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4387 hours
Loki is a little confused.
It's one thing to realise you're stuck in a time loop. It's another thing entirely to realise that, of all the scenarios you could be trapped in, it happens to be one of the few where your best friend is uncharacteristically ill-tempered.
And ill-tempered towards you, specifically.
Loki doesn't even notice it, to start with. It's not as though he's spending a great deal of time with Mobius in each loop, and at current all of his energy is focused upon learning elementary quantum physics. When he eventually picks up on the presence of a rift, he figures he'll just have to wait the vexation out. There's no time, and little point to dissect the nature of the problem when all social progress is spirited away at each Loom meltdown.
But ignoring it turns out to be a greater challenge in itself.
Loki is not used to unconditionals. Never in his very long life, save those early days, has he had something permanent. The universe taught him not to trust such luxuries, not if he wanted to survive.
So he's not quite sure how, in the arguably short period in which they've known each other, Mobius' kindness has become just that… unconditional. And with that assurance, Loki has grown dependent. Life may have illuminated him as to the risks of reliance, but Mobius all too quickly broke that lesson into pieces, and now Loki is stuck in the exact situation he has been in a plethora of times before: despairing, and waiting for reassurance to prop him back up again.
And once more, it seems that reassurance isn't coming naturally. Not until he figures out what's wrong, and until he figures out what to do about it, and until he figures out how to fix it permanently.
Which he's not had the capability for, amongst the bordering catastrophe.
He's content to let it sit, as unpleasant as it is, until he breaks free from the loop altogether. Amends can be made at the end of it all, when they're safe. A chilly breeze can be weathered. He'll manage.
Until, in due course, the loop varies just enough for the pieces to click into place.
Loki hunches over the countertop, tinkering with the underside of a TemPad. O.B. won't let him near the complex mechanisms, not until he can splice wires without making everything short-circuit. Which is proving a long, winding road of mistakes.
Despite aforementioned ire, it appears Mobius has little better to do than sit with him as he does this, every loop without fail. Perhaps quieter, temperament frostier, but present.
Loki appreciates it.
"Yeah, that's definitely not what the manual says."
Most of the time.
"I am aware," he retorts, holding the device up to scan it at a different angle, narrowing his eyes. "The physical adjustments are not as easy as they appear in written form."
"I mean, sure," Mobius returns, lightly, "but I'm pretty sure that using the screwdriver to literally deform the wires is maybe not what it said. Potentially."
"I'm taking an unorthodox approach," Loki grits out.
"Hey, if it works, it works."
Not a jab, not really, but given the TemPad currently isn't working, it feels akin to one. Certainly, after several repetitions of this exact conversation, it begins to cut. "Do you want to try?"
"I'm doing just great over here, thanks." He tilts his coffee cup up, finishing it, and stands. "Might head upstairs for a bit. See what's going on."
"Oh," Loki says, perking up as a memory slots into the forefront of his mind. "Could you potentially send Sylvie down here? I need to ask her something." She'd said something last loop about magical capacitors, which Loki could definitely use some more tutoring on. O.B. isn't well versed in the practical application of spellworking.
Mobius' tone gives him pause, as does the hesitancy before he speaks. "Sure. I'll make sure she heads this way."
Loki straightens, scanning him as he retreats, brow furrowed. Again, the irked manner has taken hold, his attitude frigid. It's the first real clue, and Loki is not too surprised to realise it's Sylvie at the base of this. The two of them don't have the most friendly history.
He racks his brain for further context, but everything not within the bubble of the loop seems so distant.
There was Brad, and tracking her down, and grappling over Timely, and Ravonna, and a whole host of other things – but none major. None that would rock what seems to be Mobius' immovable surety, nothing to throw him off in quite this manner. And what does Loki himself have to do with that?
Was it earlier? Her attacks on his colleagues, a buried hurt finally surfacing? No doubt with fair reason, but again, not typical for him to dwell on it now.
Later, then. Some time between return to the TVA and the start of the loop. Loki remembers little, all of it a wash of grey. They tempted Timely in, got him downstairs, and that was it. That's all that happened. That's –
It hits him with the force of a freight vehicle.
The argument.
Of course.
A mere quarrel in his eyes, but potentially far greater to Mobius.
And Loki overlooked that.
