Arc 3, Chapter 1, Steve's Party: Thor, Namor & Steve

[clint_barton]

Thor vs. Namor; Steve and his ladyfriends get interrupted.



When the wall gives way beneath them, when Mr. Gordon’s antique Precious Moments collection lies in fragments around them, Thor should realize there’s something gravely wrong with the situation— but Loki has had years to calculate the precise conditions that evoke every last bit of his brother’s thoughtless rage, and this is but another perfect orchestration on his part. 

Raw emotion surges through him, and it crackles like thunder in his veins as he grabs for Namor’s throat, slamming his fist down against jaw and cheek and flesh as many times as he can manage while his opponent is pinned. He doesn’t care about precision or grace. He just wants it to hurt.

The fact that Thor easily gets hold of his throat and lands several solid hits speaks volumes to how unprepared Namor truly was; when he latches onto the restraining wrist in a crushing grip, his teeth are bared in an infuriated snarl and already marked with a streak of fresh blood. His other hand comes up wide to strike Thor’s unguarded face, aiming to deter him just enough for Namor to dislodge the iron grip on his windpipe.

Namor is no stranger to pain, and there’s very little to distract him in the crack of Thor’s blows. The startling reality that he was caught so unprepared by this lumbering idiot, however, is slightly more affecting.

Namor’s grip is sharp and effective, twisting the weak point of his wrist as the strike to his jaw secures the loss of his advantage. Hissing through clenched teeth, Thor uses the momentum to roll off and to the side, staggering back out through the gaping hole left in the apartment complex. 

Something isn’t adding up. He doesn’t have time to fully consider it,  but it he knows it’s there. It’s been there all along. Namor shouldn’t be this weak. 

“Funny,” He calls out, eagerly pacing back and forth. “I expected more from you. Especially since you were bold enough to take advantage of a woman you knew was not yours.”

Once Thor retreats, Namor pushes to his feet, pausing briefly to run the back of one hand over bloody lips and fixing a furious glance on the red smear. He also knows that something isn’t right, but unlike Thor, he follows the evidence to the (almost) correct conclusion. Inflamed blue eyes dart up towards Thor’s mocking form, and Namor’s reply comes out as an irritated and patronizing hiss.

“She’s not your property, you cretin. And you’re the one making a charade of your friends’ sympathies.” He gestures sharply to the mess of rubble between them. “You don’t honestly expect them to believe you did this with human strength, do you? Did you ever even truly lose your strength, or have you been playing them for fools this whole time?”

“What?” His brow furrows, taken back by the accusation. “No, I would never deceive them—”

The intoxication is unnatural, almost controlling in its ability to restrict his focus. The image of Jane in Namor’s arms sticks to him, sharp enough to shred through any attempt at reason. Logic is too much to hope for, but he knows who is to blame.

“And her lips were not yours!” Thor snaps, eyes narrowed in cold fury. “You are responsible for this, and if you think to accuse me, then I call you a liar and a thief!”

“And I call you an imbecile. Clearly there’s no room for facts in that thick skull of yours, so I’ll speak in a language you understand.” With this, he turns to the old-fashioned, heavy ironwood table that just barely dodged the destruction of their entrance moments before. Although it’s only a modest table, round and sized for a small family, the antique construction and natural density lend it enough weight to make Namor’s point.

Grasping the edge in both hands, he swings back around to face Thor, and the table whips up off of the ground with a speed and disregard for gravity that makes it resemble a very large, very solid frisbee. He releases it with precision, and it spins in a relentless trajectory towards Thor’s chest.

Thor centers his weight, digs his heels into the dirt as much as possible; he knows if he dodges, the crowd behind him pays the price. The projectile hits its promised mark, knocking the wind out of Thor twice over as it splinters against his chest and throws him to the ground, continuing far enough to take out Steve’s thankfully unmanned grill. 

