I promised some of you a chapter with a jealous Loki... I regret to inform you that has been postponed until the next chapter. Apparently this had to happen first. I'm afraid that I am at the whim of my muses.

Also, if for some insane reason you have not yet seen Thor 2... well, find some way to see it. Also, spoilers. You have been warned.

Chapter Twenty

She slides through the void without any of the senses she has come to know and trust. It is a place that defies observation, rejects explanation, and entirely baffles her scientific brain. She wants to analyze it. She wants to observe and sample and test. It slips away from her though. The weave of the multiverse dodges any sort of physical grasp and taunts her tormented mind at the edge of the emptiness. It is all impossible. Entirely impossible. Thoughts do not happen without neurons and brains to house them. She knows this. She thinks she knows this. She believed it once.

Science commands her: evidence trumps theory. And evidence suggests that she somehow has a mind, even here, in this place where a mind cannot exist, as improbable and inexplicable as it may be. Even without sensation, she can map this space. Her mind pushes out into dimensions she doesn't normally work with, and she feels something fall out from under her. Physics, perhaps. Or Euclidean geometry. Some fundamental limit on her understanding that has now been removed.

For a moment, she flounders. Eternity is vast. She can get lost here, untethered and unrestrained. She could float within the void forever, or bounce between the tapestries of the universes, or linger on as an observer for all of eternity. Without touch or sight, she reaches out. She has the idea of strings, of woven things, of an impossible level of interconnectedness, and she finds that she too is attached. And attached to her is another consciousness. She has the vaguest perception of green and she knows it is him. A brilliant, broken green thread tangled up in her own string. It is, perhaps, as it should be.

The consciousness nudges her in the strangest way, and she realizes that he has very little power here. He exists, which is more than nearly anything else, but he cannot reach. He cannot touch. He cannot affect. And she, well, somehow she can.

The edges of her mind reach out, searching through the space for threads that resonate with her own. Some tapestries do not hold one. Others do, but lack the brilliant green of Loki's existence. She needs to work to find one that fits. And even then, she wonders if it fits well. But she's feeling strangely thin, like her thoughts are coming slower. Loki blazes at her side, pushing her to move, to catch hold of the strings that mirror their own. And she does. Sluggishly, and with some undefined misgiving, she reaches down into the tapestry with nothing but thought and feeling and the memory of identity and she grabs hold and they somehow slip into the tapestry, melting down into the existing weave. For a moment, she knows nothing.

Then, there is light. For a moment, she is blinded. Voices rumble around her. Her head hurts. She gasps a startled, choking breath and the voices fall silent. Her vision swims for a moment and then clears. She sits at a table, Darcy on one side and Erik on the other. A rather gangly-looking young man she vaguely remembers as Darcy's intern sits across from her, his face twisted into a nervous, questioning expression. Her fingers curl around cheap plastic playing cards, and her gaze falls momentarily to them, folded and twisted in her still-tightening grip. The light that hangs above the table they sit at shines several orders of magnitude brighter than it really should, its brightness reflecting off white-painted cupboards and trim. She's in a kitchen, she realizes. A small one.

"Jane?" Darcy asks suddenly, her voice carrying a note of wary concern.

She takes another stuttering breath. Pain fills the inside of her skull, waves of sharpened anguish lashing through the constant ache like sheet lightning. The cards in her hands crumble, their sharp plastic edges digging into the softer parts of her hands. She doesn't feel it over the sensations that wrack her head. She wonders, in a fractured way, if this is some new side-effect of time spent in the void. Or if this is the price of maintaining consciousness within it; the result of stuffing a mind once freed from physicality back into solid flesh. Far away, she hears an awkward keening sound.

Erik's hands are on her shoulder, his earnest eyes focused on her own as her name falls gruffly from his lips. She tries to stare at him, but focusing her eyes seems to send ever more violent pangs of hurt through her. It's then that she realizes that the high-pitched, inhuman sound she hears is coming from her own lungs.

She tries to force one more ragged breath of air into those same lungs, cutting the whine off as she tries to send oxygen in the direction it is truly needed. The world wavers. Blackness creeps in at the edges. It's then that she realizes that she is terrified beyond all belief. That she needs help in the most desperate way.

"Loki," she whispers. The world cuts out.