He shoots to his feet, scattering the dismantled TemPad screws across the counter. He swears, gathering them back up hastily, then darts for the door, shouting for Mobius to wait.
He catches up with him a corridor over, breath heaving – less from the sprint and more from the drum of apprehension in his chest.
"You okay?"
He gasps for breath. "Fine." He swallows. "Can we chat?"
Mobius tilts his head, eyebrows drawn. "About what?"
"Just… can we?"
Mobius simply looks at him. Forehead creased, a hint of a sigh ghosting his lips – it's an unnatural hesitation, from him. Loki can count on one hand the number of times Mobius has ever appeared genuinely beyond reason, and the only notable time remains the fractured half-hour after Brad's interrogation, in which he seemed truly shaken. Mobius is a man so grounded in reality that the moment he becomes uprooted, Loki feels as though he becomes untethered with him, suddenly floundering to gather them both back to safety when he's never had to play that role, not in this way.
But it's his responsibility to learn.
"Mobius," he tries, voice firm, but quiet, "please." He inclines his head towards the door, opening one arm wide in an invitation of guidance.
One last glance at the opposing exit. Loki's heart jumps, at once feeling this may be irreconcilable in the timeframe he's been given. The idea of being chained to a loop in which Mobius feels genuine hurt – any more hurt than unchangeably waits at each termination – makes his throat close up.
But, then, "Quickly," Mobius says, relenting. "I don't think O.B. is gonna let us both vanish for much longer."
Loki knows they have precisely fifteen linear minutes, if they stay here, but an additional few supposing they hide away in the Automat. So that is where he leads him, one hand hovering over the edge of his sleeve, too afraid to touch.
Having lived these past... however long it's been, stuck in the cycle – Loki has grown nervous of the rift. It's one-sided by nature, given Mobius has no concept of the alternative timespan, and by his measure is simply having a fairly-earned brood. But to Loki it feels the end of the world, to be stuck with the kindest man he's ever known, but stuck with a version of him that is upset. With him. Rightfully.
Reaching their destination, Mobius breaks away immediately, making for one of the tables and drawing up a chair. Counter to how many might, he's still hiding the hurt under a mask of normality, his folded arms the only betrayal of confrontation. "So, are we –"
"I wanted to apologise," Loki cuts in, abruptly. His tone comes across well even to his own ears, when in his head the words were a jumble of apprehension and a desperate pleading for forgiveness. He stays standing, exposed in the center of the wide room.
Mobius tilts his head, eyes narrowed. "Okay." He doesn't press further, perhaps sensing that this is not something Loki will procure in an instant. At least, Loki tells himself that's the motivation, before he loses his nerve in a torrent of self-doubt.
He swallows. "Our conversation with Sylvie, before this all really fell apart..."
"You mean a few hours ago?" Suspicion, sharper, laced into his words.
Loki curses the misstep, the reality that seems so natural to him still foreign to everyone else. "Yes." He offers a sad smile. "It seems like an age, in the rush of things."
This is fooling nobody, not when his voice wobbles, and certainly not when it's Mobius. But maybe he truly is too far gone to care, because, "Yeah," is all he says, stretching his fingers to wrap around his forearm.
"What happened," Loki continues, staring at the tiles, hoping they may teach him how to act, how to choose the right sentiment, how to apologise when nobody has shown him how to do so before, "it wasn't... I wasn't fair."
"Uh-huh." Not said to be derisive, but thoughtful: or Loki dares to interpret as such, eager for his flailing attempt at reconciliation to be judged in effort, rather than objectively.
"I should have... said something. I didn't think. I wasn't thinking, not clearly, and I realise now that it may have appeared that I was siding with... well, with Sylvie, and that wasn't my intention."
The strange demeanour Mobius is wearing seems already to have shed in part, a tinge of regret weaving into his voice. "It's not your job to defend me, Loki, not when I –"
"You have defended me countless times, in far more threatening scenarios," he counters.
"And you've saved my ass at least once, and probably a heck of a lot more, so don't start. I don't expect you to stick your neck out in every petty fight I get into. I don't even expect you to be on my side in –"
"But I was. And I am," Loki insists. He wrings his hands together, tracing the line of his thumb down to his palm over and over. "I have been since we met, in most regards. In far more than I've vocalised, at least."