He sputters as he climbs to his feet moments later. His shirt is torn, the skin beneath it marked with a single, livid red gash from the center of his stomach up across his throat. Despite the weight of the table, and force behind it, the wound neither swells nor bleeds— an exaggerated graze at best. Namor is right.

But Namor also hit him with a table.

Once again he dashes in to close the distance between them, but this time his weight is dropped just short of his opponent’s form, fingers working their way to twist and tighten the fabric of Namor’s shirt, locking it securely in Thor’s grip enough to lift him off the ground. 

“Understand this.” He says, pivoting hard and using every last ounce of strength to follow the movement through, slamming Namor neck first into the earth. “Stay away from Jane, and stay down.”

Namor actually thinks, just for a moment, that Thor’s been subdued by simple logic when he looks wonderingly at the damage (or lack thereof) wrought by the table. But alas, that’s not the case, and Thor’s resilient temper rallies quickly. Namor’s lip rises in an annoyed sneer, and if he wasn’t keeping his focus on his opponent, he’d probably go so far as to roll his eyes. And people call him irrational and stubborn.

When Thor charges again, Namor meets him with equal resistance, prepared for another tackle; what he’s not prepared for is the inelegant form of attack Thor opts for. Thor’s preoccupation with getting a solid hold on his clothing leaves an opening for a solid blow to the other man’s jaw, but it does not deter him from his goal. Namor is efficiently yanked from the ground before being slammed back down, this time head-first, and his arms quickly come up to buffer the impact.

The result is a blast of dust that engulfs both men and leaves a small crater in its wake. It’s disorienting, and despite his efforts to deflect the blow Namor is immediately treated to a sharp headache - but he doesn’t waste the opportunity afforded by the sheet of dirt still lingering in the air. Grabbing the hands still locked into place at his chest, he wrenches them to one side, forcing the material of his (not inexpensive) shirt to shred under the pressure as he rights himself. His shirt is left in tatters, but now he’s free to maneuver.

When he stands, however, he doesn’t stop rising, feet lifting quickly off the ground while he moves in the same fluid motion to Thor’s back, one arm snapping around the other man’s neck in a choke hold. The dust is only just clearing when he secures his grip and drags Thor skywards.

He thrashes in the choke hold, clawing at Namor’s arm, expecting to meet the ground as punishment for his most recent attack. It isn’t until he feels the wind against his face— until he realizes that they’re both moving that he feels a sudden, sobering surge of panic. He may have withstood a heavy blow with a little more than a scratch, but whatever power he’s gained is nothing he understands. It could have been a faint, benevolent glimmer. It could have been a momentary shield. It could fade before he hits the ground. 

Thor brings his elbow back roughly, aiming for the weakest point of Namor’s ribs. He doesn’t have the leverage to break anything more than his opponent’s concentration, but he hopes the threat of it is just enough to make the Atlantean reconsider his current plan of attack.

Namor grunts as the sharp elbow jabs into his side. He isn’t entirely bothered, but he’s aware this tactic leaves him open to further such abuse. He’s also more intent on shaming Thor than actually killing him, so he isn’t entirely reluctant to change gears before they get too high - though they’re already a good thirty feet in the air when he stops. Another hit to the ribs causes him to roughly tighten his hold on Thor’s neck, an effort to settle the other man for a moment while Namor takes in the birds-eye view, quick eyes seeking out something he can use.

The fight has only been going on for chaotic seconds, and some of the crowd below is still scrambling to catch on and get out of the way. The band, for example, is still making its best effort to continue the show. Namor’s gaze settles on the stage just as Thor’s desperate nails start digging into his arm through the slick material of his jacket (which is, despite his mostly missing shirt, still intact); he grimaces slightly at the sensation, and reacts impulsively. The choke hold is abruptly abandoned as one hand clutches Thor by the scruff of his neck, and the other moves to wind a fist into the cloth at his back. Thor is then treated to a disorienting three-sixty swing before Namor releases him and sends him hurtling in the direction of the stage below.

