if she could count and see all of the people passing them by. Her blonde hair is matted with blood and it hangs in clumps with ever jerky turn of her head. Steve's walking slower than Natasha, his beard and hair unkempt mess. Every step drags. His mouth hangs slightly open and moves every now and again like he might have something to say before he looks down at his feet and keeps going. Thor brings up the rear with Rocket sitting in a daze on his right shoulder, silent with a thousand yard stare that's as empty as the rest of his expression. Most of his left arm is missing, replaced by a very ramshackle prosthetic that isn't quite proportionally right for his size. In its metal skeletal fingers he carries an axe that's easily as large as Natasha is. Every now and then there is a sniffle from Rocket before he paws at his eyes and shakes his head.

Wherever these Avengers have been for the last few weeks, they've clearly been busy.

And it doesn't take much guessing to assume they've Lost.

They wander aimlessly. Eventually Rocket hops down and stops them outside a fountain. Somewhere with seating and clean water so they can tend to their injuries if they'd like. It's going to take more than anyone has to do much yet though. But they all sit. Stare. The question hangs between them all unspoken because there are no answers yet to give.

How can they possibly come back from this?

Whatever this is to them.


[This post is meant to bring several MCU muses in the comm up to Post Infinity War status. This post is OPEN TO ALL, not just Marvel characters. This is NOT meant to spoil End Game in any way. Any comments that may even IMPLY Endgame spoilers due to association with post Infinity War MUST BE TAGGED at subject level and you must talk to your OOC partner before posting them. The standard 3 weeks rule is still in effect regarding Endgame.]

Comments

[pirateangelbaby]

Part of him expects them to deny it, the full scale of the devastation too immense for most humans to grasp at once, as if it is some kind of exaggerated joke in extremely poor taste. In the corner of his eye, where he still can’t look at the healer directly, he sees the man freeze as if struck by lightning, and Kirk’s face is pale with a horrific understanding that makes Thor want to weep. No one should know what this is like, not even a fraction of it. Part of his mind keeps turning, trying to find some way to cope with the sheer scope of the death that wraps its coils tight around his universe, but there is none.

His voice wants to catch in his throat, forcing him hoarse as he grits the words out, a confession that does nothing to lighten the burden on his soul. “The Infinity Stones. Remnants of the primordial universe. All six, united by... by a madman. We couldn’t stop him. I didn’t stop him.”

The distinction matters, to him. He will never be able to forget it, that moment burned into his mind’s eye where he will never be rid of it. You should have gone for the head.

[smartass_captain]

It is a fraction because Vulcan's loss and the potential for loss they have stopped in the past is nothing in the face of destruction on the scale Thor is speaking about but it gives them both, the captain especially, plenty of room to grasp the concept. Something inside of Jim twists hatefully especially at the word half. He can imagine all too easily the sort of despot who would design such a weapon.

Jim's sick to his stomach when he shakes his head. He can't hold back how close to tears Thor's loss brings him.

"And now you have to live with what's left." What good would an apology do in the face of that kind of senseless slaughter? It's offensive to even countenance giving one. Jim Kirk reaches out to clasp his hands around Thor's filthy one. He understands, more than anyone should. "Let us help see to you and your friends."

He can't just do nothing after hearing this.

[pirateangelbaby]

It's such a simple statement of fact. Now you have to live with what's left. But now the thought winds its poisoned roots into Thor and takes hold, a slow dawning of the realization that he has no idea how to even begin to do that. He feels crushed beneath its weight, every breath a burden, a curse.

I'm only alive because fate wants me alive, he'd said, desperate for some meaning as to why he'd survived all the things that should have killed him. But for all his conviction, all his efforts, it has all been for nothing and now he sits in the ashes and breathes it in, and feels unmoored entirely in every way that ever mattered. Why didn't he die with honor, as he should have?

The offer of help is so small, a drop in their ocean of need, but it is all that Kirk can give. Thor had never thought to be on this side of it, paralyzed by his own horror and guilt so strongly that he had not even spared a moment's thought for the others, his mortal friends who risk so much more of themselves than him in battle. As if in a daze, he turns his head to look at them, seeing for the first time the crimson streak in Natasha's newly blond hair.

"Yes," he whispers, a desperate look in his eye as he turns it back to Kirk. "Please. I... I don't know what to do."

[smartass_captain]

"You might not want to look to your world for prosthetics." Bones has Opinions about that unsanitary wreck Thor stumbled into the Nexus with. None of them good. "You could do worse than to ask around here, or let me see what we can do for you if the captain will make an excuse for us to do it."

Bones is well used to having to do his job even in the midst of tragedies he shouldn't be functional for. If he can lead the medical wing after logging his best friend's corpse among the fallen he can damn well take a look at that scowling lady's head wounds, her mute security specialist looking friend, and talk to Thor about looking for something for his arm despite hearing about massive genocide on a world that isn't his.

Not because he doesn't care, because he does. More than most. But because it doesn't stop him from having a job he needs to do. McCoy's certainty helps keep Jim steady. Helps him draw his professional demeanor tighter around himself while Thor looks so lost. The man may be a god but Jim is well used to leadership. He makes himself look as confident as he can.

"You need a bottle of water and to make sure you're not reacting poorly to that hypo Bones gave you. Let us handle this part. Just take a moment and...well. I'm not fool enough to think rest will come easily for you, but you do need to just take a moment before you set yourself off again."

[pirateangelbaby]

It honestly hadn't occurred to Thor yet that he will need a different prosthesis, the thought entirely forgotten after the snap that had erased all his rage and higher thought in a single moment. For a moment he forgets himself, and glances at McCoy only to quickly avert his eye when his heart begins to speed up again, perhaps more out of expectation of another panic attack than any real threat of one. "I suppose," he answers, once he's sure his breathing isn't spiraling out of control. "I know a smith, but he... won't be making anything else."

That would have been the simplest solution, a guarantee of a replacement that could withstand the full might of Thor's power, useless though it had turned out to be in the end. But the dwarven forgemaster's hands are crippled worse than Thor's, both encased up to the elbows in molten metal and left to solidify.

Is there anyone left who is not suffering?

Thor drops his head into his hand and doesn't quite weep, though he wants to do nothing else. Though the healer's medicines might ease the hurts of his body, it does nothing for the crushing anguish in his very soul itself, defeat tasting like ash in his mouth. The words settle with him slowly, and though he can't imagine ever feeling all right again, he doesn't have it in him to protest, all the fight gone out of him. There's nothing else he can do. Nothing but let others clean up the mess he has created, trying to soothe mortal wounds with bandages and hope. He has never felt so useless. Such a failure. "Very well," he says quietly, wearily.