"Look, Erik," Darcy's voice cuts once again through the darkness, "Loki is dead. There's no way he can be behind this."

"Is he?" Erik's voice is tinged with a desperately paranoid note. "Is he really? Do we know that for sure?"

There is a silent moment. "Jane saw him die, Erik," Darcy begins slowly, "With her own eyes. So did Thor. You think that they wouldn't be able to tell..."

"He's a trickster!" Erik interrupts, raising his voice, "The god of tricksters. Why should we put anything past him?"

"Because he's dead," Darcy drawls, her impatience written clearly in her tone. "Whatever the hell just happened to Jane, I think we probably ought to start by looking at dangers that are alive."

"Darcy," Erik growls threateningly.

"Erik!" Darcy bites back, "Not everything comes back to Loki. I know, you had an evil, psycho person in your head. I'm sorry. Rough deal. But let's focus on the relevant here, okay? Thor's out there making a shit-ton of enemies. SHIELD is digging up crazy-ass artifacts and shoving them at us to study. The whole world is dealing with mutant people with insane mental powers. And you want to blame a dead alien?"

"She said his name, Darcy," Erik says, his voice low and rough. "Why would Jane say his name if he wasn't somehow involved?"

The room falls quiet. Jane lies very still. She clearly remembers having misgivings about this world. She remembers doubting this choice. But she swears that she saw Loki's thread tangled down in it. Close. Not in the past. Except, she thinks as she swallows hard, she could be wrong. Time is relative and there is nothing to put things relative to in the void. She doesn't want to be trapped in a world that doesn't have Loki. She really doesn't.

A presence settles heavily at her side. She turns her head slowly. Opens her eyes with even more care. The world still seems too bright, but at least the violent pain in her head seems to have subsided to a dull ache. Erik sits stiffly upon a chair at the bedside. His shoulders are slumped and curled inward upon himself. He seems greyer than she remembers. Greyer and older and less put together. Loki's fault. The guilt comes suddenly and leaves her mouth feeling dry.

"Jane," Erik says slowly, his eyes peering into her own once more, "How are you feeling?"

She swallows around the lump in her throat. "I'm..." she croaks. He's pressing a straw to her lips before she has time to attempt another word. It takes a second, but then she draws the water up and into her mouth. The liquid spreads across her tongue, trickling down her throat in a cooling stream. She pauses, licks her lips, and drinks a little more. She lets the straw slip from her lips and Erik pulls the glass of water away slowly, as if waiting for her to change her mind. "I'm okay," she says, words forming properly this time.

"Okay?" Erik demands, "You damn near toppled out of your chair. The cards you were holding are flat-out destroyed. What the hell happened to you?"

She lets her eyes fall closed for a moment. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she says quietly.

"Try me," Erik replies, his voice as hard as stone.

Jane sighs. She doesn't want to lie. She isn't good at it. But Loki's voice echoes through the tortured corners of her mind, telling her that she should believe what she is trying to convince someone else of. "I," she begins, her eyes opening slowly, "I don't really know." And she doesn't know. She doesn't know why her head was wracked with pain after tumbling into this world. She has theories, but then, she has theories about many things.

"You don't know?" Erik demands.

Jane sighs, keeping her eyes locked with Erik's because, dammit, that's what Loki told her to do, "I told you that you wouldn't believe me."

Erik's gaze is critical at best, "Then do you want to try explaining why the last thing you said was a dead god's name?"

"Invocation?" Jane manages a wan smile, "Curse? Prayer?" Her eyes fall shut against the pained incredulity in Erik's eyes. She sighs before she forces her eyes open again. She meets Erik's tired gaze. Her stomach churns and twists. He is, after all, the closest person to a father that she has. Never mind that she's fallen in love with the being who played hacky sac with his brain, she's never once lied to him before. "I'm sorry, Erik," she says, and she feels the truth in these words, "But I don't know what to tell you."

The sound that escapes him is pained. "I think," he begins, his words slow and carefully chosen, "I think I would know if Loki had died, Jane." His tone is as serious as she has ever heard, "I think that I would feel something. Some relief. Some sense of justice in the world." His head jerks tightly in negation. "I don't feel that," he says finally, "I feel haunted. Haunted by the shadows in that madman's mind. There is damage there. There are lies. And I know Thor remembers some loveable younger brother and I'm sure he's told you those stories but," his voice trails off for a moment. "I can't put anything past him," he finishes bitterly, "I simply can't."

