Chapter 5
Thor wakes, slightly startled in the early morning hours; the chill of night still blowing in through his open window. There’s something unnerving about being back in his childhood bedroom—something that he’s remiss in admitting to himself—something that’s haunted his dreams the past week. The sinking feeling of realizing that this is not where he wants to be, is hard to say out loud, for fear that it’ll crush his mother’s spirits. He’s long since abandoned being passive-aggressive in that sense; hurting those he cares about to receive payback for his perceived slights. The young man he used to be, was such a dick.
He lays prone in bed, too exhausted to move. He’s been such a log the last week, since his overreaction at the press conference. And no one in his circle seems to hold any ill-will over his dramatics, but he still hasn’t faced that his father’s death affects him in ways he’s always thought himself immune. There’s a lesson in it, but he’s not ready to heed it.
Thor swallows thickly, rolling to sit up on the mattress, feet flat on the floor. His discarded clothes catch his eye where they sit in a haphazard pile. He’d torn himself out of them, after arriving at his mother’s house, and poured himself into bed. He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes, brushing sleep away. He curses his wretched body for waking so early on its own.
He’d come home to avoid his brother’s probing and Sif’s conspicuous grasps at caring. She offered him a drink (clearly misguided in her attempt to commiserate) and he’d unkindly declined. The banter between them was strained at best, since their younger years and she’d chosen his brother—someone who’d been available despite the work. Years later, now that Loki is happy, he can’t imagine why he’d ever buried himself so deeply in his career, he couldn’t see that he’d been happy with Sif: his childhood love. Maybe he would have saved himself the heartache of being so unhappy with his love-life.
Either way, he has no time to be so ensconced by such childish memories. That was a lifetime ago. And he’d gone on to be a legendary talent. He didn’t need love—clearly it isn’t in the cards for him; if Jane’s rejection (and he knows just how mutual it seems) is anything to go by, he’s not made for it.
He pulls himself together, just barely, and starts his morning with a shower. The water is hot, and the pressure from the showerhead is enough to beat away some of the ache in his muscles. I really need to replace that mattress… or find my own place. The mirror above the sink is cloudy when he emerges from shower, body sated in more ways than one.
He brushes his teeth, avoiding the unimaginably tired look in his eyes reflecting back at him. He has no reason to be so tired. Rue is picking up his slack in practice, her hands on her hips in silent irritation. He feels guilty, for falling right back into negativity after she’d done her best to make him feel better. He feels the self loathing that comes with showing too much, being out of control of his own emotions.
But they float through the routine they built up in the past month. His mind is on the skate when he moves around the familiar kitchen, dressed, and attempting to avoid waking Frigga before he’ll eventually leave.
Heimdall has them skating to the sound of Sia’s emotive version of Diamonds . The tension between them is beautiful he says; even if they don’t realize it’s there. Rue is content enough to keep it unlabeled as such. They’re good actors, she’s said, and he’d smiled beside himself. She’s been the rock between them, and he has no business getting used to that dynamic. This whole endeavor has been for him. And despite her physical setbacks in the last year, she’s brilliant, and he’d do well to mimic her ability let the past go the way she can.
He finally picks up his phone, from where it’s sat on the kitchen counter since the night before. He’s received tweets from just about everyone looking for a reaction to the headlines. But he ignores them all. That is, until he sees something that can be interpreted as positive. He skims through it, snorting at the snippet he reads.
[Despite the less than favorable end to the day, Thor Borsen doesn’t seem to be far from reaching another gold. The partnership he’s found himself in reeks of potential and latent sexual tension. Now, there’s no need to do too much speculating on either of the Asgardian’s love lives (...yet) but watching them skate together…it’s undeniable, the chemistry between them. And it was hard to not love the story they were aiming for—speaking to the real world downward spiral his career took in the last few years. Unsteady was a solid song choice, speaking to Heimdall Peterson’s understanding of what he’s working with. Unsurprising, considering just how long he’s coached the wayward Olympian.
Thor is known for striking programs, his strength and showcasing his command of skill. But his partner, Rue Siegmund (who took gold in Sochi’s ladies’ event), is the perfect blend of grace and control. She’s coming off a disappointing knee injury, and missed the last season, but you’d never know from the way she performed. Taking your eyes off of her is a feat in itself. And if you watch their skate and manage it, congrats on being better than every one of my coworkers who I wrangled into watching.