The band is still attempting to get through the second verse of “A Song for America” (Tony Stark’s disastrous parties are somewhat legendary, and he pays well enough to encourage them to endure whatever oddness comes along) when the sight of an impending collision inspires them to at last drop their instruments and scramble for the edges of the stage as quickly as possible. 

Thor crashes through the stage floor, upsetting the sound equipment and drum set with an amplified, ear-splitting boom. The foundation groans belatedly, shuddering just before it collapses in on itself. If it wasn’t clear that the party was over before, it certainly is now that the last undamaged structure has finally been put down.

There are some people screaming now, but not nearly as many as there would be at any other party - most likely something to do with half of the attendees being from Tony’s menagerie and somewhat desensitized to this style of madness (and, of course, the other half being heroes and agents). Bare feet touch down gently on one of the larger jagged shards of the stage’s foundation, and Namor crosses his arms while quite literally looking down his nose at Thor, dazed and buried amongst the debris.

When he speaks, the mockery in his voice is matched by a cruel smirk. “Sorry, but I’ll have to decline. I’m not very good at taking orders.”

He comes to in time to see Namor perch just above him, chin tilted up at an angle arrogant enough to match his smile. Thor’s scowl deepens beneath a line of blood from his nose and rent upper lip. 

“Very well,” He says, shrugging off rubble as he rises. “If that is how you wish to play this game…” 

Namor’s position is perfect for gloating; the stage’s remains jut upwards in a arcing, regal sort of spiral with him centered neatly at its peak. Jet black hair whipping about in the wind, spine rigid and proud, he looks as noble as the images his title brings to mind. A shame that it’s also a stance that is completely open to attack if Thor can manage to break the distance between them. Which he can. 

The wreckage is scaled with a precise, efficient pair of wall jumps, and— just as he’d done at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s makeshift base of operation— Thor follows the motion through to kick Namor squarely in the chest with both legs, landing on his feet.

But Namor still has the edge in this fight, and without something to even the odds, no matter how hard Thor presses, he’s just barely treading water. 

“Stark!” He calls, whistling sharply as he spots his friend in the quickly thinning crowd. “A weapon! I need a weapon!!”

Though he’s happy to keep well away from the mayhem, Tony probably wouldn’t insult anybody’s intelligence by denying he enjoys the show. Besides, the fight gives him plenty of ammunition for saddling Namor with the blame for ruining Steve’s party if Mr. America decides to come down on somebody. As it stands, though, Cap’s occupied. And considering his aim in amping up the festivities here, Tony is totally okay with this.

Despite his, uh…complacency, the battle has him dropping back to the mess of cars at the curb to retrieve his Football from under the front seat of the Corvette. Just in case.

Besides, it turns out to be a boon when, in his utterly sloshed state, he thinks it’s a great joke to answer Thor’s demand for a weapon by stepping up and hurling the thing at him.

“Knock yourself out.”

Thor’s strength isn’t the only thing that’s above par, and the speed of his attack is just enough to catch Namor before he can evade. The kick lands squarely and knocks him back; his ribs creak under the pressure, and he can’t suppress a growl of annoyance at the pain. The blow would be enough to lay anyone out flat, and theoretically it does the same to him - but instead of crashing into the wreckage below, he gains control mid-fall and takes to the air.

Thor is yelling at Stark when Namor returns the favor, sweeping in on Thor’s blind side to deliver a swift kick to the other man’s jaw. It doesn’t have the same crushing force of a two-legged charge, but it’s more than enough to snap Thor’s head to one side, body twisting to follow as he falls to one knee.

Namor lands beside Thor with every intention of throwing another punch (and another demeaning remark), but he doesn’t get the chance; without losing a second, Thor swings back around with one fist outstretched in a high arch. As he’s standing outside of Thor’s reach, Namor isn’t particularly bothered - as such, he realizes a second too late that Thor’s reach has just been extended by the Stark-issue suitcase clutched firmly in his hand. The metal strikes a clean diagonal uppercut, sending him into the air yet again. This time, his landing is not so graceful, and the unstable remnants of the stage shudder with the impact.