Mobius is silent. His posture has stiffened, shoulders straight, and Loki can't help but feel he's saying everything wrong. The aim is to soothe, not to injure further.
He digs his nails into his skin, wrestling with the part of his mind whispering at him to give in, to escape before he worsens this. "I believe we would constitute a team," he murmurs, "and I did not support you when I should have."
He hesitates. He's not sure how much of this is about the lack of advocacy, and how much is on the trickier topic of who the argument was between. Although Loki is not always best aware of how to navigate such things, he is versed enough to detect when contention goes beyond a situational disagreement. "I did not," he continues, clasping his fingers together and looking up at Mobius, "illustrate that the team constituted us in the first place."
Having watched in silence, Mobius breaks eye contact sooner than usual, shuffling. "That's not... it's not a case of us against her. I don't want to set that precedent out."
"You don't have to, Mobius, that's what I'm saying. It's us," he waves his hand between them, "as a team. And while Sylvie seems to often take our side, which I am grateful for, you don't have to bank on her support to expect mine. So I'm sorry if that is what it appeared to be."
The tension is evaporating, slowly, water pulling together, hurt beginning to mend.
The corner of Mobius' mouth quirks upwards, reluctance keeping it subdued. "You're making me feel like I was a whole lot less subtle about this than originally planned."
"Not my intention," Loki says, a small laugh shattering what little irritation remains.
In truth, he had a nagging feeling that this was about something more. Mobius doesn't concern himself with personal losses; in fact, quite the opposite – he's built on self-sacrifice, his image less important than those he wishes to aid. Which implies that the fallout from the confrontation is built not on embarrassment, or discourtesy, but rather the particular breed of resentment Mobius carries in situations where Loki appears to abandon him in favour of Sylvie. Granted, the first times were all large betrayals, and warranted such a reaction, even if the force of his ire unsettled Loki upon his return. But now, where the treachery is minor, and still entices envy – that implies something else.
Loki really, really doesn't have the wherewithal to dissect that right now.
"But even so, I am serious," he resumes, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt, "and I'm sorry."
Perhaps it's an apology for larger missteps than just desertion, but Mobius doesn't need to know that.
"Thank you. And I'm sorry for being an asshole about it."
Loki shakes his head. "You weren't –"
"If it was so bad you've apologised unprompted, I definitely was," Mobius teases.
He bristles, then realises the statement is not inaccurate. "Perhaps a little."
Mobius grins, all suggestions of discontent melting at long last. Loki breathes out in silent relief, success sharp on his tongue. To avoid the moment reaching his heart, to stop the return to safety breaking his barriers and battering his shields once more, he turns aside. "O.B. will be looking for us."
"Looking for you, maybe." Mobius climbs to his feet. "I'm not exactly helping your concentration levels."
"You are." He can't lie, not about this. "You really are."
"I'm flattered. That mean you don't mind me sticking around for another linear hour or so?"
They won't reach a linear hour. Not by a long shot. Already, a pervading rumble runs underfoot. Loki can hear the meltdown in the air, feel the sensation of molecules about to leap apart, see the sharp pinpricks of light in the furthest corners of his eyes.
But it's the first time since this started that he's felt the footing is as it should be. So "Yes," he says. "I'd like that."
He'll make the most of however long this loop gives him.
98,345 hours
He gets the apology down to just a few words, eventually. With the time he's been provided it's a necessity, to smooth over the conflict in as little space possible. It becomes a practiced art, to throw out a quick few reassurances, a genuine smile, and tempt Mobius back to his usual self each loop.
But therein lies the real issue.
Loki doesn't know how to lie to Mobius.
Not to start with.
It's a downside of someone knowing where the stitches of the wounds come loose first, someone who senses the slightest of shifts and capitalises, sourcing the stem of the pain in a heartbeat. There's no dust Loki can use to throw up a cloud, not in the TVA. Nothing to obscure the worst of it.
With practice the scrutiny eases. He has spent countless years constructing charades upon whatever thing he is underneath, and his looping counterpart becomes nothing more than that – a performance as much as a being.
But, without fail, he reaches the end of his script and has to fumble through lines he's not yet had time to rehearse, and the illusion shatters into pieces with a shaky hand or a misplaced sigh, caught in an instant. On bad runs it can be anyone – or everyone – who picks up on the clues, the room filled with the heavy taste of suspicion. On better runs it might be Sylvie, or B-15 on occasion, who just so happen to catch him clinging onto the worktop, the rest of the team blissfully oblivious.
