@spiderlingman
The compound is quiet.
There were times when this was the norm, but Thor finds the current absence of energy both understandable and disconcerting. There’s cause for celebration (revels, a word laced with a seldom felt nostalgia), but instead there’s a sense of disquiet handing in the air like a shroud.
The Mad Titan is dead. The thought is both bolstering and somehow hollow. It wasn’t enough - no death of his would ever be enough, Thor thinks, even after he’d gotten to watch the life bleed from his eyes. Not when -
But this isn’t about him. This is about the boy two rooms over, and how the compound is too quiet.
He enters the antechamber on bare feet, soles chilled on the tiled ground. He has two cups of cocoa in hand, mugs just slightly too warm as he sees a familiar tousled head of hair over the back of a plush blue chair.
There’s a large footstool at it’s side, one that Peter seems to have decided to forego, so Thor sits and brings his legs up, crossing them before offering the mug.
“I put two packets in each,” he says by way of greeting, a tired but genuine slime curling his lips.
He’s glad the boy’s okay. Well, alive.
