Because I don't need an excuse to write fic where Phil braids Thor's hair.

If you were to ask Phil Coulson what the two dirtiest phrases in the English language are, chances are, at this moment in time, he will tell you that they are "convalescence" and "physical therapy." He has always prided himself on his fierce independence and thus finds his forced sentence of inactivity very nearly unbearable. Not that he has the strength or stamina yet to return to work. It's more the principle of the thing. Still, for a man who is used to being useful, his slow recovery feels more like a punishment than it ought.

One day in particular finds him seated on one of the sofas on the communal floor of Stark/Avengers Tower. Why Stark can't just pick one name and stick to it is something Phil doesn't want to even guess at, although he's been told that the name is temporary while the Tower's renovations continue. It's as he's struggling to find a comfortable position after a particularly unforgiving round of PT that he hears an annoyed growl coinciding with the electronics flickering. It can really only be one person.

"Thor?" he calls, sitting up a little straighter.

The god in question appears from around the corner, his brow set in a thunderous frown and his body rigid with tension. But what stands out the most is the simple fact that Thor's hair is a mess.

"My apologies," Thor says. "I was unaware that you had returned."

Thor's expression is dark, troubled.

"It's not a problem," Phil responds. He studies the blonde carefully for a moment. "However, something tells me you have a bit of a problem. Care to tell me what it is?"

"It is nothing. A trifle, really," Thor says.

His expression says otherwise. Phil is nothing if not very patient and time has proven that if he waits, Thor will be honest with him. He watches the prince's shoulders droop, his breath comes out in a great sigh and, ah, here we go.

"My attempts to braid my hair have been… less than successful," Thor admits.

"Okay," Phil says easily. "Then let's take care of that."

The angry frown turns to one of perplexity. Phil begins to rise from the sofa, but is forced to pause when the muscles in his back and chest scream in protest. He presses a hand to his shoulder with a soft hiss of pain and is forced to raise his other hand to halt Thor, who has moved toward him in concern.

"Sit in front of the sofa. I'll be back in a minute."

"Son of Coul, I do not think you should be—"

"Sit. One minute."

He shuffles off without checking to see if Thor has done as he's asked, intent on gathering his supplies. The braid is just the surface problem, he knows, masking something undoubtedly far more painful. Take care of the small problem and the larger one will reveal itself.

With supplies in hand, he returns to the living room to find Thor sitting on the floor before the sofa, his legs crossed and his hands braced on his knees. Phil takes a seat just behind him, glad that Thor had been thoughtful enough to leave room for his legs. It's with careful, nimble fingers that he begins to work out the knots, noticing that Thor sits up just a bit straighter as he does so.

"This is not necessary," Thor says. "You are still in need of rest."

"Sometimes," Phil says, choosing to ignore that statement as he brushes out the god's long, golden mane, "when something's bothering us, it makes all the little things seem that much worse. It's easier to be angry at little things than to admit that there's really something more complicated at the source."

Thor falls silent at that. Phil doesn't press him.

"Herringbone, French, or side?"

"…I'm afraid I do not understand."

Phil has to chuckle at that. No, he wouldn't, would he?

"We'll go with side. I think it suits you," Phil decides.

They sit in silence for another two minutes as Phil gets to work. He watches as some of the tension begins to leave the god's shoulders as he gradually lowers his guard.

"I had come to understand that this is not common practice for Midgardian males," Thor says. "However, it seems familiar to you."

"You're right about that. I don't think most men can boast that they know how to tie a French braid," Phil answers, deftly weaving golden locks of hair as he speaks. "I have nieces. I used to do this for them when they were young."

"Nieces. You have siblings, then. Family?"

Phil hums the affirmative. "Two brothers."

"I see."

As Thor chooses silence once again, Phil has a feeling they're getting closer to what's truly bothering him. When he speaks, Thor's voice is a soft rumble, like the roll of distant thunder.

"My brother used to braid my hair. When we were boys. Even when we became men, he would often complain about the state of my hair, how I let it grow. He would claim that if I would not care for it, then he would have to, for no one would respect a king who was not presentable."

And there it is.