And always Mobius of course. There awaits the real challenge, and it's one Loki has faced time and time again, and again, and again.
"You wanna let go of that?"
Loki lifts his head, the motion tempting a rise of nausea, dulled by a bleary sheen to his vision. He clears his throat. "What?"
Mobius gives a brief smile, eyes crinkling in the corners. "I don't know how you expect O.B. to fit the, uh," he indicates the item Loki is holding onto, clinging delicately to the ridges, "the doohickey –"
"Focal gyroscope."
"Oh, geez, I wasn't remembering that either way. But –" he wiggles his fingers, "– team needs it now."
Loki deposits the item in his outstretched palm. His arm drops limply to his side.
"Appreciate it." Mobius doesn't move, expression still pleasant, but muted with a shade of doubt. "Are you –"
"Feeling okay?" Loki says, lips moving into the smile he knows is teasing, somewhere close to convincing. Hopefully dead on. He's not yet managed to hit the mark on this action, and knows very well that the succeeding inquisition wastes far too much time. Too many loops lost to a misstep and the unsurprising compassion of one man.
But, "Read my mind," Mobius says, the ghost of a laugh passing through his teeth.
He's never said that here before.
Loki perks up, throwing off the topmost layers of exhaustion. "I often do."
"Told you you'd have my job if you kept up. Not the only expert 'round here, evidently."
It's nothing entirely new. It's nothing Mobius hasn't said in another place, another time, another version of the loop buried deep in Loki's memory. But it's real and it's here, and the script has become an improvisation for a brief second, and the art of keeping a secret becomes that little more natural.
Which makes it overwhelmingly difficult to press onwards.
The further Loki climbs inwards, the more tantalising the idea of tearing apart the veneer becomes. With a word, or a stray apology, a sob of an admission, he could be rid of this seclusion. And he knows Mobius wouldn't hesitate, never, not when he would see the truth in a heartbeat. Not even in understanding what it means for him, his own personal doom as this variation, in a loop that will never succeed – not even then would he falter.
It's an enticing reality, the one in which Loki confesses, and simply crawls into his arms.
But it's not one that's fair. A problem halved is not so much a problem shared, rather a devastating reality thrust upon someone who could do without that knowledge in their final hours. Loki is not about to let his weakness bring about that.
He's made it this far. He can continue as is, and will soon know the story well enough to avoid the temptation of disclosure. It will be a topic for when he succeeds, and only then. Never to a variant within a dying loop.
Though, if there is an end to this, he can't help but wonder if he'll be so far enveloped in his own impersonation that he never makes it out again.
"Okay," Mobius says, interrupting his train of thought. The gyroscope is gone from his hands, the mechanical team bunched around the extractor on the other side of the lab. "You've not moved in ages and it's freaking me out a little, so why don't you and I take a trip upstairs, get a caffeine hit to keep us going?"
Oh, and Loki has heard that one before, and knows it signals the end of this loop. He's not about to save the day here – arguing his case gets him nowhere in this scenario. Mobius is too lovely and too stubborn, and has an annoying knack for coming out on top.
Still. "You know what?" Loki replies, voice strengthening. "That's a great idea." He grins, gesturing at the door. "After you."
It's a small courtesy before he vanishes. A gesture of goodwill. A kindness to leave things on a good note, for this version.
He timeslips before they reach the cafeteria.
816,825 hours
Loki is falling apart.
Time has never affected him in a mortal way. He doesn't grow hungry in the same manner, or long for rest in a similar way, and his hair only grows if he allows it, and he notices the decades passing rather than the minutes.
For a place where it shouldn't exist, the TVA is beginning to teach him a very human perspective of the passage of Time.
His joints don't cooperate as they should. His brain lags behind by a millisecond, thoughts buffering and loading in slow-motion. His throat is constantly dry, a few mouthfuls of bottled water being the only things he's dared pause for. His hair feels different – the same length in this timeless place, but tangled, twisted with the timeslipping, knotting at the ends. And the idea of sleep…
Gods, Loki wants to sleep.
