hello! I was wondering - do you have a headcanon for Thor’s tendency to rest his head on Natasha’s lap in the Toasterverse? When was the first time it happened? Does she often braid his hair? I’M SO CURIOUS.
When the Avengers were first formed, when they first moved into the Tower, and Natasha still isn’t sure how THAT happened, she should know better, she should, but it was a team. She was on a team. She was used to being told where to bunk.
She didn’t like it. But she was used to it.
Barton she knew, Barton she knew in, out, and sideways. Barton had held her bones together with his hands, had stared down the barrel of her gun without flinching, had seen her drunk and hungover and survived taking her alcohol away. More than once. Barton was the wall she could put her back against.
Barton wasn’t a problem.
Stark, she understood. Stark was a nightmare, a spastic genius with an occasional focus, but for the most part, she could steer him in a particular direction or nudge him along if he proved difficult. She could handle him. Hell, from time to time, she could even enjoy him.
Rogers had proved an enigma at the beginning. She’d been suspicious at first, waiting for the first crack to show in his facade, the first imperfection in his serious face. But as the days, the weeks, the MONTHS went by she realized: Steve Rogers was exactly what he seemed, as clear as a cloudless sky, as stable as a rock, as reliable as the sunrise. He meant what he said, and he said what he meant, and other than a few times where he got still and quiet and cold, she found she had no problem with him. She couldn’t predict him, and that was fine, because she could predict that whatever he did, it was what needed doing.
Bruce, with Bruce, she’d stared into the worst he’d had to offer, and she didn’t like it, she didn’t trust it, but she understood the darkness he carried. The scientist himself, he was harder. He was the soft glow of the moon, sometimes large and bright, sometimes the thinnest thread holding back the darkness. The ebb and flow of his moods, of his strength, of the fight with the other guy was less predictable, but she could track it. In the way he held himself, and held himself apart. In how he hid behind folded arms and a ducked head and glasses when he didn’t need them. Bruce was chaos and violence and everything that terrified her, that haunted her nightmares. But Bruce was warmth and kindness and a delicate touch when she couldn’t bear the medbay. And she had her own darkness, her own horrors, locked inside. As long as he could bear hers, she could bear his.
Coulson was just Coulson.
But Thor? Natasha could not figure out Thor.
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