Thor is one of those people who looks like he’s made for a beer in his hand, though without the unpleasant patina of frat boy that usually accompanies that, or borderline alcoholism, in Stark’s case. He doesn’t seem offended that you’re not joining him, or someone just hasn’t told him that you can’t get drunk on black coffee. You aren’t in the mood to drown your sorrows; you’re not sure yet if the other guy can swim.

The leather couches in what must amount to a staff breakroom add to the odd feel that you’re in some kind of session; the Asgardian is sprawled across one with his feet on the armrest, and you’re busy trying to think of questions--

“He wasn’t very popular in Asgard, was he? I mean, he spent time with you and your friends--” Thor had detailed their battle against the Jötnar while struggling to explain how Loki could have found out about his birth, but it had just turned into a lengthy exposition on his own prowess in battle and the importance of teamwork.

Those blond brows furrow a little. Every time Thor has to think about what he’s saying before he says it, and use his indoor voice rather than declaim boldly, it’s a bit like watching a bull do math. “He did not partake in much feasting or gaming but he had -- companions.”

“And the two of you generally got along before he found out about being adopted?”

“We have had our quarrels over the millenia, but there was once a time when Loki rescued me from peril, rather than being the cause of it. I loved him, Banner. I-- I do believe that he loved me.”

Thor gestures decisively. He’s pretty free about calling men (and Natasha) his brothers, or speaking of his fondness for good-natured humans, but you’ve never heard anyone else use the word “love” that way and sound like they mean it, rock solidly.

“Maybe he felt less positively about things? Did he and your father generally get along?”

“Loki seemed to think our father favored me. I know not why -- he was the cleverer and had our mother’s favor. I was forever causing havoc and finding myself called before our father for some new... yes. I thought him more charitable toward Loki, but perhaps he only meant to spare him the... yes. ”

Thor takes a drink and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, to punctuate a sentence he doesn’t know how to finish.

It’s never going to stop being strange that this Loki and this Odin are father and son rather than occasional allies turned enemies by circumstances. It’s safe to say Loki’s estranged from his family no matter who they were, but the adoption story, sorry as it was, did check out. And breakdowns have certainly happened over less. Loki and Thor are like night and day. Loki is dark and Thor is fair, Thor has a beard and Loki is completely psychotic. Recipe for sibling rivalry.

“You find other ways to occupy your time. I had a career, I guess your brother can find a hobby.”

“Magic was his only pastime. Magic and mischief.” The look that briefly passes over Thor’s face is familiar. The shadow of a family joke that had lasted long enough to see itself turn bitter. “You’ve seen what’s become of that. And the people of Asgard will seek more permanent means to stay his lying tongue.”

There’s something disturbingly final about that. It figures they don’t really do talk therapy on Asgard. Granted, the last time the associates of a human mass murderer had taken a chunk out of New York, there wasn’t really a public outry for his right to a psychological evaluation. Your own assessment hadn’t been terribly flattering either, but this was someone’s little brother now, Thor’s, the big lunkhead, and adopted or not there was no denying that evil or not he certainly wasn’t working alone, and he wasn’t all there.

“Legally SHIELD can’t release prisoners to people who they know are going to torture them. These are extraordinary circumstances, and the letter of the law doesn’t mean much to Nick Fury, but if you can prove there’s substantial grounds they’ll --“

“The people of Asgard are my people, and his people as well. They are hardly baying for his blood, but they mean to punish him for his rebellion and he knows it well. He cannot be killed, but he knows they will try.”

You can’t even remember how much you said. Tensions had been high, even Captain Rogers had been saying some unflattering things and the man’s as saintly as you’d expect him to be. (You walked in on what sounded like an apology later, him earnestly telling Stark that he didn’t know what got into him. That was the point, wasn’t it? Nothing had gotten into him. We were all just us a little meaner and a little louder.) Somehow seeing him falling apart was the last straw, squaring off with Stark -- the bit about the bullet, you remember that, and it’s not the kind of detail you’d lug out under ordinary circumstances. And not just the part about spitting it back out. But you remember the way that scepter felt in your hand, you remember that vividly, its energy throbbing steadily at you like an answering pulse.

You rub your hands together and hope the feeling goes away. Physical memory isn’t your strong suit but some things you can’t forget. Like the way that bullet felt.