Jane holds his troubled gaze, "I know," she whispers softly. And she does know. Better even, perhaps, than Erik. And it makes her hope.

It takes some convincing, but Jane eventually is allowed to get out of bed the next morning. Erik hovers close to her as she slides out from under the covers, still dressed in last night's jeans and rumpled t-shirt. He follows her, fretting and constantly on the verge of saying something, as she opens and closes drawers and closet doors, locating items of clothing. He seems preoccupied enough to miss the fact that she takes three tries to find the sock drawer, and Jane is more than a little thankful for that. Like a ghost, he haunts her all the way down the hall of the little flat, stopping short only at the door to the bathroom, his eyes flying momentarily wide as he wheels backwards and heads with an old man's speed for the kitchen. Moment later, Darcy is at her elbow.

"Making a play for the shower, huh, boss Lady?" she quips, the nervous way she winds a thread of her hair around a finger betraying the nonchalance in her tone.

"I'm not an invalid," Jane replies, bracing herself against the frame of the bathroom door, "Honestly, I feel much better now." She does, actually. Even the dull ache that had lingered throughout the night has shrunken down into a singular point of discomfort located somewhere just behind her eyes. Annoying, but certainly bearable.

"Yeah," Darcy drawls, stretching the syllable long and thin. She ends with a disparaging click of her tongue. "Here's what I think. I think that your super-hot god of a boyfriend just made himself some new friends..."

Jane cuts her off in a hurry, "Look, Darcy, I appreciate you and Erik coming up with theories, but honestly? I think it was just a migraine."

"Jane," Darcy levels back, "You don't get migraines."

Jane shrugs and tries not to bite her lip or look away, "First time for everything, isn't there?"

Darcy's eyes narrow behind her dark-rimmed glasses. "You have ten minutes," she says sternly, pointing a disapproving finger in the direction of the shower, "And then I get the intern to break down the door and I swear, if my boyfriend sees you naked, I will not be happy."

She slips then, "Boyfriend?"

Darcy's eyes narrow further. "Hey," she accuses, "I don't comment on how you run your relationship, do I?"

Jane throws her hands up in the air, ignoring the way her surrender causes her clean underthings to fly in the air, revealed from their tactful hiding place beneath the fresh t-shirt she carries. "Shower?" she asks beseechingly.

"Shower," Darcy agrees with a sigh. Jane watches her as she wander back down the hall towards the kitchen. "Ten minutes, Jane," she calls back without turning her head.

Jane shakes her own and disappears behind the bathroom door. Her head spins as she tries to process exactly what kind of world she has found herself in.

Exactly nine minutes later, she is no closer to puzzling this world out. She catches hold of the bathroom doorknob with a strangely heavy heart. Erik's words have given her hope, but she's only too aware of the possibility that there may, in fact, be no Loki here. Which would mean that she would be trapped here, in this world that both is and is not familiar, forever. She would be forced to pretend and lie and live through it all without anyone who could even begin to understand or accept the powers flowing through her. She would be alone.

She swallows hard and pushes the door open. Her clothes from the night before are a crumpled ball held loosely in one hand. She's dressed in fresh jeans and a clean t-shirt, but her hair drips from tousled wet tangles, leaving damp streaks down her back. She tosses the ball of dirty clothes into her room as she passes it, and enters the kitchen with an aura of weary carelessness. The white cupboards and counters look much dingier than they had the night before. The small kitchen seems to sum up the totality of the flat. Small, worn out, cheap, and rather crowded for four people. A glance out the window leaves Jane perplexed. She has no idea where exactly they are.

She turns her attention to the quiet trio that sits glumly around the table. Erik stares dully at a bowl of cereal, refusing to meet her gaze. Darcy's eyes flick between him and Jane several times before she lets an exasperated sigh escape her, "Erik's bummed because we just got a call from SHIELD. There's some nifty new piece of alien tech and they want our merry little band of misfits to take a look."

Jane glances sideways at Erik, "And this is a reason to be bummed because..."

"He doesn't think you should come this time. And he knows how..."

She seizes her opportunity to escape SHIELD scrutiny for the moment, "And I agree."

