Two weeks earlier

'So... it's like the Hunger Games. But with gods?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'The Hunger Games? Seriously, has no one shown Thor the Hunger Games movies?'

'Is that the one with the wizards?'

'No–'

'Can we stay on topic please? This sounds serious,' Bruce interrupts, watching Thor intently, waiting for him to go on.

'I just feel like someone should have shown him those movies by now. But sure, whatever, go on,' Tony shrugs, turning back to whatever it was he was doing on his laptop.

'Once every seven years, my siblings and I are turned mortal as a punishment from our father. We lose our godly statuses and immortality for a week, and if we are killed in that time then our powers transfer to our killer, who becomes the new version of our legend.'

His words are followed by silence.

'That's cheerful,' Clint says, earning a smack on the back of the head from Nat, standing behind where he's sat on the sofa.

'Okay, I'm sorry for not taking you seriously before. You're going to be hunted for a week? By murderers?' Tony asks, his attention apparently piqued again.

'That is about right,' Thor nods.

'But, this has happened before, right? And you've been fine?' Wanda asks.

'Oh, yes, many times before. But I have always found somewhere to lie low for a week and stayed out of it while my siblings got themselves into various... predicaments. I've not done it since joining forces with other mortals, as you know.'

'Are your siblings still... I mean, are they all...' Steve struggles, clearly grappling for a way to ask who, if any, of his siblings are still alive.

Thor waits patiently, giving nothing away. When it becomes clear that Steve isn't going to find the right words, he speaks anyway. 'You have to understand that I was never particularly close with many of my siblings. I know only four of nine personally. Baldur, the twins: Freya, Frey. And Loki.'

'Your parents have trouble coming up with names?' Tony smirks, before scowling as he receives withering looks from nearly everyone in the room.

'Time moved strangely back when I was young, so most of my siblings were grown and gone by the time I started retaining memories. Regardless, Baldur, Freya and Loki survive. Frey has been missing since three cycles ago. Njord, Hel and Tyr are slain, their places taken by mortal imposters. Bragi and Heimdall remain.

'Ten of you altogether?' you ask, having been counting on your fingers.

'Correct,' Thor nods.

'What do we need to do? Get you somewhere safe, out of the city?

'I cannot leave the city during the Hunt,' Thor tells Wanda, shaking his head. 'My main concern is keeping you all out of harm's way.'

'Well, I wish you'd given us more than two weeks' warning bud, but we'll do what we can. We're going to have to let Fury know...'

'I don't know if that's a good idea,' Nat interrupts him. 'Wouldn't SHIELD be a perfect place for groups to be planning on getting intel on Thor? And if they've had seven years to get ready...'

'That is a good point.'

'Who are these god-hunters anyway? Why have we never heard of them? Bruce frowns.

'They come from all over the world to the city where the Hunt is every cycle. Last year it was in London. Most of the hunters are descendants from our ancient families, or people who claim to be. They train their whole lives for weeks like these.'

'And we've got two weeks to work out how to avoid them killing you,' Tony concludes cheerfully, clapping his hands together. 'Excellent.'

'Shut up, Tony,' Nat suggests.

'I'm sorry I didn't warn you sooner. Seven years pass so quickly for me, I–'

'You don't need to apologise, Thor. It's going to be okay,' you reassure him, crossing the room to put a hand on his shoulder.

'I don't doubt that you can all look after yourselves, but I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to one of you because of me,' he replies, resting one of his large hands atop your small one.

'Why are you being punished again?' Clint asks. Thor sighs heavily.

'Loki, Tyr and Hel decided to try and overthrow our father and take his power once, millenia ago. It came off of the back of a spate of wrongdoing from my other siblings, and I too. This is our eternal punishment.'

'I'll say it, that seems a little harsh,' Tony says from across the room.

'Perhaps. But that is how it is, and how it will remain,' Thor states matter of factly.

'So our only plan so far is to stay where all of the murderers are about to gather and not go to the largest crime-fighting institution in the world to help us,' Clint clarifies from the sofa.

'We've got two weeks to figure out what we're going to do. It's going to be fine,' as long as we're sensible,' Nat says firmly.

You nod in agreement. You'll all just have to be extra careful.

Present day

You wake to an aching pain in the left side of your face, and open your eyes to find light streaming through a crack in the curtains, shining off of the blood covering the floor of your apartment.

The events of the previous night come rushing back to you with the force of a truck, and you sit bolt upright, clutching at the throbbing sensation in your face. 'Fuck.'

New York City is waking up outside your window, and there's a god in your apartment. You scramble to your feet, pushing your hair out of your face as you desperately cast around for the man you'd rescued from almost certain death last night. You catch your hip on the side of your sofa as you rush to try and find him and careen sideways, swearing again.

He's slumped against the front door, eyes closed, and you physically recoil when you see him in daylight, stumbling backwards, relief turning to fear. He doesn't look great, caked in blood and paler than any other human you've ever seen. He's even frowning in his sleep, just to add to your apprehension, his long, black hair obscuring most of his face.

It's about three full minutes before you can bring yourself to do anything other than stand and stare at him, thoughts whirring around your head. What to do? Tell Thor? Probably. Or not.

One thing at a time. You're craving a shower, but the thought of it while there's an unconscious stranger in your apartment doesn't hugely appeal to you, so you decide to try and mop the blood up off of your floor instead. That takes you about half an hour, longer because you refuse to look away from the man for more than a few seconds, in case he wakes up.

When your living room looks a little less like a crime scene you open a window to get rid of the smell of bleach and set about making breakfast. You're still hungry, despite the circumstances. As the kettle is boiling, you catch sight of yourself in its reflection and wince, touching your swollen left cheekbone tenderly, where a magnificent bruise is forming, heading for your eye.

You're working on an excuse to explain the injury away when a familiar hoarse cough jolts you back to reality. You freeze, before turning slowly to see that the man has fallen on to his side, and is struggling to keep himself propped up on one elbow. Unsure how to act, you move towards him tentatively, stopping about three feet away from him.

'Are you... are you okay?' you ask, inwardly cursing yourself the second the words leave your lips. Of course he's not okay.

He looks up at you, and you're struck by how his eyes look by daylight. The contrast between his bright gaze and pallored skin, framed by raven black hair makes for one of the most interesting faces you've ever seen. 'I am injured,' he tells you bluntly.

You nod, trying not to imagine yourself from his perspective, a clueless human with no idea what she's doing. 'I could heal you some more. If you want.'

A pause while he looks at you some more. Scrutinises you.

'That would be... fine.'

'Okay,' you say, moving towards him gingerly. He closes his eyes with that same defeated air as you rest your hand gently on his shoulder, and you watch the slight movement in his neck which indicates that there's a heart beating in his chest, pumping blood through veins which usually run with something else entirely. He needs less healing this morning, and this time you manage to stop, satisfied, before you begin to feel light-headed. 'Done,' you tell him, moving swiftly backwards when you're finished.

He pushes himself upright, before slowly unravelling his limbs and rising to stand before you for the first time, swaying slightly as he does. He's tall, his eyeline at least a foot above yours.

'That feels better,' he says disjointedly, as if he's not sure how to speak to you. You wait for a thank you, but it doesn't come.

'Good,' you reply. When nothing else happens to interrupt the awkward silence which follows, you say the only thing you can think of.

'Do you want some breakfast?'