He craves it in every waking moment. Convincing O.B. to teach him, he craves it. Listening to Casey instruct him, he craves it. Letting Timely tutor him, he craves it.
Seeing Mobius' eyes light up with concern, he craves it, more than anything.
But it's not for him to have. There's familiarity to denying it now; it gives him something to look forward to, a more tangible finish line than multiversal preservation. The moment he fixes the Loom and the timelines are safe, he can collapse, and beg the explanations remain undisclosed while he regains his footing. They will allow him that, he thinks, especially given that the closer they get to success, the more his presentation is slipping.
They move from basic foundational physics to quantum mechanics, and Loki begins to understand how pieces fit together. Together they plan out a prototype, and it's mostly them rather than him, but he's picking up details, memorising them with each new turn. Pouring over huge blueprints, committing each white diagram to memory, finally starting to build.
Every loop the physical progress resets, and he's back at square one.
Almost.
He's beginning to understand what to do. He's getting faster.
He can construct the processors in the blink of an eye, progressing onto the metal frame itself before the loop begins to unravel. When he gets good at that, it's an issue of programming the mainframe while balancing the engineering too, plus troubleshooting to round it off.
But he does it.
He gets closer, and closer, and then, apropos of what feels like nothing, they make it.
They actually make it.
A working prototype of a new device, better, built at astonishing speeds, and suddenly he has his hands on it. It's real. Compared to the initial version, this one boasts far more robust settings, fine-tuned to the situation it will be placed in – which Loki knows down to the precise millisecond.
This is going to work.
Respite is so close he can taste it, a hint that makes him ache, a pain felt all too keenly. Attempts to dampen it have begun to fail the closer he gets, the sting of frozen air sharper when the front door is visible through the snow, a golden outline in the dark.
The first loop in which he manages to complete it, he's so overwhelmed by the wash of joy, wrapped in overbearing nerves, that he can't bring himself to test it that round. The next loop he fumbles, too het up to concentrate properly.
The third loop, he pulls it off without error. He does it early even, more than early enough for Timely to get out and back ten times over. Enough time. Plenty of time.
And then they're in the Observation Room, everyone, together as a team, and Timely is unlocking the system and climbing into the suit, and Casey is helping him, and O.B. is teaching B-15 to operate the fail-safe on the opposite side of the space.
Mobius and Sylvie are less helpful, far more preoccupied with throwing suspicious glances in his direction. But that's of little concern, not when he's this close. He can explain when it's over.
He passes the device to Timely, running through the directions at a mile a minute. Precision can be transmitted through the communication system as he goes; he just needs to know to run, and to run fast.
A hand on his shoulder. "Woah, slow down there –"
"No time," Loki rebukes, something he has said before, a broken tape skipping back and back. He pushes past Mobius, to the console, tapping out commands onto the terminal as he hears the blast doors wrench open, Timely taking his first step forward.
Mobius follows him, hovering at his side. "Loki, look, I'm sure O.B. and the team know –"
"Know what they're doing, yes. There's no rush, yes. I know." His words become short, more cutting than warranted. "I would simply very much like this ordeal to –"
"Yeah, I know, but we've got –"
"Plenty of time. Yes. I know, Mobius."
Mobius senses this is his cue to stop talking, lest he causes greater upset, but the hurt is visible in his face, confusion flitting along his brow.
The operation proceeds as expected. Loki is bouncing on the balls of his feet, about to vibrate out of his skin. He knows it's the first time around, he knows it's not necessarily going to work on the first attempt, but it will tell how close he's come.
Timely reaches the end of the platform. He activates everything as instructed. The device connects. Everything is working. Everything is working. Everything is –
"Oh." A quiet voice. Nervous. O.B., staring at a screen across the room.
It's enough to make Loki's heart stop still in his chest.
"O.B.?" he calls. Receiving no reply, he gently manoeuvres around Mobius, nudging him aside. "What's the –"
"This isn't going to work."
Perhaps it's testament to his newfound resilience, that he refuses to believe him. "What? Of course it is." He scans the monitor. "Whatever the problem is, I'm sure I can –"
"No, it's not. Full-stop. Not this approach."
Loki stares at him, mouth dry. "What's wrong with our approach?" And then, for his sake – because even if it's beyond the timescope of this loop, potentially it's not too disastrous for him personally – he asks "How long will it take to fix?"