Three sets of eyes are suddenly glued to her, matching looks of suspicious skepticism pinning her down. "You, uh," Darcy stutters, "Agree?" Her jaw hangs limply open, "I'm, okay, yeah, I'm officially worried about you."

The mistake, she thinks, is that she's let herself get so wrapped up in her own disjointed version of reality, that she's failed to consider that random alien tech would once have been fascinating to her. She's forgotten that she isn't the type to stay home and take a sick day. Not Jane Foster.

"Waaiit," Darcy says suddenly, turning in her seat to address her intern, "What day is today?"

He looks momentarily confused. "Thursday?" he offers finally.

"Ah ha!" Darcy announces, hopping to her feet. "Don't think I haven't caught on to your little joke with your boyfriend. Thursday. Thors-day. And you cancelled your date with him last week because of the staff."

The intern nods, "And the week before Thor got called to help the Avengers deal with..."

"That crazy psycho physicist chick!" Darcy finishes, her eyes flashing. She turns to Jane, "So you and Thor haven't even seen each other in weeks." She crashes back into her seat, arms folded across her chest, "There you go. Mystery solved. Jane's looking for some alone time with some Norse hotness."

Erik shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes once against trained on his cereal. His jaw works mechanically, though Jane is certain he hasn't taken a bite since she's entered the room. His eyes dart up towards her finally, and she can see the thoughts that fly through his head. "But you haven't..." he trails off.

Jane slides into the empty seat beside him, "I haven't what?" She meets his gaze, and wonders sadly if the Erik back in her world looks as worn out as this one. If he is as tired and strained. She hopes not.

"You haven't been the same since the whole incident with the Aether." He says the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"The Aether," she repeats, tasting the word on her tongue and trying hard not to make it sound like a question.

"Erik," Darcy interjects, "She's fine. Thor said Loki got it all out."

He flinches at the name. His mouth twists into a tight grimace, "Forgive me for having a total of no faith in the god of mischief and lies."

"He wasn't a god," Darcy mutters, popping a piece of toast in her mouth, "He was an insane alien."

"Same thing," Jane and Erik murmur in near-perfect synchrony. They meet each other's gaze in a sideways glance.

Jane bites her lip, "So you think Loki is still alive, somewhere," Jane begins, "And that the Aether, or some part of it, is still inside me?"

Erik nods his head slowly. "I've spoken with Thor about the Aether. It isn't," he pauses, trying to find the right words, "I think calling it an entity wouldn't be entirely wrong. It has a will of its own."

From across the table, Darcy sighs, "And if it has a will of its own, wouldn't it be, I dunno, missing the missing part of itself you say is stuck in Jane?"

Erik looks troubled. "But that's what is so insidious about it," he insists, "Because it has its own intelligence, it could see the value in keeping a piece of itself separate and uncontained."

Jane sits very still, her mind racing as she struggles to reconcile the Aether with the dark spirit from her own world. She sees it now. Things would not play out the same, but they could have been very similar. Just a different sort of infection. She wonders what makes her so lucky, or so special. "So," she says slowly, "Maybe this is something I should mention to Thor. If you're right," she meets Erik's gaze, "Then what happened last night could have had something to do with the Aether."

"And Loki," Erik grinds out.

"And maybe Loki," she agrees. Her eyes count the handles on the cupboard doors behind him. Eye contact, she reminds herself. But she can't quite bear it in this instant.

They leave and Jane is left alone with a pot of coffee and a sense of growing dread. She does not want to go on a date with Thor. She does not want to ask about events of which she has no memory. And she absolutely does not want to be stuck here, in this dingy little kitchen, drinking coffee and waiting for this particular fresh hell to fall upon her. She tops up her coffee mug and leaves it on the kitchen table to cool as she turns to start up the laptop sitting on the kitchen counter. If nothing else, she supposes she can at least get caught up on current events in this world. She doesn't need to look entirely clueless, after all.

She sticks her tongue out at the loading screen that pops up, and taps her foot impatiently as she waits for the aged computer to boot. She stretches her neck, grimacing at the kinks and knots she locates in her shoulder blades. Whatever this version of her is doing, it's stressful, and while she might not be single, she's certainly not in the type of relationship that produces shoulder rubs. Not that she's entirely certain she would want Thor's heavy hands anywhere near the delicate bones and tendons of her neck. Elegant hands though, strong but with measured grace, those she could probably melt under.