There are of course plenty of things they’d like to work on—their timing was a little off at some spots, their throws maybe a little overshot—but those things will get better, Rue is known for her dedication to being as close to perfect as humanly possible. And obviously, they make quite the talented pair. It shouldn’t be hard to shore up execution.
If nothing else, the pair has debuted at the perfect time—with enough time to iron out the kinks while aiming for Pyeongchang.]
Thor snorts, but his amusement and reading stops there. He doesn’t know just how complimented he should feel, but he figures it could be worse. The article could blatantly sneer at him for being a screw up, and wish him the worst. But clearly, they love Rue. And right now, he’ll take it. That was the plan anyway. Rack up some favor by who he’s chosen to skate with. And they’re not wrong, Rue is brilliant. And she handles him better than most should. He’s been a pain, he knows.
“Good morning,” his mother’s tired voice filters through the quiet of scrolling through his phone. “You’re up early.” He ruffles his hair, like he’s a child again; kissing the top of his head and patting his shoulders.
He looks up at her, adjusting his posture in the wooden chair, “uh, yeah…Couldn’t sleep. Sorry if I woke you.” He reaches for his mug of coffee. Black, two sugars. He swirls the hot drink, bringing it to his mouth. He looks at her over the side of the mug, as she pours herself one and turns. Her hair is in rollers and she stands overly still for a few long moments. “Mom?”
She remembers herself and turns to him, faking a smile, “hm?”
“Did I wake you?” He asks, brows etched with concern for her instead of himself. He’s been a terrible son really. The guilt settles in. He wasn’t there, he still somehow isn’t even though he’s sitting in her kitchen.
She shakes her head, leaning for the fridge to grab some milk. She pours a lot, a lot more than he’d dare drink, but it reminds her of how much Odin used to take… before his habit got so bad there was no room for milk. She looks elsewhere, like she was somehow still asleep and he he doesn’t dare venture into asking her to elaborate. His mother has always been more internal—someone who expresses herself best on the ice—and he will probably do a shit job of comforting her. He hasn’t been the place to go for comforting any of his family members in years.
That’s hard to swallow. But they both move to drink their coffee; there’s silence.
.
.
.
Valhalla Skate Club
Rue breathes in the cold from the ice, setting her skate-cladded feet firmly on the floor and grips her thighs. She let herself in this morning. She rarely uses the key Frigga gave her years ago, but today she craves the skate on freshly paved ice. Volstagg doesn’t mind that he can barely get the zambo off the ice before she’s on it, but today it appears she’s missed him.
She adjusts her hair, braiding it out of her face, not particularly minding that a few curls stick out and keep the plait from being a smooth French braid. She zips up her grey hoodie and adjusts the waistband of her leggings before venturing out onto the ice. She’s sufficiently stretched and her muscles warmed before she makes a few laps around the rink. The scrape of her skates on the ice brings a happy smile of her face. After a few rounds, she works backward, her shapely leg fanning upward reaching for the ceiling before coming back down gracefully.
There’s something about the solitude there, that brings her back to life after a fitful night of dreamless sleep. This is where she feels alive, where she feels at home. Yeah, the practice and repetition, the dedication could overwork anyone if they let it, but this is where she thrives.
She spins effortlessly, changing levels and standing again through different positions, ending with her arms high above her head before she steps out of the spin. She dances and twirls to the simple sound of her own skates.
The Olympian does single flips, working her way to more than one twist. She thinks of Thor then; his first day back and the first thing he’d thrown was a double salchow. She snorts at the memory. Thinking of him now though, and his week with the same downtrodden mood, brings a frown. She shakes it away, knowing she can’t begrudge his emotions—though, it feels like he’s icing everyone out.
(She does the double salchow, and lands easily, her knee solid beneath her.)
Thor is…sad.
He’s sad, not wanting to admit it. But she won’t pull it out of him, not wanting to overstep and make things worse. He’d been relatively okay on the bus ride, and they’d cracked jokes, and shared smiles. But she knows it’s not easy to forget days that really shake you. And the more time she’s spent with Thor, the more she’s realized just as easily, that the man can juggle his sadness with being present enough not to leave her in a pile on the ice. He skates with the same capability, but somehow robotic in he movements despite his emotional pain. He pulls away as if burned every time she touches him, and so she gone back to avoiding his hands as long as she can.
