Tom's face is red and vessels in his eyes broken when he hits the ground. He knows, dimly, that it's only by virtue of Bucky throwing him down that Thor didn't grab his arm and outright rip it from its socket. Veins bulge in his forehead and only start to recede moments later, as he chokes and gasps on the ground with a hand to his bruised throat.

Rabbits, when trapped between two coyotes, will freeze. Rats will run. Tom's a rat, through and through, and he wastes infinitesimally little time assessing the situation. He gets to his elbows and knees, unable to keep silent with the hacking sounds in his mouth but otherwise allowing the claim for ownership to play itself out above his head.

He starts to edge back, knee after knee.