“To King Valkyrie, and the life of the party,” Thor agrees, and clinks his glass against Carol’s — careful, mindful to not to shatter the glass itself with a too-strong impact, a tightrope he’s grown accustomed to walking over the years of dealing with weak Earth furniture.

And his mood is a work-in-progress. Always has been. Slowly but steadily digging his way out of that pit and regaining his spark, both literal and metaphorical. He’d hoped that winning the war would instantly set everything back to normal, no further work required, but it hadn’t: the god might continually smile, bright and effervescent, but that smile doesn’t always reach his eye.

But on the eve of a new year, surrounded by friends and compatriots and the noise of merriment? There could be far worse places to ring it in. His heart feels lighter.

“How long has it been since you were here last? It’s strange to think I may have lived on Earth longer than you have, in recent years.”