This time he breaks a glass when he sees her slink through the door, trying to hide a fresh bruise that halos her eye. She knows he hates it.
The dimension cannon hollows her bones and darkens her visage and heart, and it replaces the red in his veins with gin, the kind hidden in her cabinets.
They are a series of broken things, buried under their skin. He wants her, and she wants to get back to him.
The Doctor, my Doctor became her mantra and it falls from her plump lips, a dirge for the man missing between the pinstriped suit she keeps in her closet and will not let him wear. To him, it is filthy.
Rose does not flinch when Loki shatters the glass onto her apartment floor. He stares, eyes brimming and lip quaking with bitterness and compassion and lust and as she looks sadly at him, he hears “‘M fine.”
And maybe in the morning they will talk about it like sensible people, but Rose knows and Loki knows they are stubborn and they are proud and they will not wear their hearts on their sleeves, but in their chests, locked in by their ribs and the fear of hurting and getting hurt.