"Well, uh – forever."
"O.B.," he says, voice dangerously low, "why."
O.B. looks justifiably terrified, and Loki receives a tempering hand on his elbow for his bad manners, Mobius returning to his side. O.B. stutters, "We've been looking at this from a straightforward temporal route, right?" But I didn't really think about the branches as separate entities. I'm so used to it being one timeline, that I thought scaling in a linear fashion would be fairly, ah – well, not simple, but simple-ish. Which it was, with your help, but –"
"The point?"
He swallows. "Time is taking isn't taking up a linear field right now. There's too much entanglement between space and the branches. If we expand, we'd risk deforming timelines."
"And you've never thought of this before," Loki says grimly. And it's not ire at this O.B., never, but rather frustration that this has not once appeared in their century of conversations. A century.
"No. It's a whole different field. A new field. We'd be looking at a specific branch of topology, like experimental chronodynamics, and even I've never touched it, not properly."
Loki inhales. He exhales. And inhales. "So this was one long bootless errand."
O.B. doesn't sugar-coat. It's painful, but useful. "Seems like it, yeah. We'd need… well, a good few hundred years to make enough advancements to adjust."
Loki forgets how to breathe.
It comes with splintering realisation, that this knoll he's spent a century trying to summit has been hiding a mountain just beyond, and his mind doesn't cooperate when he tries to reply. Nor does his body react when he tries to escape and slip away from this loop.
For the first time since he started all this, he stops.
Mobius, ever the first to regain footing, presses O.B. about other options, other things they might do. The conversation filters into Loki's mind without him really hearing it, each posed solution an impossibility he disregarded years before. He vaguely hears Timely return, but the information doesn't reach his brain, not at a usual pace.
He exhales.
A whole new direction. A whole new round of challenges. What was meant to be the final stretch has become the first sprint, the finish line out of sight well over the horizon.
He raises a hand to his forehead, pressing his fingers to his temples and squeezing. A century-old migraine, masked by exertion, resurfaces, becoming a buzz of pain behind his eyes. A wash of grey follows, the creeping sense of wrong, and this body of his suddenly feels very mortal and very old.
He clings to the railing, inhaling in a short gasp.
He almost jumps out of his skin when a hand lands firmly on his shoulder, warm and solid. "We've got time. Now O.B. knows we've taken a wrong turn, we can backtrack."
Mobius is playing at certain, as are the rest of the team, exhausted but undefeated in wake of the setback.
Loki meets O.B.'s eyes and finds, for once, recognition in another.
He knows they're not making out of this. He doesn't know that Loki will make it out, and that he'll keep trying until everyone does, that's not the most comforting reality. To tell someone that this version of themselves will die, and that only in the distant future another copy may survive, an entirely different person built on the same molecules and memories, feels almost as cruel as letting them die unaware.
"How long do we have?" Loki asks.
He's already aware, of course, but the answering, "A few hours," acts as a timeline for the rest of the group.
He nods. That's more than enough time to get the jumpstart on the new field. Get the basic resources picked out now, then next loop he'll be ready for the new start, and he can leap right into figuring this all out again.
He doesn't move.
He's not sure he remembers how to.
If he's not going to work here, he should slip now. Get back to it in the next loop.
He doesn't.
His legs source motivation of their own kind, and lead him to the wall. He turns, presses his back to the cool surface, and sinks to the floor. Clasping his hands together, looping them tightly, he presses his palms to the back of his neck.
It's as though coming to a standstill has given him whiplash, and allowed the horror to barrel him over. Every moment he stays here, hunched over and focused on not passing out, the dread grows, a suffocating flood squeezing his lungs. He inhales again, low and trembling, and the sound catches in his windpipe. He's long beyond feeling embarrassed about his proclivity for a hopeless weep, as that's a trait he's carried his whole life, not an action that will seem uncharacteristic to his friends. But, now Time has finally pinned him down, it's dragging him into a despair he'd thought impossible.
Even through the haze of surfacing distress, derealisation following seconds behind, he takes solace in the fact he's disguising this well. The others will see a picture of fatigue, of dejected collapse, but no deeper. He grits his teeth around the truth and bites, holding it still.
He's learnt to lie, and he's learnt to do it well.