The routines Heimdall has given to them (not that calling out different directions over the music is really a tangible thing), two separate programs dreamt up by the brilliant coach. Their short is something fun, not as packed as her individual one, but with their skill, it will be clean. And if she can be known for anything, it’s her ability to make anything look flawless.
The jumps and separation between them leaves room to show off just how capable they are, but when they move together—they’re faltering. It’s not so apparent in the short, but their free skate will benefit from the close quarters of the practice (the concessions hallway). They’ll look silly hopping around in their socks, but she’ll much rather that, than deal with being dropped because his mind is elsewhere while on the ice.
Frustrating as it is, she still understands. He hasn’t dealt with Odin’s death, nor the reaction he has when it’s brought up. And that’s fine (not really, but who is she to judge him?) though now it’s getting in their way. So much so that she’s decided she’s going to address it if he’s not in a better mood today. Heimdall seems content to let him work through it, but she isn’t, not so much.
With a sigh, she decides not to dwell on it. It’s hours before she expects him to show up. The rink is closed until the recital later in the evening anyways, she has it to herself for the time being.
It doesn’t take her long to start on her old short. What was a number brought to life with Valkyrie by A Blaze of Feather , is a memory she holds with her even now. She remembers the sound of the lyrics, soft, while they hauntingly blended with the track. And she’d skated it with poise, grace, and attack—it was second nature.
She maneuvers through the steps, spins, flips and jumps, feeling victorious because she can remember it and still execute it—kind of. The skater leaves out the triple axel, replacing it with a simple double flip. She’d best not tempt fate into screwing with her knee it today. Besides, she’s just taking a few moments to be alone, doing what she couldn’t over her hiatus. It’s nice to not have her doctors and her coach fussing over her fretting. She’d never admit it, but she absolutely was insufferable leading to the moment she was cleared.
Rue stumbles towards the edge of the rink when she hears the doors opening and slamming shut behind whoever is there. There aren’t many options, but she wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.
(Volstagg was only there that morning—she suspects—because he hates running into people even more than he hates when she plops down into a chair across from him, to pick at his lunch with him. She hasn’t done that in a while…he’s never around to let her.)
Thor rounds the corner, his skates slung over his shoulder like hockey players like to do. He didn’t seem the type for such a thing, such a macho visual, but there he is. He holds a coffee tray in hand, on the same side where his gym bag hangs from his shoulders. His mother trails behind him, waves and nods toward her office, to say that's where she’ll be should they need her. Her lifetime coach has been just as withdrawn as her son, and Rue curses that damned Maria Hill for it. For her stupid invasive, probative questioning. She watched the damned conference, smiling at the beginning, remembering the moments her hand had found his to give him some comfort.
“Good morning,” he offers softly, holding out the unnecessary tray he carries before to setting it on the edge she leans on. “I bought coffee…”
“Hope not…” she does well not to grin at him. Taking the large cup, sniffing it to find that it’s Chai. She twirls the cup, reading that it’s with soy. He remembered. She takes a sip, and he waits in anticipation to see if he’s gotten it right. “Thank you,” She says. She places the cup on the ledge, but still keeps her hand wrapped around it.
He surveys the ice while pulling out his water bottle from his bag, “Been here long?” He asks, whilst starting to stretch. He does it just barely, even though he’s just finished his drink before arriving. But he’s aching to get on the ice. He needs to clear his head, shake away the haunted feeling in himself. He’s fine. He’s fine.
“Not really… got here at half past 5.” She shrugs at the way his eyes widen. “I’ve been up since 3. I gave up trying to fall asleep.” She watches his expression cloud with sympathy—he appears just as tired today as he has all week—and she remembers the talk she wants to have with him. She sips her drink to prolong the silence, just as he’s kicking off his trainers. “Hey…”
He looks up, brows lifted in waiting of what’s to follow. He can see the thinly veiled concern, her face more expressive than her words. If she’s not rolling her eyes at him, she’s leveling him with a challenging brow. This time it’s neither and he knows what she’s going to say.
“I’m fine… sorry I’ve been so spacey.”
