Loki arrives at the theater ten minutes early and spends most of his time standing around, biting his lower lip, tugging on the loose skin there—he's heard that's a precursor to anxiety disorders, and wouldn't that just take the cake, if he were to find out that he has one of those on top of everything else—his hands shoved in his pockets. His cell phone rings once and it's Tony, and he hesitates before sliding his thumb over the ignore button, then turning the phone all the way off. Why the hell should Stark care where he is now when he hasn't cared in almost two months?

When Fandral arrives, Loki cannot keep the smile from snaking onto his face, and he pulls his hands out of his pockets and walks forward to greet the man. Fandral is dressed, inexplicably, in a suit and tie, and Loki smiles questioningly as he reaches down and takes his hand.

"Just got out of a dinner with your dad," Fandral explains, gesturing at his clothes. "I'm not one of those freaks who dresses up nice to every damn thing he attends."

Loki laughs, noticing the curve of Fandral's palm against his, the warmth of his skin despite the cool air. "You know Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother? He does that."

"Oh, please, don't compare me to him." Fandral laughs too, pulling out his wallet. "I'm not a horndog like he is."

Loki raises an eyebrow. "Did you really just use the term 'horndog'."

"They say it in Armageddon; it's perfectly acceptable."

"That's Rockhound, love." Loki lightly nudges Fandral's shoulder with his, and they're still laughing when they get to the ticket counter and ask for tickets to see Les Misérables. Fandral offers to pay for both of them—'it's a date, it's appropriate, come on'—and Loki is starting to think everything's going to go okay tonight when they go inside and he sees Justin Hammer working behind the food area.

"Shit," he says, and tries to get out of Justin's line of sight, but he sees him and calls his name, a huge smile on his face like none of January happened, like he didn't have to witness Loki and Thanos crawling out of the woods together with their clothes rumpled and their skin all cut up and that demonic expression in Thanos' eyes.

"Loki!" Justin says again, and Fandral sends him a questioning look.

"You know this guy?" he asks, and Loki breathes out a sigh and mutters something about how he can't get away from it, no matter how hard he tries. They walk over to the cash register and Justin leans across the grease-stained counter, head propped up between his hands.

"Well, this is a surprise," he says, eyes flickering between Loki and Fandral, something like a sneer twisting his lips. "I'd have expected to see you here with Tony—maybe. But who's this? Don't tell me you've given up on each other already?"

Something akin to rage fills Loki's chest and it's all he can do to keep himself from diving across the counter and strangling Justin with his bare hands. "It's none of your business," he snarls, digging his fingernails into Fandral's palm and barely noticing the older man wince. "You fucking two-faced little shit."

"Watch your language, Laufeyson," Justin says mockingly. "And chill, man. It was just a question, okay?"

"Yes, well, Stark and I are not bound to one another," Loki says, gritting his teeth together and focusing his gaze somewhere over Justin's left shoulder. "As pleasant as this has been to see you, I believe we must be going on now." He turns and nearly drags Fandral away from Justin, his cheeks flushed an angry shade of red, ignoring the bemused expression on the other man's face. They hand in their tickets and go into the theater, sitting near the top row, in the middle. Loki is quiet for a long time, staring down at his hands in the dim light, half listening to the commercials for Coca-Cola and the latest MTV "reality" show. He hates Justin for working here, for ruining his evening with Fandral—but in truth, more than anything, he hates himself for what he's doing, what he's hoping Fandral has planned for them this night. Part of him wants this, what's set before him now, but part of him wants to say fuck it and walk out, go back to the apartment and uncharacteristically be the first to say sorry. He misses Tony, aches for him in a way he cannot quite put into words, and finds it harder and harder each day to get up before Tony's awake, to walk down the hall and shower and be out of the apartment before the clock strikes eight a.m.

You shouldn't punish him for what happened; it was not Tony who allowed you to get kidnapped, he thinks, and then, in a suddenly savage desperation to forget Stark and everything associated with him, he turns to Fandral and asks, dialing his already low voice down about half an octave:

"What are we doing after the movie?"

Fandral glances over at him with an expression in his eyes that is part curiosity, part lust. "It's really up to you," he says. "You're the one who lives here; you tell me if there's anything to do for an old man after dark."

Loki grins, feeling his control slipping away and not exactly caring. "Oh yes," he murmurs, tracing his long fingers over Fandral's arm, feeling the hard muscles just below the surface of his skin. "There is." He watches Fandral's throat constrict as he swallows, eyes going dark, and he sits back again, feeling oddly like he's going to win something.

Ten minutes into the movie and they are making out like a couple of horny teenagers, and Loki (hardly) cares that he is missing one of his favorite musicals of all time in favor of having Fandral's tongue sliding against his. Fandral runs his hand across Loki's chest, and he whispers against his lips, "Your heart is pounding, love," and Loki swallows, pressing his forehead against Fandral's and breathing in deeply.

"Shall we go?" he asks quietly, and Fandral nods, and they get up, shuffling past irritated patrons until they get to the aisle. They head down the stairs and are out before "Valjean's Soliloquy" begins.

Though both men have brought their cars to the theater, they leave in Fandral's, because it's closer and because it will be easier for Fandral to drop Loki off for his vehicle in the morning than vice versa, especially if Fandral is called back to Toronto unexpectedly during the night. They head uptown to a Doubletree Inn and Fandral hands in his credit card. Loki quietly offers to pay for his half and Fandral declines before Loki has even completed his sentence. The desk clerk hands them their keys and the usual complimentary chocolate chip cookies, and they head up in the elevator.

