Loki through the multiverse

Something that feels this good could never be bad.

When the sky darkens and the jungle begins to stir, you know it's time to pack in. You scramble up the rock ledge to your camp. It's a modest canvas shelter. You don't need much, materially speaking, to complete your research.

You light the gas lamp at the shelter entrance, then the one at your workstation, flinging your rucksack full with the day's field notes underneath.

You step out of your mud-covered boots as you push through the flap into your shelter. You light the inside lamps. Their weak flames cast a golden glow, giving the sparse room a sense of warmth it lacks in daylight.

You turn on the gas burner in your makeshift kitchen area—a simple table, shelf, and six-foot-long kitchen cart—and set your kettle on top of it. You peel off your thick socks and sweat-stained tank, and shimmy out of your trousers.

"You need to improve your security, Doctor."

You nearly jump out of your skin before you realize who's spoken.

James Conrad is laid out on the cot against the wall, lounging like some spoiled British housecat. Even in the dim light, you can see his dark T-shirt straining against his chest. His leather holster is strapped around his shoulders and his hiking boots are fastened to his feet.

Not this again, you think. You swear under your breath.

"Conrad, how many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that?"

Conrad leaps off the bed and moves toward you. He runs the back of his fingers down your bare arm. "At least once more," he says cheekily.

You watch Conrad slip his holster off his shoulders and toe off his boots, kicking both carelessly aside. Sarcasm drips from your tongue as you say, "Please, make yourself at home."

"I will, thank you."

You turn and rummage through your trunk for something to cover up. "Why are you even here?" you ask. "I've had enough of your nonsense for a lifetime, sir. So, if you'll please—"

"Oh, sir," he sings. "I do like the sound of that coming from your mouth."

You tug a threadbare T-shirt over your head and ignore his comment. "I thought you were supposed to be back in London."

"I was."

"Then why are you here?"

Conrad looms over you, devilish charm radiating from his sculpted form. "I decided not to go home. At least, not yet."

The implication in his words is not lost on you.

"Doesn't your mummy miss you?" you mock.

"Oh, I'm sure she does," he says, "but I think she'd understand if she knew I was here with you."

Conrad glides his fingertips up the side of your thigh and over your hip, curling his hand around your waist. You swat him away.

"You honestly think that's going to work on me?"

He bunches your shirt in his fists and pulls you closer. "It has before."

For a moment, the two of you remember what it was like: your hands, your lips, your skin, your—

The kettle squeals, breaking the spell.

"Before I knew better," you huff and break free. He follows you and grabs two mugs off the shelf. You take them from him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he chirps. You drop a teabag into each mug. "You always were a tea drinker. Never considered something stronger? I've found whiskey can be exceptionally helpful in lowering inhibitions—"