Chapter 3
Clint stared at the small box sitting on his bedside table. The label was simple:
To: Clint Barton.
It was printed in a sterile, computer-generated font that gave away nothing about who might have sent it. Clint’s instincts kicked in immediately. He checked the room for anything out of place, then carefully examined the box for wires, tampered edges, or hidden mechanisms. Old habits die hard. When nothing set off alarm bells, he cautiously opened it, his knife ready in case something unpleasant waited inside.
What he found made him pause.
Inside the box was a pair of sleek, state-of-the-art hearing aids. They were a rich, metallic purple—a clear nod to his signature color—and far more advanced than anything he’d ever used before. Clint couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.
“Natasha freaking Romanoff,” he muttered, his voice soft with affection. It had to be her. She was the only one who really noticed when his old aids started cutting out mid-conversation.
But as Clint lifted the devices to examine them more closely, his smile faltered. Instead of the usual branding from the company that manufactured his previous aids, the trustworthy S.H.I.E.L.D., these had the unmistakable logo of Stark Industries.
Clint’s stomach churned.
His mind raced as he tried to piece it together. He’d only ever told Natasha about his hearing loss—well, not told so much as she’d figured it out on her own, the way she always did. But last year…
Steve.
Clint’s jaw tightened as he remembered the awkward moment when Steve returned one of his hearing aids after finding it in the common room. He’d brushed it off at the time, but now it was clear that Steve hadn’t just forgotten about it.
“No way he did this alone,” Clint muttered.
Steve had to have gone to Tony—or at least someone at Stark Industries—to get this done. He’d shared Clint’s personal business without asking, without so much as a heads-up.
Clint set the hearing aids down, his chest tight with anger. He left his room, marching through the Manor until he reached Steve’s door. He pounded on it, and when Steve opened it, looking half-asleep, Clint didn’t hesitate.
His fist connected with Steve’s jaw with a satisfying crack.
“What the hell, Barton?” Steve staggered back, holding his face.
Clint’s voice was sharp, his words dripping with sarcasm. “When in the 1700s were you taught that going behind someone’s back was okay? You just find out shit about your team’s insecurities and decide it’s gossip time?”
Steve blinked, clearly trying to process what was happening. “What are you—”
“Let’s all gossip about Clint Barton: the Liability!” Clint shouted, his voice raw. “Right, Steve? I don’t need you, Stark Industries, or your charity.”
Before Steve could respond, Clint spun on his heel and stomped back to his room. He barely made it through the door before Natasha barged in after him, her expression equal parts angry and exasperated.
“What the hell was that, Clint?” she demanded.
Clint glared at her, pacing the room like a caged animal. “They went behind my back, Nat. Steve told Stark. My business isn’t theirs to share.”
“And you think punching Steve in the face is going to fix that?” Natasha shot back. “You’re acting like an ungrateful dumbass.”
"I know!" Clint stopped pacing, his fists clenched. “I know, but you don’t get it.”
Natasha folded her arms, her voice softening. “No, I do. You’re pissed because you feel exposed. But you’re also pissed because you know they were trying to help, and you don’t know how to handle that.”
Clint sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not like them, Nat,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not a genius, or a super soldier, or a god, or a mutant. I’m not even a robot like you.”
Natasha’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t get to say that,” she said firmly.
“I’m just some guy who grew up in a circus and shoots arrows that come in a pack of eleven,” Clint muttered.
Natasha stepped closer, her voice unwavering. “You’re not ‘just some guy.’ You’re the one who keeps this team grounded, Clint. Because you’re so human, you’re better than the rest of us.”
He looked at her, his expression skeptical.
“Think about it,” Natasha said. “Steve doesn’t understand this century. Thor doesn’t understand Earth. Tony can’t figure out people. Bruce can’t deal with himself. And I’m just trying not to be a complete screw-up.”
She climbed into bed beside him, her voice soft but insistent. “You’re the chill guy who can sit at the table and remind us we’re all just people. You’re the guy who makes us feel normal, even when nothing about this life is.”
Clint leaned back against the headboard, her words sinking in. He didn’t respond right away, but Natasha didn’t push him.
“Thanks, Nat,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
She smirked, nudging his shoulder. “Anytime, Barton. Now get some sleep.”
As she settled in beside him, Clint stared at the ceiling, the weight in his chest a little lighter than before.
