For the third time in five minutes, Gwen rolled over with an infuriated grunt and punched the cushion into shape. For someone who had slept on the streets for half her life, she just couldn't get comfy on the couch. And she hadn't slept in her bed since she and Loki had… she hadn't slept in the bed for a while.

Gwen normally had no trouble falling asleep. She never lost a moment of shuteye when her head hit the pillow, no matter what her day had been like. Some people may lose slumber because of guilt, but she was not one of them. Hell, she didn't even feel guilty about the stuff she did. She probably should have, but she didn't.

%

Loki stared at the vaulted golden ceiling. He was too drunk to sleep. Or, possibly, not drunk enough. He was alone, his companions for the evening sent away, and when he was alone his mind decided to go to unpleasant places. Before he would go to – to her, but that was absolutely out of the question now. So here he was: on his own.

The scars on his back were aching. At times like this, the memories of the Mad Titan came back to him with a force they never seemed to have in daytime hours. Defeat on Midgard had hurt plenty, sure enough, but the pain he had endured before the Tesseract brought him there (the Tesseract now locked safely away in the chest beneath his bed, along with some spare purple crystals and a necklace of his mother's) made that feel like nothing in comparison.

%

Nights like this, Gwen thought, made heroin feel almost desirable again. The rush of numbing sensation through her body, the heaviness of her limbs, the stopping of her brain… it was like sleep, but easier, better. Until, one day, it wasn't.

Gwen was lucky. She had been a junkie, yes, but never an addict. There was a difference, and the difference was being able to stop. The withdrawal symptoms had been hell, but she had endured worse than hell already. Whenever she felt the itch to inject again (and it was a physical, painful itch) she had the sheer bloody-mindedness to ignore it. Stubbornness. That was the way to get what you wanted. By being a straight-up bitch.

%

Loki knew, deep down, that the universe had not seen the last of Thanos. Hopefully, though, this time round he would be able to avoid the great mad brute. He was definitely cleverer now than he was then; before, he had had nothing to lose. He'd thought that this would make him stronger. He was wrong. Now, though, he had Asgard. That gave him something to fight for, should he need to fight. He'd learned that with Gwen. Loving something could give one great strength. In fact, the only thing capable of weakening you is the thing you love itself.

Bitch.

%

Gwen gave up trying to sleep. Taking the blanket with her, she climbed out of the window and up the fire escape to the roof of the Burrow. She was pretty much nocturnal, these days; the sun had just set and Brooklyn was alight with the night life. She sat on one of the folding metal chairs the Rats had put up there, lit a cigarette, and tilted her head back to look at the few stars that managed to get through the city's light pollution.

These days, the nicotine kick was enough to settle her cravings. She should probably give up – but then, the chances of her living long enough to get lung cancer were slim. Her drug-ravaged body would finally give up on her long before that. And if not, she'd probably get shot or stabbed or something like that. Such was the life of a twenty-first century crime baron.

She could afford far better smokes now, which was nice. Black Russians, slim noir straights with a gold filter that didn't smudge lipstick. She was still a Marxist, of course, the distribution of wealth and all that, but she could allow a little luxury every now and then.

Loki had always hated the smell. They probably didn't have tobacco in Asgard. He had said they were too evolved, or something, but she didn't see anything particularly evolved in a race of people led by an unelected monarch with absolute power and no apparent expiry date. Oh, how she had loved to bring that up. Almost as much as he had brought up her imminent mortality.

Bastard.

%

For some reason, Loki was craving the smell of nicotine. To try and get it out of his head, he slipped out of his chambers and took a back passage up to one of the palace's highest, most isolated balconies. From here he could see half of Asgard, the rainbow bridge slicing through it out to an eternity filled with stars. Thanos was out there somewhere. Midgard, too. A planet of Loki's failures.

Why, of all the people in the universe, did he have to fall for a stubborn, filthy street rat with countless bad habits and a mortality half that of even the rest of her species? It wasn't even like she was pretty. Her face was too pointed. She wasn't gracious, or seductive, or charming. She was sharp and smart and almost as wicked as he was.

He missed her.

%

She missed him.

The cigarette was singeing her fingers, it was so short. She hadn't even noticed it burning up. She flicked it away and stood up with a grunt, joints putting up a solid protest as she did. She was getting old. Old and lonely.

It's for the best, she told herself for the millionth time. We were never gonna last. He was the worst person I ever met, and I've known myself for a good thirty years now.

Maybe that's why we were so good together. We deserved each other.

Shut up, brain. Nobody asked you.

She lit another cigarette, actually intending to smoke this one. It was ludicrous, her sat here thinking about him. They were over. It was hardly likely that he was doing the same thing. That he was staring at the stars, thinking of her, missing her, her smell and touch and taste.

Not that she was doing that.

Gwen took a drag. Of course he wouldn't be missing her. He'd always hated the smell of nicotine, anyway.