( Of course. He should have anticipated: whenever he's wrested from the kindness of a host world, it's far too often to satisfy the purposes of avenging. Something. Against someone.

The widow — and has he ever met her husband? — sounds... whole, on this day-night. Nearly hale. In their line of work, this degree of approximative safety of the body is a luxury. And how can a voice betray so? It's in the confidence of the tone, its surety. Wounds dent composure. )

...well met. You look... I'm certain, well.

( Behind them, the prisoner embarks on a litany of curses, profanity and choice exclamations that, gods help him, he has no time to waste on the greetings of long-parted friends. Before him, the dog who waits blinks back with stupid incredulity that, for once, mirrors Thor's own: if the man has lingered this long behind bars, he may bide a few minutes longer. )

Stark? The Captain? ...Banner? ( A pause, then, the winced correction: ) Green Banner? ( One must make allowances for the state of Bannerhood at all and any times. )

There is no need for this. ( The wait, the sheltering, the game. )