Chapter Text
Loki throws the first punch but it doesn’t land. Hunter B-15 blocks the blow, stepping into his space and grabbing his arm roughly. She twists it behind his back, forcing him down onto his knees. Rage coils through him like a serpent.
She jerks him to his feet and slams him down onto the table, and Loki writhes in her grip, furious and aching. He feels raw but he forces himself to focus. He won’t allow her to best him like this.
B-15’s so focused on keeping him from escaping that she doesn’t notice when he snatches the remote control up, when he squirms out of her grip and wrenches her arms behind her back. He hits the button on the remote and the collar around his throat comes loose. Loki draws in a deep breath as he tears it free and feels his lips twist into a snarl as he snaps the collar into place around her neck. She gasps, horrified.
Loki hits the button on the remote before she can throw a punch at him. Time displaces and B-15 vanishes, only to reappear panting and breathless in the doorway behind him. Loki’s lips curl into a humourless smirk.
“Stop it!” she pleads, words broken as she vanishes again and again. After perhaps twenty rounds, Loki grows bored. He tosses the remote aside, turning away from the empty space where B-15 had stood. The screen is still illuminated with its ‘END OF FILE’ message. Loki feels something wither and die inside him.
What use does mischief serve him now? He loses everyone he’s ever loved. He’s the cause of untold suffering and it’s all for nothing. It’s worthless… and speaking of worthless -
He lifts the Tesseract from the table, hefting it in his palm. It emits a dull blue light that seems to bleed into the gloominess of the room. It paints Loki’s skin blue too and he shivers, thinking of his Jotun heritage, of the Frost Giants who had left him to die. He closes his eyes and hears his neck break in Thanos’s grip.
Loki sits down heavily on the ground, abandoning the Tesseract. He exhales heavily and buries his head in his hands, heart aching in his chest. He’s in turmoil. He doesn’t know how long he can tread water with the weight of his emotions threatening to crush him like this. He’ll surely drown.
The door opens and closes but he doesn’t look up. Nobody’s shouting or cursing at him. He can’t hear the crackle of weaponry or the heavy footsteps of soldiers. It can only be Mobius.
“Loki?” the agent asks softly. He’s holding a pruning stick in a loose grip but it seems almost an afterthought. His silver hair is rumpled, his brow creased with concern. “Nowhere left to run.”
He lowers the weapon when he sees the way Loki is twisting his fingers together, hard enough to hurt. His eyes are gleaming with tears, his expression haggard with pain and exhaustion. Mobius sighs softly.
“I can’t go back, can I?” Loki asks, voice coming out weaker than he would have liked. “Back to my timeline.”
Mobius’s expression softens when Loki lets out a heavy sigh, the sound dangerously close to a sob. The silence between them stretches until Loki looks up suddenly, meeting Mobius’s gaze with an urgency that seems to take them both by surprise.
“I don’t enjoy hurting people,” Loki says brokenly. “I…” His words trail away and he shakes his head, closing his eyes as the tears spill free. “I don’t enjoy it. I do it because I have to... because I've had to.”
“Okay,” Mobius says softly, meeting Loki’s gaze evenly as he lowers the pruning stick. “Explain that to me.”
He speaks so gently that Loki is powerless to refuse him. He isn’t sure he’d want to anyway. No one else talks to him with so much warmth, understanding, and acceptance. It’s utterly alien and Loki feels laid bare by it, brittle and fragile.
“Because it’s part of the illusion,” he says, morose. “It’s the cruel, elaborate trick conjured by the weak to inspire fear.” He gestures to himself bitterly as he sits there slumped on the steps. After watching the footage of his loved ones dying, of his countless failures and his own destruction, Loki has never felt weaker.
“A desperate play for control,” Mobius says thoughtfully. He approaches Loki slowly, the pruning stick still held loosely in his grip. Its tip glows a sinister gold in the shadows but Loki feels no fear. He doesn’t believe Mobius would use the weapon unless absolutely necessary… and Loki won’t give him a reason to. Not now.
He feels tired and bruised, as though he’s been hollowed out. There’s no fight left in him.
“You do know yourself,” Mobius says and the pride in his tone is undeniable. Loki lowers his gaze, confusion and something warmer fluttering to life inside him as his cheeks flush pink. He stamps down desperately on the gentle emotions, dousing himself in loathing. Staying sharp is the only thing that will keep him alive now. The TVA is no place for softness.
“A villain,” Loki says, describing himself in the only way he’s ever been known. He sighs defeatedly, shoulders slumping. Mobius shakes his head, stepping closer still. His expression is unbearably gentle.
“That’s not how I see it,” he disagrees kindly. There’s nothing but acceptance in his eyes and Loki basks in it, heart pounding achingly hard behind his ribs. His lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile and Mobius nods his head, satisfied.
The vulnerability Loki feels is strong enough to leave him breathless and he searches blindly for a distraction, feeling a stab of relief when his fingers brush the Tesseract beside him. He lifts it in his palm, the blue glare of the Infinity Stone inside bright enough that he has to narrow his eyes in order to keep staring at it.
“You try to use that?” Mobius asks, quirking an eyebrow. When Loki glances up, Mobius is watching him as though he’s a particularly colourful sunset, not a weapon to wield or a puzzle to solve but… something to appreciate, to drink in. Loki swallows, pulse thundering in his veins.
“Oh, several times,” he replies, voice just a little too faint. He turns the Tesseract in his palm for a moment before he risks meeting Mobius’s gaze, his lips twisted into a humourless smile. “Even an Infinity Stone is useless here.”
He scoffs and tosses the Tesseract up into the air, catching it easily in his palm. It reminds him of ball games with Thor as a child, of the laughter and the sun on their skin, of the unquenchable joy that came from being young and alive.
“The TVA is formidable,” Loki says quietly. Mobius offers a thin smile.
“That’s been my experience,” he agrees, the pruning stick all but forgotten in his hands now. “Listen, I can’t offer you salvation, but maybe I can offer you something better.” He pauses, waits expectantly for the flicker of curiosity and intrigue in Loki’s eyes before continuing. “A fugitive Variant's been killing our Minutemen.”
Loki rises to close the distance between them. He shoots the weapon in the agent’s grip a wary look and comes to a stop, tilting his head to the side curiously.
“And you need the God of Mischief to help you stop him?”
“That’s right,” Mobius agrees beningly. Loki frowns, caught between smugness and confusion. He still doesn’t have all the puzzle pieces. He might finally understand why Mobius wants to work with him - because the TVA needs Loki’s expertise, because he’s clever and shrewd, and incredibly cunning - but there are others like that. Loki isn’t the only being with such wiles.
“Why me?” he asks. Mobius’s teeth worry at his bottom lip and it’s unintentionally distracting but, when he speaks next, all thoughts of his mouth and the things Loki might like to do to it are wiped from his mind.
“The Variant we’re hunting is… you.”
Loki gapes at Mobius in a distinctly ungodly manner.
“I beg your pardon?” he demands, eyebrows rising. Mobius smiles despite himself.
“It’s a lot to take in,” he says, shrugging. “I get it.”
He powers the pruning stick down and guides Loki towards the exit of the Time Theatre, his palm resting warm on his shoulder. Loki doesn’t resist. If anything, he leans subtly into the gentle touch and feels his heart stutter in his chest when Mobius squeezes gently, the touch comforting.
“C’mon, Loki,” Mobius says warmly. “Let’s bring you up to speed.”