nrgburst | Familiar (Reply)

Fandom: Thor (MCU)
Characters: Valkyrie|Brunnhilde/Thor (Valkyrie-centric), Korg of Krona
Rating/Warnings: T, language
Word Count: 1462
Summary: 5 times Brunnhilde feels at home again, plus one when it's too much.

Thanks to tielan for the beta! :D

It makes her chest ache to look outside.

She’d last looked at the stars this way centuries ago, and she’d never expected to do it again. And yet it’s still second nature to trace out Freyja’s Girdle and The Wagon; look over to find The Mouth of the Wolf and Thjazi’s Eyes.

The view is only like this from this part of the universe, and none of them will see it again.

Nobody else on board seems to realize that. Asgard mourns- the ship is full of groups that huddle together, either weeping or silent and numb. It reminds her of the last time she’d piloted out of the system, blinded by grief and guilt and disillusionment.

But she finds it oddly comforting to catch the cadence of Asgardian speech despite the tearful words, hear somber chords from lute and harp instead of electronic synth.

Home, and yet homeless all over again.

The last time she’d crawled away like a beaten dog once she realized the king had left them to rot. She’d sold the vibranium from her armor and then the tech from the stolen patrol ship piece by piece; taken mercenary and seasonal laborer jobs, aimlessly staggering from system to system. This time they’re streaking away from their sun in a top-of-the-line vessel with holds full of reclaimed metal alloys and other goods (Loki termed it “revolutionary redistribution”) to barter with.

And she’s not alone, nor are they rudderless and lost.

So she pushes aside the urge for sentiment and focuses on the practical. They’ve got what matters, and the stars will keep burning all the same. They can form new constellations out of their patterns above Earth.

The task is grim and it’s cosmetic, really. Death is messy: life’s carefully balanced systems coming undone. Despite the tales and songs, final moments are rarely glorious, but it’s still easier for the living to see the body as they knew the person- whole and in some semblance of peace. So she seals up spilled guts and glamours shattered armor, places swords back in stiff hands and wipes away blood and bile. There’s no sweet oil to keep the smell down, but if they keep this chamber cold enough it shouldn’t matter for a few days.

It surprises her when Thor enters the makeshift morgue, obviously fresh out of medical with a patch over his lost eye.

“Your Majesty?”

He looks over the bodies somberly before he meets her eye and makes an effort to smile. “You truly are a Valkyrie. I thank you.”

Somewhat embarrassed, she looks away and gives a dismissive half shrug. “Haven’t done this for ages, but… they fell bravely in battle. And I figured I know how to do this better than most.”

She pauses, unsure. One supposed honor had been cruelly twisted when Ragnarok had finally come. “Will we send them or keep them?”

Thor inhales raggedly as he considers before he shakes his head. “Whichever would comfort their families most. But if these were my kin, I’d rather send them under stars they know than bury them under a soil they don’t.”

She inclines her head. “I will ask then, and report back”

He surprises her yet again when he takes a handful of linen, dipping it in water and wringing it out. “Your Majesty?“

He gives her a self-deprecating smile. “Learned everything about being a Valkyrie, you know. Even anointing the fallen. …I trust you’ll let me know if I screw this up royally.”

She gives an exasperated smile at the pun and rolls her eyes, jerking her head to indicate that he can help her prepare the next body.

But she’s thoughtful as she talks him through the rituals.

She used to think respecting the crown meant unquestioning obedience.

Maybe this is what it really feels like.

‘Course, some things never change.

Recruits are far too soft at first, and drills are more torment than challenge. Everybody’s a terrible shot, and some idiot always manages to do something truly stupid that lands somebody (usually themselves) in medical.

But they’re Asgardian. They’re more durable than most species, and better, motivated to keep themselves from extinction.

She can work with that, even if she’s more used to vainglorious fools thirsting for renown. Plus she’s got a couple helpers, even if it’s not her usual team of veteran Valkyrior.

The Hulk likes drills. He can demonstrate stances and roar out the changes in position, and he’s big enough that everybody can see the forms clearly. Plus it frees her and Korg up to circulate among them, giving advice and correcting stances.

“Don’t overextend- you’ll wrench your joints and lose power on the stroke. Most important thing is simply to keep the sword tip up until you’re used to wielding it. Keep your arm at about an angle like that if your weapon’s getting heavy. Good, good. Ah! Excellent! See how Astrid’s right over her center of gravity? A lot harder to knock her off her feet. Hey numbskull! Yeah, you! You holding a sword or a spear?”

She’s a tougher superior than civilians are used to, so she gets why Heimdall had recommended Korg to help her out with those that need a softer touch. Still, it’s nice to acknowledge greetings of “Captain!” in the halls; see the rapt attention as she explains maneuvers or weapons. Little reminders that she’s respected and needed here.

And there’s pride on both sides when skill and strength improve—that other constant that makes it all worth it.

Honing her own skill is also something that makes her blood sing, and it’s an especial delight to train against someone who isn’t Hulk.

“That was underhanded,” Thor complains, picking himself up off the ground, and she arches a brow with a smirk.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather practice with a hammer? If it’s what you’re used to...”

“And forgo learning swordplay with a Valkyrie? I’d truly be a fool to give up such a chance,” he declares.

She tilts her head thoughtfully- she knows when she’s hearing excuses. But if he’d rather avoid dealing with that particular loss for now, she understands that better than anybody.

“Fine,” she says, shrugging. “Watch your footwork though or you might just trip again, Your Majesty. Come on. Again.”

He grins and doesn’t hesitate. For a big man, he’s fast, and he’s more skilled with a blade than most, even if it’s obvious that he’s more used to smashing with his weapon than slicing.

Not that he really needs a weapon in battle anyway, but he obviously enjoys the camaraderie and challenge, and taking the piss out of each other after training bouts is half the fun.

It’s odd- helping Asgard survive feels a lot like really living again. And if the way he looks when he’s sweating and breathing hard excites her in other ways, the slow way he grins when he catches her appraising look holds all kinds of promise.

“Hey, hey, hey, no need to get upset! I mean, the protein’s got an odd flavor with these herbs crusted on the outside like that, but I reckon it’s a cultural thing. Nobody’s going to make you finish it if you don’t like it, eh?”

She swipes at her cheeks. “No, I’m not—” It had surprised her, is all. She’d been the perfect stoic soldier even when Surtur had shoved his demon sword into Asgard’s heart. “It’s just…” She swallows and looks away. “…I suppose it tastes like home,” she says quietly.

Korg blinks before he nods sagely at her explanation. “Yeah, naw, I get you. Real Kronan bread gets me rather agitated myself, in a good way, if you know what I mean. It’s the mineral content and carbohydrate balance-- very tricky for non-Kronan folk to get right. I mean, props to the Sakaarans that would try but-“

She’s savoring the taste and texture of her next bite too much to really pay attention to Korg rattling on, but from his beaming smile, she’s sure he doesn’t mind.

“You like me, I like you, the sex is incredible. I don’t see the problem unless one of those things changes.”

She’d agreed because it was a practical enough rationale. They’re on a ship, not the Asgard of old, and he really does fuck like a god.

Thing is, she’d never expected to feel like this again. And she can’t stop the pangs of guilt and fear any more than the stupid exhilaration, the cozy sense of trust and connection when they’re laughing in bed and she’s so goddamn comfortable.

This isn’t just liking anymore. Dammit.

She’d warned him once, with a blade to his throat, not to get familiar.

Maybe she should have heeded her own advice.