A pained smile plays across her lips as she once again contemplates the possibility of a world without Loki. She's done this before, she thinks. In a life where she was wasting away alone in a desert, in an asylum where they convinced her he didn't exist at all. She leans her forehead against the flat white cupboard in front of her. She exhales slowly. At some point she is going to need to confront the fact that a world without Loki has become her worst fear. That these jumps fill her with an anxiety that borders on agonizing. That she feels terrified and alone right up until the moment they find each other. Even when she's furious with him. There's a word for this, she thinks. It's dependence, in the worst sort of way.

Memories filter through the mental torture she's inflicting upon herself. She can feel his touch on her skin. His lips on her own. She wants him, but that doesn't quite cover it. She craves him. Craves his touch, his gaze, his attention. She loves him. Even for all that he is. And it hurts. It all hurts like hell, because it is all entirely wrapped up in this dependence that she feels. It can't be healthy, and it can't be right. And, she thinks, her eyes still pressed closed, it can't be helped. This is the way it is. She just needs to come to terms with the fact that one day it definitely will not end well.

The computer makes a series of cheery start-up sounds and Jane raises her head from the cupboard to stare at it unseeingly. Dimly, she remembers that she was going to research current events in this world. At this present moment, she can think of few things she wants to do less. She needs more coffee.

She turns on her heel to recover the mug from the table and freezes in place. Loki sits in one of the chairs, his feet up on the table's edge and her mug of coffee cradled in the elegant hands she'd been daydreaming about not moment's before. He stares down into the mug, the lines of his face carved into a brooding scowl. She has no idea how long he has been there, sitting without any real regard to her.

"Loki?" she gasps, one hand reaching for the chair nearest to her for some support. He looks real enough, dressed in the black and emerald leather of his Asgardian armour. His eyes flash upwards to meet her astonished gaze, though his face stays tilted down.

"Yes?" he replies, his cultured tone clipped.

Jane falls into the chair beneath her hands. "I thought," she swallows hard, "Everyone thinks you're dead."

He offers the slightest shrug, "So it seems." For a strained moment, she wants to slap him. Or kiss him. She remains immobile in her seat, frozen by his careless manner. He sighs, rotating the mug of coffee in his hands slowly, "At times, death seems a welcome state for one such as myself. It provides the very best sort of... cover." He offers her a hollow grin that last a grand total of five seconds before it melts back into a frown. His gaze falls back to the mug.

"Loki," she begins, her tone wavering somewhere between warning and relief.

"Jane," he replies, rolling her name across his tongue. His eyes catch hold of her's again, and she spies the traces of blue, the outward aspect of Thanos' control. "Did you know," he begins, "That in this world, I not only fake my death, but use it as a guise with which to seize Asgard's throne for my own?"

There's a sinking feeling in Jane's stomach. Loki's tone is perfectly detached, but she understands that now. The things that cut him the deepest are the ones he handles with the greatest disregard. There's something about this world that he does not like, something about this version of him that is not sitting right. "If you're on the throne," she says slowly, the words falling like syrup from her tongue, "Then why does everyone believe you're dead?"

"Oh, that's the tricky part," he purrs, the coffee mug gripped tightly in his hands, "I'm masquerading as the All-Father." He lifts the mug to his lips and takes a carefully measured sip. "Apparently Heimdall is a traitor to the state, and the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif are scattered between the worlds. No one remains who would even dare to suspect such a malevolent scheme."

Jane's skin crawls. Her fingers grip the edge of the table painfully tight. "If you're pretending to be the All-Father," she wets her suddenly dry lips, "Then where is Odin?"

"Indeed," Loki murmurs, "Where is the All-Father?" His lips have curled back into their former scowl.

Jane blinks hard. It is the brutal truth of their existence. They have no way of knowing what this world's version of them should know. If no one else knows either...

She sighs. "We don't have to stay here," she says briskly, "We can leave. Right now, if you want to."

He turns his gaze to her, his eyes shining with danger and threat, "Is it so easy for you to forget what I am, Jane Foster? Even now? Even here, in the very face of it?"

Hairs rise on the back of her neck, "I haven't forgotten."

