A\N: yeah ok here have a thorki short fic thing that's a gift ofr a friend yeah.
And maybe you wouldn't be sitting in front of this shrink, this Dr. Selvig, if he hadn't had such inviting eyes. You hate how the lies roll off your tongue. You seem to be telling him about Sleipnir, a horse you had a few years ago. But the thing is, he isn't a horse, he's your son.
Yeah, so you went and had a kid at eighteen-and-a-half, because your dad. But you don't want him to know, because a) you don't know where your kid is, your dad took him away and b) it probably ruins his ideal fantasy of pure American teenagers. What he doesn't know is that you're adopted. (Probably European, from what you've discerned.) And he also doesn't know that your father rules New York's underground with an iron fist.
And you were adopted because of some sort of gang agreement. You've made agreements with the Jotuns, and the Chitauri. You've been a con-man, a dealer, a driver. And you're not even 21.
He hasn't seen the tattoo on your back, he doesn't know that you were Tony Stark's settle. Yes, The Tony-fucking-Stark. That Stark. He picked you up at a bar a while ago, and you got tired of it. You got tired of the guy whispering Steve, or maybe Bruce, and sometimes Pep into your ears. And you didn't know what to say.
You waited and waited and waited. For what, you didn't know. You weren't going to get his inheritance anyways.
And then he fell into a coma. And you ran free.
But you don't tell Selvig any of this. You don't tell him anything at all. You just say that you're a little stressed out by college. It makes sense, you're a little older than the average freshman, and you're going to school in the Midwest (which is pretty bland, compared to New York.) And to top it all off, you've got this big oaf of a roommate.
But you can't help wanting to be friends with him.
When you get back to your room, you don't tell anyone where you've been. Not even Darcy (your best friend, that Darcy.) You don't want them thinking you're weak. You hated being the runt of the litter back home.
Thor (that is his name right?) Can't even keep his stuff in order. And even though you're guilty of the same thing, you use it as an excuse to be mad at him. Even though you can't really stay that way for too long. He's just like a puppy dog, with those eyes, and that long golden hair. He's everything you're not, so naturally you resent him a little.
The discontentment bubbled up when you were invited to that godforsaken family dinner. Yeah, the one with Odin and Frigga. You just kinda sat there and hoped the feeling would subside. You felt hollow inside; you kept lying, because it was just so natural.
And you may or may not hope that this Dr. Selvig can fix that.
And the worst part of the self-exile from New York is the bleak horizon. You want there to be Midwestern mountains, or a sand dune, or something. Just something to do. Something to get your mind off of things. But your campus is literally stuck between two farms.
And you guess you could have been okay with that. If Selvig hadn't suggested trying to get another horse. Smooth.
You don't tell Thor about the Mafia thing. You hide it pretty well. You just feed him the story you fed the admissions team, the one about loving your dad, missing your adopted mother, your fake horse, your girlfriend who died in a seemingly unrelated gang shooting. And yeah, you feel a little guilty about it, but not enough to do anything.
The blonde guy in the V-neck nods, and doesn't press. And you wonder why he's doing it in the first place. You wonder why he wants to know about you. You're going to be gone in a year or so anyways. And you're not going to see each other again. You figure that being alone is better than this. This weird sentiment that leaves you wanting something more in your stomach.
And, oh god, the way he looks at you. That puppy-dog face that makes you feel like he's known you forever. Yeah. You don't really know what to do. You're afraid of commitment. And that's why you don't tell him anything else.
Yeah. You don't want another repeat of the Sleipnir thing, the unconditional love you gave your fake father for adopting you. You can't take the prospect of a flake. (You know, the thing. The thing you won't talk about with anyone. The thing that involved you being Tony Stark's settle? Yeah. Maybe he was your settle too. Yeah. You both knew that that was all the affection you were going to get.) Who can blame you?
So you try and fix the problem by not letting anyone in.
You bury yourself in the mounds of textbooks, and homework and instant ramen. The old pizza box you can't stand to throw away, because, well, because they're there. And they're yours. They make you feel tangible. And that's why you keep them.
And you hate yourself for it.