"My brother has done terrible things," Thor says, his sigh so heavy, so weary that Phil swears the burden it implies would break a lesser man's back.

"Yes, he has. But that doesn't mean you're terrible for continuing to care for him," Phil explains.

"You say that, despite the suffering he has brought upon you?" Thor asks.

"Well, I can't be too hard on him. He's got terrible aim. You can tell him I said so."

He's glad when the comment earns him a soft huff of laughter. Thor is such a boisterous personality that it makes it difficult to see him so dejected. He clears his throat.

"Sometimes brothers do things we don't agree with. They do things—chin up, please, Thor—they do things that hurt us and disappoint us and make us wish for all the world that we could just hate them and be done with it," Phil explains. "And we love them despite that. It's irrational, but then, most love is."

Thor makes a thoughtful noise. "Your brothers have caused you pain."

"One has," Phil responds. "He caused a lot of people pain. It ended badly."

"He is no longer among the living," Thor guesses.

"No, he isn't."

"I am sorry to hear it."

"It was a long time ago."

Phil says nothing more on the subject, but rather sits and listens to Thor speak of his childhood, of happier times with Loki. Thor seems so convinced, so sure that somewhere, deep inside the twisted creature they have come to recognize as Loki, there is still the good man that he remembers. There is still the good, gentle man who would heal his wounds and braid his hair. Phil is not so sure, but he is at least not so cruel as to actually tell Thor that.

"Almost done here. Is there anything specific you'd like it tied with?" Phil asks.

Wordlessly, Thor raises a hand, passing something back to him. Phil accepts it, studying it carefully. It's a length of emerald ribbon. The edges are frayed and there are spots where the color has faded as though someone had frequently rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. Without questioning it, he ties a simple, but sturdy bow and leans back in his seat to admire his handiwork.

"Finished," he proclaims.

Thor reaches up to feel the braid for himself and accepts the mirror that Phil passes him.

"Perhaps you could pass your skills to my Lady Jane at some future date," Thor notes.

Phil shakes his head with a smile. "Well… we'll see."

Thor sets the mirror aside, but makes no effort to move from where he sits. There's something else on the god of thunder's mind, apparently, so Phil sits and waits yet again. Except this time, his PT really does catch up with him. He closes his eyes, just for a minute.

He's startled awake—and just when had he fallen asleep?—when he finds himself being gently lifted from the sofa.

"Peace, Son of Coul," Thor says, his voice that low rumble once again. "I am merely escorting you to your quarters."

Too tired to argue, Phil just closes his eyes and tries not to think of how embarrassed he'll be when he's more coherent. He manages to drift off again between there and his bed, but rouses when he feels the covers being pulled over him.

"Thor?" he murmurs.

Thor doesn't respond immediately, focusing instead on closing the blinds and turning off lights until they're plunged into a comfortable darkness.

"I did not have the chance to thank you earlier," Thor says as he draws near.

"Wasn't a problem," Phil mumbles.

"To you, perhaps not," Thor agrees with a chuckle. "But you provided me aid in a way that I did not realize was needed. Thank you."

"Welcome," is his soft reply.

"You had commented on my brother's poor aim. I do not think I have expressed nearly enough how very thankful I am that this is true," Thor says.

It should feel uncomfortable, Phil thinks, when Thor rests a broad hand on his shoulder, but it doesn't. Or perhaps exhaustion has won out and he's merely too tired to feel it. Thor is still speaking, saying something about his brother, but the battle to keep his eyes open is a lost cause.

Thor halts in his speech when he hears deep, even breaths from the agent. There will be time for discussion later. He splays his hand out over Phil's chest, over the space where he knows a jagged scar exists and where a heart still beats. He casts his gaze to the slumbering man's face before he draws his hand away.

"Rest well, Son of Coul."

It goes to show just what kind of team they have when no one makes mention of how Thor will often sit patiently before the sofa as Phil braids his hair. After tough battles, after long days, even just on lazy days. And always, Thor leaves their time seeming refreshed, ready to tackle whatever is being thrown at him once again. If they were to ask, Phil's not sure he could really explain it.

He and Thor don't talk about it, whatever it is. And as time goes on, he finds they never really need to.