Postcards from the Subconscious
that's what dreams are
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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author--in this case, Rose. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
“It’ll end in tears.”

“Loki...” Half-sigh as he looks up from the paper. “Doesn’t it always? They ruin their own lives, they cry, they heal, it begins again.”

He,” a bit bitter, “shows them mercy.”

“She. And I’m not getting into this again with you. We’ve already sat through one gloom fest of yours this decade. Until 1930, you have to at least be civil.”

“Only,” and now the blond angel in exile grins at his darker-haired companion, flopping onto the lounge next to him, “because you cheated, my dear Bartleby.”

“I did not cheat. It is not my fault that you didn’t listen to me when I told you that someone was going to get rid of Lincoln one way or another. Common sense is not cheating.”

“Is too.”

Bartleby sets the paper down at that, amused as Loki settles his head in his lap. One hand tentatively strokes his hair. Rather like having a cat, but without the allergies–and isn’t that just horribly unfair, that God exiles them in Wisconsin, of all places, that they can be allergic to cats, for pete’s sake, and yet, they don’t even get the benefits of genitals to amuse themselves with.

Still. At moments like this, while he smiles down at the blue eyes pouting up at him, he can’t quite feel Wisconsin is all that bad.

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