“We Asgardians know how to party,” Thor says, grinning, and then he’s ducking down to grab a glass for her and to fuss with the spigot.

It’s not all happy-go-lucky, of course — his scarred eye is a tell-tale hazel, not matching the blue, and there’s been some restlessness humming beneath his skin, some indefinable ache which had led to him abdicating the throne and going off to find himself across the galaxy instead — but none of that is tonight’s problem. Tonight, he’s drinking, and he’s weaving along that careful line of ensuring he didn’t go too far. It helped that Korg’s rocky fist had jabbed itself into Thor’s side whenever it seemed like he was going to overdo it with the liquor, reining the former king back in line.

So he’s trying to keep his shit together, is the thing. Drinking just enough that he’s feeling a little looser around the edges, a little brighter, the stakes and losses of the war a little further off. Having gotten the spigot working, he reaches out and hands Carol a glass filled with a golden, almost-sparkling liquid.

“We also brought beer. Val has been marketing Asgardian Ale,” more reasons why she’s a savvier and more canny king than he ever could be, “but this is the good stuff.”