A/N: I have to admit, this chapter is where this story first came from. I can't help but imagine Thor driving like some sort of stunt driver on crack. Thor is fun to write for, and doesn't get nearly enough love. Or respect as something other than a warrior.

Auto racing is boring except when a car is going at least 172 miles per hour upside down. -Dave Barry

It is not, in the truth of it, that Thor is stupid. Quite to the contrary, his people are far more advanced than the Midgardians. The problem comes in that Thor is more of the warrior class, a fighter rather than a thinker. And anyone would look a fool in a world filled with alien technology.

In that manner he finds a certain solidarity in Steve, who slept in his prison of ice through the technological revolution and woke to a world that is as foreign to him as it is to Thor. At least to the Asgardian this place is truly alien; to the captain, it was once home, now twisted and warped and changed almost beyond recognition.

Some things, however, had not changed at all, or at least not nearly enough, which is how Thor found himself in a large, empty lot with this metal beast before him.

"I do not feel comfortable in these... vehicles," he says. 'Vehicles' sounds like a false word, like something the Iron Man would tell him as jest. He's accepted that his fellow Avengers will see him as no others ever have, fumbling around like some inept, clumsy child, but at least any jokes on his behalf are all done only in good humor.

"I asked Clint to teach Stark and Natasha how to fly the SHIELD planes," Steve says. "And a helicopter, and whatever else he can fly. Apparently there's quite a list." He looks at Thor. "All you have to do is learn how to drive."

When phrased so, Thor supposes he can find it in himself to learn. He moves forward reluctantly, eyeing the vehicle warily. He knows little of these things aside from what wondrous weapons they make, both for hitting people- Jane insists both times were accidents, but that didn't stop it hurting- and as explosives. Horses don't explode like that, he thinks like a sulky child, then chases the thought away.

He takes the keys- and that in itself had been a lesson, that little chips of metal and plastic can be a key- and moves over to the thing. Stark had called it an ess-yu-vee, which apparently means it is one of the larger, box-like types. Carefully, because he is so much stronger than any human, Thor opens the door and looks inside, at the seat and the odd wheel, then looks up over the roof of the 'vehicle' to meet the captain's eyes.

Apparently past the point of negotiation and patient logic, the man points at the door and uses a stern tone. "Get in."

When he's seated- and after a lesson on how to adjust the position of the seat, so he has the room to sit- he looks at the wheel, then the display to his right. He half-expects the thing to start speaking to him, as the house does.

"Well, it's Stark, so we know we've got all the fun toys," Steve says wryly, following Thor's gaze.

"Do you know what they are?" Thor asks.

"Radio," comes the prompt answer. "The air control thing. A clock."

There's a brief silence as they both look at the console. There are a good deal more than three buttons there.

"And a bunch of other stuff you don't actually need to drive a car," the captain rallies. "Put the key in that slot there and turn it."

Thor does as he is told, then sits and waits. After a moment Steve, taking care with his words, says, "Turn it and hold it there until the engine starts, then letgosoyoudon't-" His words come out faster at the end until he's almost yelling. The engine gives a horrible, scratchy screech and Thor releases the key, yanking away as though it had bit him, and the screeching stops. In its place is the muted growling rumble Thor normally associates with engines.

"I still do not believe this to be a good idea," he says, but knows when he looks over that it is a pointless protest. A look of grim determination has settled over the Midgardian's face. Thor has seen this before, in himself most often; the harder it is to do, the more he wants it done.

"Gear shift," he says, instead of responding to Thor's words, and pats the odd black stick between them. "This is an automatic, thank God, so all you have to do is shift from park to drive. See the pedals at your feet?"

"No," Thor replies, completely honest.

"There's two. Left one is the brake, right is the gas. Only use your right foot to push them, and never at the same time."

"Only one foot?" Thor asks. He pushes himself back in the seat, attempting to peer around under the wheel. "Why?"

Steve looks at him, that determination replaced by brief confusion. "Why?" he echoes.

"I have two feet, there are two pedals," Thor says, pointing out what seems to him to be too much a coincidence.

"One foot," Steve says firmly. Thor understands tradition for tradition's sake, and the sacrifice of efficiency, and so says nothing else on the matter. He puts his right foot on the left pedal, awkward though it may be, and pushes down firmly, then puts his hand on the gear shift and pauses.

"That one?" he asks, tapping a finger against one of the symbols along the shift track. It says only 'D'.

"Yup. Then take your foot off the brake-"

Thor shifts to the 'D' and moves his foot to the gas pedal.

"-and put on the gas-"

He pushes as firmly on the gas as he had on the brake.

"-gently, gently-!"

And the vehicle explodes into motion like a furious stallion.

When it all goes still again, several minutes later, Thor is laughing. Steve is not.

"Ah, my friend," Thor says, reaching over to clap the other man on the shoulder, "truly I have underestimated these 'vehicles' of yours. Now I see why the man of iron so enjoys driving."

Steve reaches around over his right shoulder and pulls forth the seat harness. It seems a puny thing, hardly capable of keeping a person safe, but he clicks it into place and pulls it tight. He does this with his left hand, his right still gripping, white-knuckled, at the handle over the window.

"All right," he says eventually. "We've learned donuts, fishtailing, curb jumping, scaring the hell out of the passenger, and about seven other highly illegal things. Now that all that is out of the way, can we focus on actual driving?"

Thor calms himself, trying for a composed tone, rather than gleeful like a child that has just learned a fun new game, a game that is fun only in how much it scares the adults. "I apologize. I did not intend to alarm you." He doesn't say that he was in complete control the whole time, doubts Steve will appreciate it even if he believes it.

"You see that half-circle, on the left? See the numbers?" Steve points at the display beyond the wheel. "That's the speedometer. Tells you how fast you're going."

"As compared to what?" Thor asks. He sees the numbers, but nowhere does it say what measurement of speed is used.

"Doesn't matter. If it goes above thirty again, you and I are going to have problems." His tone leaves little question as to what sort of problems they would have and that, Asgardian or no, Thor will most likely lose when they go to discuss these problems.

"Very well," Thor agrees. He releases the brake and gently applies the gas and drives sedately forward.

"And Stark wanted to send us out here with a Corvette," the captain mutters under his breath. Thor doesn't ask, but he does remember. For later.

The mansion welcomes him back in its cultured voice, as it always does. Thor turns towards his quarters, then stops and turns back when he sees a light that should not be on at this time of night. He finds Clint sitting at the kitchen counter, a bowl of the glorious substance the humans call I Scream before him.

"Hey, Thor," the hawk greets him, pulling the bowl protectively close when Thor watches it a little too long. "How was the driving lesson?"

"It went well," Thor says, moving past him and into the kitchen. The others had stopped trying to explain acceptable portion sizes of I Scream to him and simply started buying the smaller containers for him. He picks out the one known as 'Chubby Hubby' and settles at the counter across from Clint.

"Glad one of you thinks that," Clint says dryly.

"He spoke to you?" Thor asks. He had moved slowly upon arriving at the mansion, allowing Steve some distance.

"Not exactly," the hawk says. "But he was muttering when he walked past, and he said something that sounds a lot like 'lunatic'."

"I quite enjoyed it," Thor says.

"Lunatics often do," Clint agrees solemnly. He waves away the question before Thor can even ask.

"Tell me," he says instead. "What is a Corvette?"

Clint looks up at him, eyes filled first with confusion, then a dawning horror, and he says very simply, "No."

Thor merely smiles.