Loki's heart is still racing like a fucking rabbit, and he fumbles with his key before managing to fit it in the electronic slot of the door handle. They are barely inside their room before Fandral is kissing Loki, harder than before, moving his mouth fast, heatedly. They move to the bed and sit on the edge, and Loki sets his cookie down on the mattress, freeing his hands to rest on Fandral's jaw. He strokes his skin lightly with his thumb, pressing feather light kisses to Fandral's lips, and Fandral lets his hand rest on Loki's thigh, tilting his head from one side to the other, his fingers trailing down Loki's neck.

Loki does not realize how much he is trembling until Fandral pulls back and locks their eyes together, concern lacing with lust. "You okay?" he asks softly.

Thanos' face flashes through Loki's mind, the way he used to touch Loki like this, and he tries to push it out of his head but it won't go. "I am cursed," he murmurs, without thinking, and Fandral raises his eyebrows.

"Cursed?" he repeats, and it occurs to Loki, then, that this is never going to go away, this feeling like Thanos is right there, just waiting for his next move. He imagines the rest of his life before him—a series of quick, empty fucks in hotel rooms, all of them tainted by the memory of Thanos and what he did—and he allows a quick, harsh laugh to escape his lips before shaking his head and reaching behind him for his cookie.

"It matters not," he says, and he takes a bite of the cookie. Chocolate smears across his mouth, and his tongue flicks out to catch it before Fandral is leaning in and kissing it off himself, as Loki had intended.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur to Loki, though he can't say it's not enjoyable. Fandral bites his collarbone and his chest, sucking at the skin there, and Loki smiles when he thinks of the inevitable bruises. He hooks his legs around Fandral's waist, pulling him closer by tugging on his shoulders, and Fandral has to perform some sort of acrobatic feat in order to get the lubricant out of his jeans, because he won't stop kissing Loki and Loki won't really let him go.

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, Loki wonders why the hell Fandral brought lube, like he was assuming this is where they'd end up tonight, but he can't quite bring himself to care.)

Once Loki is loose and Fandral is slicked up, he pushes in, slow, feeling Loki's muscles tensing up as he tries to take him, the first man he's had since Thanos. It's not comfortable, not at first, but Loki refuses to complain, just lets his head fall to the side, biting his lower lip, eyes shut, breathing coming fast and hard. Fandral won't move again until Loki opens his eyes and nods, and then he thrusts carefully, like he's afraid he'll tear Loki apart from the inside. The younger man wraps his arms around Fandral's shoulders, digging his heels into the small of his back, quiet sounds tearing from the back of his throat. He presses his face against Fandral's skin, pushing up against him with his hips, urging him to go faster although he won't, not really. Loki can feel Fandral's desperation underneath his hesitant movements, and eventually he flips them, because why the hell not, and rocks himself over the older man, driving him against the mattress, feeling the friction of their hot skin. Fandral grips his hips with shaking fingers and Loki watches his stomach muscles clenching, and feels the way he goes tense inside him before coming, hard, back arching off the bed. He pulls out and Loki slides his hand over himself and jerks until he comes too, Fandral's name barely a whisper on his lips.

Then Fandral is getting off the bed and going into the bathroom, and Loki can hear the water running in the sink and he falls back, his head resting on the pillow, breathing heavily. The scent of sex is still fresh in the room, and Loki buries his face in the sweat-soaked sheets, willing himself not to cry.

You get what you ask for, he thinks, and is even able to conjure up a small smile when Fandral returns, draping his hard body over Loki's and turning off the light.

/

Most nights, Amora sleeps huddled in the lobby of some hotel, telling the night clerks she's waiting for someone before propping her feet up on the edge of the sofa and shutting her eyes—and they never bother her, never wake her up at three in the morning, because why would you tell an emaciated, evidently homeless girl to get out into the frozen Canadian winter? She watches her hair growing out and thinks how ugly it is, the blonde roots against her dark dye, but there's nothing she can do aside from stealing and she's really not desperate enough for that—she doesn't want to end up in jail for petty theft when she could end up in jail for attempting to help Skurge get out.

Sometimes she thinks about Sif, and how surprised she looked when Amora shot her leg, like she wasn't expecting it. Amora's considered visiting her and saying, officer of the law and you weren't even prepared for a fucking bullet to the shin, but she doesn't know Sif's surname or the hospital she was taken to and even if she did she's not in Toronto anymore, so it wouldn't make much difference.

Sometimes she thinks about Loki. She didn't really know him that well; he was there, and then he wasn't, and it was just sort of over in the blink of an eye, like most things in Amora's life. He and Skurge had more of a history together than either of them would let on and she could tell, but she never brought it up. She wonders how he's doing now; if he visits Skurge, if he's been killed or committed suicide. She wonders why she helped him get out the way she did; if she hadn't, the three of them would have a life together now, somewhere in Toronto, and she knows she'd like that. Ninety-five percent positive it would make her happy.

Always, she thinks of Skurge, and how he's stuck in some jail in New York, awaiting his trial. She has a vague idea in her head that when she goes to get him, he won't be as happy to see her as she will be to see him, but she can deal with that when she gets to it. She wonders if she'll be able to post bail or if she'll have to spring him, the way they do in movies, the way the Joker got himself out in The Dark Knight.

She falls asleep every night with his face in her mind, and dreams of the taste of his lips on hers, the way he'd run his fingers down her sides, burying his face in her hair, whispering her name against the salt of sweat on her skin.

A/N: Okay, so, I apologize for the length of this chapter, and for how long it took to get out, but I am having some serious issues with my writing right now, and I kind of needed this chapter to happen and be done with, so. There it is.

Hopefully the next chapter will be out sooner and be longer than this one :)

Also I should note here that I haven't seen Les Misérables yet, so if that song reference seems inaccurate, let me know.

And this story is going to be over soon, so don't worry about anything. Okay? Okay.