Fuck. Now he has to apologize.
Bruce Banner sat on the couch in the common room, flipping through news articles on his tablet. Every headline seemed to echo the same theme: Earth’s Mightiest Hero Saves the Planet.
Pictures accompanied the headlines, showing Thor in various locations around the globe. In one, he was waist-deep in the ocean, pulling up nets filled with trash. In another, he stood on a beach, holding an entire abandoned fishing boat over his shoulder as onlookers gawked. Some shots showed him working alongside local fishermen, their nets suddenly free of debris, or cleaning rivers with the ease of a god handling a child’s toy.
But what really caught Bruce’s attention were the women.
In almost every image, there was a woman with Thor. Sometimes it was a statuesque black woman with an afro so large it obscured her face. Other times, it was a lithe figure with flowing robes or a serene-looking woman in simple attire. Each time, the woman’s features were different, yet her presence was always striking.
Bruce’s curiosity had finally reached its breaking point.
That evening, Bruce found Thor in the kitchen, finishing what looked like a gourmet meal. The Asgardian was humming to himself, his mood lighter than Bruce had seen in months.
“Thor,” Bruce began cautiously, leaning against the counter.
Thor turned, his face brightening. “Ah, Banner! Come, join me. I have just prepared a feast worthy of the Nine Realms!”
Bruce chuckled softly but didn’t sit. “I actually wanted to ask you about something.”
Thor raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“I’ve been seeing the news about what you’re doing,” Bruce said, gesturing to his tablet. “Cleaning up the oceans, the beaches… it’s incredible. And it’s working. People are noticing.”
Thor waved a hand dismissively, though his smile didn’t waver. “It is not for the people that I do this, though I am pleased they are pleased. It is for my mother.”
Bruce tilted his head. “Your mother?”
“Yes,” Thor replied simply, as though it explained everything.
Bruce hesitated, then said, “Thor. You do know that your mother... passed? Right?”
Thor’s expression softened. “Aye. Frigga has left to Valhalla. This is my other mother.”
Bruce blinked, his confusion evident. “Like Coraline?”
It was Thor's turn to be confused as he looked at Bruce like he was crazy. "It was nothing," Bruce started, "Just Continue."
Thor glanced at Bruce again before he leaned against the counter, his posture relaxed as he explained. “Not long ago, I learned a truth my father had hidden from me. Frigga, whom I have always called my mother, is not my birth mother. She raised me, loved me as her own, but my true mother is Gaea, the goddess of the Earth herself.”
Bruce frowned, processing the revelation. “Gaea? Like… the Earth? The planet?”
Thor nodded, his tone reverent. “Indeed. She is the Earth itself. She is the soil, the oceans, the forests. She has been called many names by the mortals of this realm, but her favorite is ‘Mother Nature.’”
Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “So the women in the photos…”
Thor smiled. “My mother takes on many forms. She manifests as she pleases, but her essence is the same. Whether she appears as the great woman with the hair that shields the sun, or as a soft-spoken maiden in flowing robes, she is always Gaea.”
Bruce exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. “And you’re doing all this because of her?”
Thor’s expression grew serious, his eyes shining with determination. “Aye. She is weak, Banner. The mortals’ neglect and abuse of her lands and waters have sapped her strength. When I first called to her, her voice was faint, her power diminished. It pained me to hear it.”
Bruce nodded slowly, starting to understand. “So you’re trying to help her recover.”
Thor smiled faintly. “She tells me her strength is not gone, only obscured. But a cleaner Earth replenishes her. She enjoys the feel of pure waters and unmarred lands, free of the mortals’ refuse.”
Bruce leaned back, letting out a low whistle. “That’s… heavy.”
Thor laughed, the sound warm and full of life. “Heavy, yes, but it is a labor I am honored to undertake. My mother gave me life. The least I can do is restore her.”
Bruce studied the god for a moment, then shook his head with a small smile. “Do you want help?" Thor refused help because the Earth gets dirty again the more he cleans and his mother already told him to stop after today.
"You have a weird family. A weird family for their weird son."
“And I hope I never shall relinquish my weird,” Thor replied with a grin, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. “Now, come. There is food to be enjoyed!”
Bruce couldn’t help but laugh as Thor began setting the table, his reverence for his mother balanced by his unshakable joy for life.