She nods, realizing just how little he wants to talk about the topic. But she can’t let it go, “You say that… but I don’t believe you. You’re the one who doesn’t look like you’ve slept.” She does well to not sound so concerned—like a mother hen—because she’s told him, she’s not here to scold him.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, and she can’t decipher if he tone is meant to be so cold, yet demanding. But it is. Is it possible for someone’s voice to feel like a physical shove? She doesn’t know why it’s bothering her so much that he can’t breathe a word of his personal demons to her. It’s too soon; and she knows it. But she’s putting a lot of trust in his ability to compartmentalize. And she worries that Heimdall won’t be too happy to let them just move through the motions for much longer. At some point they’re going to have to connect like they had for the exhibition. And if they’re meant to compete… well… this isn’t going to work. They have a month to prepare for Skate America , in Chicago. “I just needed—I’m fine. Today will be better. And don’t worry about Heimdall.” He’s noticed his coaches attempt at pulling something other than the steps out of him—though he couldn’t find the strength to give it.
“I’m not… I’m worried today will be the day you drop me because you’re not all here .” She grits her teeth, momentarily more upset at herself for being so annoyed. He stops, staring at her with a palpable skepticism that makes her want to roll her eyes. “Don’t look at me like I shouldn’t be concerned. You’re not yourself.”
“I wasn’t aware that you’re an expert on what I’m normally like,” He snaps, his expression giving away his irritation. Damn it, he didn’t want to talk about it. This is the very topic he didn’t want to broach today. “Tell me… what mood would put you most at ease?”
“Not a specific mood,” she begins, having sucked in a breath, because he’s baiting her. “Though you could stop being a jackass, for one thing,” she suggests, with less of a knee jerk reaction. “You’re upset about the reporter—“
“I couldn’t care less about her ,” Thor says, less angry than he’d been at Maria the night of, when they’d discussed it. It’s the sight of Rue’s face, like she’s schooling her annoyance for his benefit. He’d attempted at picking a fight, and clearly all she is, is concerned for him. He is being a jackass. He drags a hand over his face, thumb and pointer pulling at corners of his lips before he scrubs at his beard in frustration.
“Either way,” she goes on, teeth gritted. “You’re not here…and I’d rather deal with your perfectionist attitude than your mind being on some other planet …” she explains, and he understands because he knows what he’s been doing—that he’s been so stuck in his repentant guilt. Her expression softens as he looks away from her keen eyes. She reaches to grab his wrist, squeezing, “I know it’s none of my business and you don’t have to talk to me, but you should talk to someone before it gets to be too much.”
He agreed to get a partner, and somehow ended up with a life coach. The wayward gold medalist can’t pretend any anger would be righteously directed at her. Rue has been the epitome of supportive these last few days, letting him feel what the feels. But she hasn't signed on to dealing with such things, and he’s being unfair.
He needs her , not the other way around.
Thor leans on the edge, elbows planted. His head bows, letting the moment hit. He could drown in all he’s feeling. Regret, mourning, and the feeling of hollow anger in his gut. His father isn’t here for anything to be discussed. It sucks, the realization that he’ll never get to say what should’ve been said. He scoffs, more annoyed at himself for burying his emotions. Rue hesitantly reaches for his shoulder as a sign of solidarity, and he drops his hand to cover hers as he looks up at her. “I’m sorry. I’m here today…I swear. I’ll get it together.”
They don’t have time to deal with his volatile emotions. And he shouldn’t have expected her to just ignore his sour moods.
She shakes her head, squeezing his shoulder again before pulling her hand from his grasp. “I’m sorry if I’m being… I dunno… for being a bitch just then.”
He laughs, a quick snort. “You weren’t being a bitch… though I’m curious to see what that would actually be like.” No, I probably really don’t, he thinks. He takes her hands and steps around the rink’s edge, turning to glide towards the center of the ice. “Today will be better.” And he doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he draws her in, wrapping his arms around her as they turn slowly. He presses a kiss to her temple. “Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” she says, and the intimacy of her hushed tone and the way she sets her chin on his chest to look up at him, isn’t lost on her. But it doesn’t feel odd. It’s nice, letting him hold her like this. The way he exhales in her embrace let’s her know that he needs it. And maybe she does too. She allows herself to acknowledge that she’s feel like he’s been pushing her away after they’d gotten comfortable. She was starting to think she’d imagined that. She grips under his arms, still looking up at him, letting a ghost of a smile past her lips.
Heimdall finds them casually wrapped in an embrace, laughing at something or the other, and smiles. Good, they can get to work.