Trust is a strange thing to navigate, between them. The Untrustworthy and the Broken. Which is which? Well. Unimportant in the moment, perhaps. Loki isn't even certain that it will work, but this is what happens: in a small studio apartment in Ankeny, Iowa, he forces his consciousness out of his own body with Clint's in tow, and looks around.
There he is, on the bed that takes up the bulk of the room, frowning in his sleep, hair fanned out on the pillow. There is the black cat, GlΓΈd, curled up at his feet and staring at them both. There are other details: books, many of them, no television, a suncatcher, heavy curtains framing a view of a highway.
The feeling of being propelled back into Clint's dreamscape is something like the sensation of snapping a rubberband against one's palm.
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There he is, on the bed that takes up the bulk of the room, frowning in his sleep, hair fanned out on the pillow. There is the black cat, GlΓΈd, curled up at his feet and staring at them both. There are other details: books, many of them, no television, a suncatcher, heavy curtains framing a view of a highway.
The feeling of being propelled back into Clint's dreamscape is something like the sensation of snapping a rubberband against one's palm.
One question answered.
"I didn't get lost." Loki opens his eyes.