From Bruce's new perspective, Thor seemed rather small.
It'd been five years since he'd last seen the Asgardian king and, whilst he hadn't ever forgotten how the other man looked, it was quite difficult to connect the dots in his head that the powerful thunder god with the warpaint and flowing cape, straight out of a comic he'd see kids reading, was the same as the strange, sad viking man who now fit quite nicely in his arms. Thor was still handsome, definitely, with his striking eyes and strong arms - but his hair was long and tangled, his jaw obscured by an untamed fuzz of a beard, and he was certainly softer to the touch than he had been.
Not that Bruce would ever complain of such things. Thor was a looker, sure, but that wasn't where his strength lay. He was charismatic and charming, all wide smiles and loud laughter, with a fiery determination that few men could match. But even that seemed to have changed a little - Thor was quieter, more content moping, and his smiles seemed wet and shaky.
He just seemed lonely. Lonely, and sad, and like his entire world had turned to dust in front of him; but it was worse, because Thor's world - Thor's family, kingdom, friends - were not dusted like the rest of them, but crushed in the way that any mortal man can crush another. There were actual bodies to bury, actual funerals to attend, and nothing came soaring back home if he snapped his fingers, fancy gauntlet or no.
Thor still seemed awfully small in Bruce's hulked-up arms, leaning tiredly against his chest, a ghost of a smile on his face. He was small in the way that all men were small now, and it almost scared Bruce, because Thor had never been a man in his eyes. Not truly. He, alongside the other Avengers, had always assumed Thor was something superior, something better, just because he was of royal blood, and came from space, and spoke alien languages like they were simple - and they were naive to assume so, it seemed, as Thor cowered and cried and hurt just like the rest of them.
He shifted slightly, against Bruce's chest, blinking up at him with a warm look in his mismatched eyes. It had been only a week or two since the world had been saved, since they'd sent Tony off with kind words and cutting quips alike, and yet Bruce felt as if it'd been a lot longer, simply looking at the god.
However small and teary-eyed and hurt Thor may be, he's a little closer to the commanding charisma of the Thor he'd first met than the pathetic stranger he'd bumped into in New Asgard. Bruce is glad to see the change.
Nothing can be fixed quickly, especially not something as painful as loss - so when Bruce finds Thor stumbling into walls and mumbling incoherently, a bottle of something strong and foreign in his hand, he simply sighs and sits him against the wall, a sad smile on his face.
"Hey, buddy," he tries gently, still smiling, "you alright there?"
And Thor nods - of course he does, stubborn bastard - but there's something deep and distressed in his eyes that Bruce can't let go, so he sighs a little through his teeth and sits carefully before the god, legs crossed, smile gentle and warm.
Thor blinks at him for a moment, eyes glassy, before smiling a little. It's strained and painful, but Bruce still finds his own smile widening at the sight of it, his arm reaching up to pat the man's shoulder comfortingly.
"If Loki were available," Thor rasps quietly, "then today would be his birthday. Or, his adoption date, I suppose."
Bruce can't help the way that his smile falters, or the sadness that seeps slowly into his eyes. He shifts slowly towards Thor, careful not to make any contact. "Then I would understand if you," he hesitates, "needed a little help today."
Thor keeps smiling, but his face is crumpling, and his eyes are brimming with tears. "Please," he rasps - and Bruce takes it as the invitation he was waiting for, scooping the smaller man into his arms and rising as slowly as possible to his feet.
He groans, disoriented, and wriggles in his grasp - Bruce stumbles a little trying to keep him held, because Thor is still young and strong and full of thunder - before wrapping his arms around his neck, leaning into his chest and clinging with a desperate gentleness that only makes Bruce sadder.
They travel in a comfortable silence for a minute, neither of them willing to break it, until Bruce is setting Thor down on his bed - and the god reaches out and grabs his forearm with such intensity and urgency that he swears he feels his bones creak, hulked-out or not.
Thor, seemingly realising his own strength for the first time, winces and loosens his grip. "I'm sorry," he speaks quietly, face flushed red from alcohol and shame and emotion, "but I'd rather you didn't leave me alone."
He's tearing up again, lips twitching as if to frown, and Bruce can't stand seeing it anymore. In a moment of impulse, he slips into the god's bed behind him, pulling him tight to his chest and wiping at his eyes with his thumbs.
"It's alright," he decides, speaking gently. "just go to sleep now, okay, love?"
Thor hums, smiles fondly, and closes his eyes.
The god is honestly trying his best to be positive, and Bruce can't help but smile as he watches it.
His bedroom isn't nearly as bad as it had been back when Bruce had first found him, back when people were still dust and Tony was still quipping at their expenses, and he's written on one of the walls in bright marker, in a script Bruce can't read. He asks him what it means one day, and Thor smiles brightly, running his fingers over the letters as he reads them.
"'The sun will shine on us again, brother,'" he recites, smiling up at Bruce with a brightness he was beginning to miss, "Loki's promise to me, before we were separated."
(Thor never mentions how Loki is dead, but Bruce never bothers to correct him, because he knows that he's not stupid. Naive sometimes, but far from stupid; he watched it happen with his own eye, held him close as they drifted into space, and is very well aware that his brother didn't come back with those who had turned to dust.
But Thor, for all his unexpected wisdom and charisma and kindness, has never been taught to cope - as proven by the years he spent alone, not coping, stewing in his losses and never thinking of the future - so he never speaks of death. His voice gets awfully tight and sad when he gets close to it, so he's come up with alternatives; away, unavailable, separated, lost. Never dead. Never, never dead.)
If he'd heard Loki's last words some time ago, he would've laughed and thought him a fool - but now, seeing Thor smile, shaved a little neater, hair clean and tied back, looking soft and human and alive in something big and comfortable he'd stolen from Bruce's supply of hulk-sized clothing, he's beginning to believe that maybe Loki was onto something.