This byplay is casual and astonishingly comfortable — it reminds him, more than anything else, of the competitive camaraderie he’d once had with Sif and the Warriors Three. Deep in their cups, quick to brag and fight and armwrestle and vie to outdo each other, like a chaotic pack of dogs tumbling all over each other, warm and affectionate.

He misses it. He and Sif have occasionally tried to catch up with each other, but they’re always too painfully aware of the missing third and fourth and fifth of their party, the silence which had once held Fandral’s quips and Volstagg’s deep booming laugh and Hogun’s insight.

But with Carol— there’s none of that baggage or those memories, just that smile of hers, mischievous and bright as the sun and needling him onward.

“I believe,” Thor says after another deep swig of that mead, cloying-sweet on his tongue, “it sounds as if we are both due for a rematch, Danvers.”