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Jun. 27th, 2012 10:38 pmThe car's journey is long, though not as long as it was in Jane Foster's van, with the way uncertain. Thor changed obediently (though the space is very cramped) into the fresh t-shirt and button-down Erik gives him. Erik seems to think the combination is too light for the desert night, but Thor doesn't care. The clothing is insubstantial, but Thor doesn't feel the cold; perhaps he's still Asgardian in this.
Perhaps.
Neither of them talks much on the drive back to Puente Antiguo.
But true to his word, once they're in town Erik Selvig steers them to a place of drinking that he calls a bar. Like Milliways, Thor thinks, but it's not much like. The same long table called a bar, with stools set before it, and other seats at smaller tables around the perimeter, but that's where the similarities end. This place is dark and dingy, full of loud music and sharp smoke and flashing lights whose colors would remind Thor of home, if their patterns weren't so alien. There are men behind him playing a game of knocking small balls about on a green table.
Erik leads the way to the bar, and asks the barkeep for two beers. They come in bottles of dark brown glass, chilly to the touch. Thor drinks and finds the brew thin and sour and weak. But he's not so ill-mannered as to complain of a gift, and he's not of a mind to complain of much right now anyway.
He drinks slowly, Erik Selvig at his shoulder nursing his own bottle.
It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. These people have been good to him, however little he might have earned their kindness.
Perhaps.
Neither of them talks much on the drive back to Puente Antiguo.
But true to his word, once they're in town Erik Selvig steers them to a place of drinking that he calls a bar. Like Milliways, Thor thinks, but it's not much like. The same long table called a bar, with stools set before it, and other seats at smaller tables around the perimeter, but that's where the similarities end. This place is dark and dingy, full of loud music and sharp smoke and flashing lights whose colors would remind Thor of home, if their patterns weren't so alien. There are men behind him playing a game of knocking small balls about on a green table.
Erik leads the way to the bar, and asks the barkeep for two beers. They come in bottles of dark brown glass, chilly to the touch. Thor drinks and finds the brew thin and sour and weak. But he's not so ill-mannered as to complain of a gift, and he's not of a mind to complain of much right now anyway.
He drinks slowly, Erik Selvig at his shoulder nursing his own bottle.
It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. These people have been good to him, however little he might have earned their kindness.