"Haven't you?" he muses. "Maybe you believe that I am on some path towards redemption. That I can come back from the things I have done. That I can repair the things I have broken." His hands loosen around the mug. He swirls it lazily, watching its contents spiral around.

Jane stares at him. She wishes she understood what she felt herself. She knows what he is. She's been inside of his head. She's felt him take pleasure in chaos and destruction. She knows all the old pains that have carved him into the shape he is. All the broken pieces and battered parts of a whole that have long ago given up on ever being restored are bared to her eyes. And she doesn't care. There are too many worlds. Too many painful things. Too much lost and never found. He has her and she has him, and that is the only thing that is real anymore. Everything else can change. Everything else isn't quite real.

"There is something else," he says, cutting short the train of her thoughts long before she's figured out how to put any of it into words. "There are perhaps hundreds of worlds," he says, his voice flitting lightly over the words, "From which I fell into, if not the void, then at least between realms." He catches her gaze, "And you've seen now, there are an innumerable number of universes. It is an infinite, chaotic, incomprehensible eternity." He stares through her now, "And I am powerless within it."

"You exist," she argues. "You exist when that should be impossible..."

"Irrelevant," he interrupts. "I cannot escape from it, and yet, there are multiple worlds in which I have been pulled from it."

Understanding dawns slowly across Jane in a horrifying way. "And why," she whispers, her mouth painfully dry, "Would Thanos pull something from his own world out of the void?"

Loki's expression is empty as he nods. "Even with your talents," he gestures vaguely towards his own head, "My memories hold little that is joyous or less than strained." His boots fall from the table and he curls in upon himself as his feet hit the floor. His head bows over the coffee mug as he stares into its depths. "The answer to the problem is so very simple. I have different memories, because I come from a different world."

This is information she cannot quite reconcile. That her Loki, the one she's grown to love, might not belong to the same world as her at all is beyond her limits of acceptance. At the same time, she cannot fight his logic. She looks at him now, beaten down by not just one world, but by the entire multiverse as a whole. Eternity has something against him.

She doesn't remember leaving the chair, but she finds herself on her knees before him, her hands freeing the mug from his tightened hold. She sets the mug on the table and pulls his hands into her own. His tired eyes stare uncomprehendingly into hers. "Loki," she whispers, "I don't think I can ever get us home. So whether it's the world you're originally from or not, I don't think we're ever going to see it again." There's an ache in her chest as she admits the words out loud. She will never see her Erik again. She'll never tease her Darcy. She will never complete her research or finish writing her paper on the theoretical practicality of wormhole travel. "So," she says as her voice cracks, "I really don't think it matters all that much. Not really."

He is mute for a long moment before his hands pull free of her own. He holds them before him for a heavy moment, and then he is framing her face with his hands. "I do not understand you, Jane Foster," he says, his voice carrying a tremulous note of wonder. His finger tips slide across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She trembles as one hand pushes into the tangled mess of her still-damp hair. His eyes are wild with something she can't quite name, and she is quite certain that whatever this is between them, this horrible, painful, dependent sort of love, it runs both ways. His lips are on hers before she has time to breath, and the force behind them leaves her stunned. She follows numbly, as he pulls her up and onto his lap. She hasn't quite found her balance before her own lips have searched his back out. He is what matters to her, she realizes, and maybe the rest of everything can just be damned.

A flash of light fills the room even as Jane gasps against Loki's mouth. His hand has found its way under the cotton of her t-shirt, and his fingers are digging into the bare skin of her side with something like blind need. Her own arms are tangled around him, one hand gripping his armour to pull him closer while the other curls possessively around the back of his neck. They alone have escaped the boundaries of worlds, shouldn't they at least be allowed to have an uninterrupted moment to themselves?

"Jane!" the voice booms into the small space. There is a second during which their fingers curl and clench with something other than need and then their lips part from each other and they drag their unwilling gazes to the room's newest occupant.

"Loki?" Thor gasps, Mjolnir falling from his grasp and through the floorboards with a resounding crash.

Jane meets Loki's gaze and relishes the way their mouths curl into mirroring smirks. "Shall we?" he whispers.

"Why not?" she replies, leaning her forehead against his. She doesn't even think twice about the fact that they're leaving behind a Thor who has just witnessed his girlfriend and his supposedly-dead brother in a heated make-out session. She doesn't really care.

They're doing them all a favour, really.