With Namor tumbling ungracefully away in a cloud of dust and feathers, Thor takes a moment to inspect what Tony’s given him. The metal briefcase is comprised of brilliant white-gold and crimson plating, with the same elegant lines that remind Thor of Stark’s suit of armor. He can’t help but wonder if there’s a way to turn it on; he paws at the sides, presses its edges in search of a button. A few precious seconds are burned as Thor fumbles with the impossibly complex technology, and he comes to the conclusion that it is best put to use the only way he knows how. 

One leap sends him down to lower terrain, Stark’s case held firmly by its handles, brandished as a makeshift Mjolnir. The moment Namor rises to his feet is the one where he is simultaneously beaten down beneath burnished metal. Each successful strike brings Thor closer, but it is an act of desperation rather than aggression. He aims for the weakest points of the body in haste, sacrificing power for speed. He is tired, and wounded, and fears retaliation for he knows he can withstand no more. 

Namor is barely upright when the briefcase comes slamming towards him again, but he gets his arms up in time to take the majority of the beating. And that’s just what it is - Thor is relentless, and he leaves no openings for Namor to counter. But the tactic has a limited timer; each blow is weaker than the one before it, and Namor is acutely aware of this.

The attacks are also getting sloppier, more desperate, and Namor does not waste the opportunity to move on the vulnerability. When Thor swings wildly to strike his side, he takes advantage of the other man’s proximity and fixes an iron grip on the offending wrist. It’s not quick enough to prevent the suitcase from crashing into his side without interference, but that’s a price he’ll gladly pay if it allows him to put an end to the onslaught.

The instant Namor grabs Thor’s wrist he gives it a harsh twist, forcing the feeling from Thor’s hand for one quick flash; long enough for Namor to rend the case from Thor’s fingers, then bring it up in a sharp arch between them and land a vicious blow to Thor’s chin. The suitcase, for all its advanced technology and durability, is already showing signs of stress - cracks forming where the tightly compacted pieces are beginning to come loose, scuffs appearing on the smooth surface. The hit to Thor’s chin actually causes one of the loose pieces to come entirely detached, skittering off to join the rest of the wreckage. Worse for Thor is the fact that Namor never releases his grip on the other man’s arm, not allowing any retreat from the impact - and unfortunately, Namor isn’t done yet.

The suitcase is abandoned for a grip on Thor’s throat, and then he’s dragged into the air by his neck for a second time. Unlike before, however, Namor has no intention of throwing him. After a short arch skywards, the Atlantean puts his own speed and weight behind gravity’s already imposing force as they crash back down to the earth.

The sound the front of the limo makes when Namor drives Thor’s back into it is horrific, to the say the least - the hood crumples like tin foil around the ex-god’s form, and the back of the vehicle leaps upwards with a metallic howl.

The AC had been left on in the limo leaving the interior was dark and cool, despite the New Mexico heat.  

Even so, Steve could feel a bit of sweat trickle down his lower back.  He’d had a few moments where he’d thought, ‘what in God’s name am I even doing?’ but they were only fleeting thoughts and he couldn’t get up the energy to force them to linger.  His head was dizzy, buzzing with something that couldn’t be alcohol (he’d only touched lemonade and water) and it made him feel giddy.

The two young ladies that he’d walked back to the limo with had cornered him there.  Fifteen minutes later he was still lost in a cloud of sweet and floral perfume and soft, soft skin.  There was a noise outside the limo, punctuated by low giggles from Amber and Tiffany and a strange irritation in his head like something was trying to get his attention.

And then everything abruptly changed.  The limo rocked violently as if hit by a car, throwing the three passengers around the interior, making the two girls shriek.  The privacy shield was still up and he couldn’t see a damned thing beyond the tinting.  Pausing long enough to reassure them he forced the door open to the limo and stepped out.

