It had been a hell of a few weeks; Erik dropped onto his bed without bothering to take off more than his shoes, and tried to quiet the circling of his mind. Being exhausted and still restless was a cruel paradox; he knew he needed sleep, but he'd been up and working for so long it just felt natural to keep going through cases, and he was too tired to fight his mind quiet. These days, it seemed as though only thunder and rain could comfort him, and he was just fortunate they'd had enough of that over the past few weeks as well.
He would call it a happy benefit that his mind eventually raced off from the medical field and into fantasy, from storms over the past few days to those from years - centuries - past. It was more diverting and at least more interesting than going over the patients in his beds again and trying to worrying what was happening when he wasn't there; he remembered the long double row of beds in post-op, and a tent was fitted over them, the form and details changing, but not the content. There was still the wounded, still the smells of blood and bile and the faint whimpering. He still stood in the center of it, looking over the patients with a practiced eye.
The difference was all in his form and in the storm-surge of thoughts that felt just as natural as ordering antibiotics and CAT-scans: how the army moved in what weather, the terrain, supply trains and reinforcements, and the monsterous Frost Giants they faced and the shining Rainbow Bridge arching over his head that must be defended, for if they lost this bulkhead, then the Frost Giants could move on Asgard...
He woke in a rush, hand tangling on the leather band of his Mjolnir pendant, and for just a moment, he didn't know who he was and what part of his thoughts had been dream, and what had been memory.
It wasn't helped when the door blew open and crashed to the floor. He was on his feet and assessing before he could draw breath: three he could see, big burly men, no weapons but fists, no armor but jackets. He knew in his bones he could handle three - military training, of course, but he hadn't had call to use that in years, and that didn't account for the deep confidence that had his shoulders loosening a little, his weight shifting in eagerness.
"Begone, intruders," he barked, and the words felt right.
One of them snickered. "Sure, Renfair, just hand over that thing around your neck."
It was an odd request: it wasn't a pretty thing, just a bit of leather and metal in the shape of the old symbol for Thor. It was odder how deep his rage ran at the very thought of handing it over.
He answered the request with a lunge, fist-first, and could not call what happened next a battle; it was a brawl,and he took no small pleasure in breaking the thugs who got in each other's way, and stumbled into his attacks.
A line of fire grazed his side, and Thor snarled a curse as the thug's reinforcements actually had weapons, though he was hard-pressed to call the blades in their hands knives; too small and breakable. But at least now it would be a fight, and he found himself grinning in spite of himself as he lunged again, and threw himself into the battle.