The sight that greets him strikes him dumb for almost sixty seconds.  

The stage was destroyed, there were holes in the side of one of the apartment buildings, food was everywhere, people seemed torn between yelling and cheering. Looking towards the front of the limo he could see exactly what had happened to it.  Thor.  And Namor apparently.  

The anger that had been simmering now had something to latch on to, “What in the hell is going on.”  Hurrying over he checks Thor’s pulse and sighs in relief when he finds it steady.  He turns a fierce gaze to Namor and Tony.

“What in God’s name made you think a damned brawl was a good idea?” 

Thor is out cold when Namor releases him, feet touching back down before he steps back from his handiwork. The front of the limousine is obliterated, and the impact was enough to warp the metal of the main body in several spots.

Although he’s mostly pleased with the outcome of the fight, there is something about it that bothers him; this is hardly the challenge he expected from a god. He hasn’t escaped unscathed, and the dry atmosphere is only aggravating the wounds he’s collected - the worst of which being at least one broken rib and several shallow cuts on his face, courtesy of Stark’s suitcase - but victory was still unexpectedly easy.

His musings on the issue are cut short when one of the limo doors swings open, revealing an extremely agitated Steve Rogers. As the other man approaches, Namor quirks one eyebrow at his flushed appearance, though he does manage to reserve comment; it’s fairly clear that Steve’s disheveled state isn’t entirely due to his current anger.

Stepping out of the way while Steve hurries to check Thor’s pulse, Namor crosses his arms, looking utterly unperturbed by Steve’s ire. “That is a question you should ask him when he wakes up. I did not instigate this battle - I simply finished it.”

“Trust me, I intend to ask him,” he snaps at Namor. Steve takes in the scene around them quickly, noting that the rest of the people milling about seemed to have avoided injury by some miracle.  His mind eased, he turns his attention back to the limp body of his injured friend. 

Clenching his teeth in aggravation, he checks Thor over for broken bones.  Finding none he pulls his friend out of the wreckage of the limo and puts him over his shoulder.  ”I like to think at least one of you could try to be the better man- or Atlantean- for once,” he says, maneuvering around the debris and easing a comatose Thor into a curiously unscathed lawn chair. “But you just can’t do it can you?”  

Standing up he begins to straighten his clothes only to pause, blush deeply, and re-button the top of his jeans.  Running his hands through his hair to smooth it he turns his attention back to Namor.  ”You couldn’t, for one moment, think about what kind of danger this would put other people in.  My God, Namor you threw each other throughwalls-”  He pauses, mid-scolding, noting Namor’s rough appearance with a more concerned eye, “Are you hurt?”  

Namor has a number of responses to Steve’s scolding - “I gave him plenty of chances to stay down” and “technically, he threw me through the wall” top among them - but even Namor recognizes that these arguments are a bit petty, especially considering the fact that the wreckage of the stage isn’t even done settling.

Instead of interjecting, he allows himself to be distracted by a pair of women climbing hesitantly out of the destroyed limo, lipstick smeared and hair tussled. Steve Rogers? Twowomen? That was even more baffling information than any strangeness that had occurred during the fight with Thor. But, again, Namor holds his tongue; now that the brawl is over and his temper settled, he’s becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that he just engaged in foolish combat in extremely inhospitable terrain. He isn’t badly injured, but the dry climate is refusing him his usual quick recovery and draining him of whatever energy he has left.

His mind wanders while Steve tends to Thor (and his clothing), going back over preceding events. He finds the memories frustratingly fleeting despite being so current. There’s something familiar in this sensation - slippery thoughts, hazy decisions - but he’s too exhausted to put a name to it. The musings are abandoned when Steve’s attention returns, this time with concern, and Namor meets the other man’s stern gaze easily. “Only tired. I should get to water.”