A murmur. Then again, louder. Footsteps shuffling away, all attempts at subtlety dissipating with the resonance of heels on metal.
Silence.
Loki is not so hopeful as to assume he's alone.
He is hopeful enough to assume that someone else might have made the call. Someone who will let him hide, let him sit here undisturbed, attempt at comfort limited only to their presence.
He's not so lucky.
"Loki?"
Loki has no remaining capacity. He remains, head buried safely in his arms, heart thumping so fast it hurts. A chill comes over his limbs, the worst of all his ailments, leaving him shaking.
"Loki, you reckon you can sit up for me?" Again, patient. Mellow. Attentive. Good.
And Loki can't save him.
He shakes harder.
A sigh. "Okay, I'm not too sure what's best here. If you can bear with me long enough to get up, we can get you somewhere more comfy, and then I'll leave you be if you want. But here's not the best spot."
He feels lightheaded. A wash of grey overtakes his vision. Pressure builds behind his eyes. He can't slip away. He can't get away to save everyone.
"Right. Okay. Let's start slow. I know you're probably not too hot on touching right now, but I'm just going to –"
Loki's going to die here. He's freezing. His body is giving up on him. He's left it too late, and he's going to kill everyone alongside him. With nobody to loop, everything dies. That's on him.
Pressure on his wrist, the faintest of touches. Warm, a light brush of fingers against his skin.
Clarity returns, in part, something clicking back into place.
This is Mobius he's with. Mobius.
Fortitude gives out entirely. He's fearfully cold, and if he's about to die, there's nobody he'd rather do it with.
He lifts his head at last, finding Mobius kneeling close, concern lining his eyes. A palpable relief softens his worry, and he withdraws his outstretched hand.
Loki lets out a pathetic sound, a whispered "No," and surges back into the touch. He practically tackles Mobius, weak with fright, and wilts against him. He's so cold, the opposing heat like a brand, thawing the numbness. He seeks more of it, pressing forward with abandon.
"Alright, you're fine, you're okay," Mobius says. Still, some sense must remain, because they're huddled on the floor of the Observation Room, the Loom beginning to give up in direct eyeline. Flashes of bright white, new to Mobius but entirely too familiar to Loki, cast the room in shadow. "But we've got to move. I promise, we just need to head upstairs and you can relax, but we can't stay here. You reckon we can do that?"
Loki gives a trembling nod. But from his lips, doubt falls without inhibition, kept hidden for decades. "I can't do this. I can't fix this. The Loom, it's going to collapse. It's always going to collapse. I can't fix it. I don't have enough time. I –"
But then, "We can fix it up, we've got time, we've got plenty of time," Mobius is saying, and Loki is shaking his head, because he has all the Time in the world and still is beginning to believe there will be no fixing this.
"No, I can't – it's not going to –"
Mobius merely hushes him, and it would be frustrating under any other circumstance, but Loki grasps onto the chance to let someone else do the thinking for once. The arm holding him in a loose embrace moves to his elbow instead, and he's being tugged up to his feet, and then out of the Observation Room, away from the Loom splintering apart.
This instance of the loop will not last much longer.
He doesn't process where Mobius is leading him, too spent to trace the journey on floors he knows better than anyone should. His gaze remains fixed on the toes of his shoes, focused on the slow motion of putting one ahead of the other.
They reach their destination. Mobius' apartment. Loki remembers it vaguely. He sees it even more vaguely, senses ruined by hysteria.
Everything happens in a blur. One singular drone of movement, segmented only lightly, all of it happening at once. Mobius sits him on the couch, bringing the scratchy TVA sheets from the adjoining room, probably straight off his own bed. He wraps them around Loki. Then it's the whistle of a kettle. A hot mug held out to him, taken only to hold close to his chest. A slice of plain toast, placed on a plate, set on the coffee table beside the settee.
Mobius is so careful, Loki could start crying.
He's absently aware that he probably is crying.
Yet all of it remains muted with guilt. He's stealing the final hours of a dying man, driven into something entirely selfish by a desperation he thought he'd rid himself of long ago. Each hopeless glance, every time he's spared a second to reach the distance and seek comfort, it's left him with a sick sense of guilt.
All that pales in comparison to now.
Finally, Mobius sits near him with a sigh, drawing up a dining chair just across from him. Leaving physical space, but somehow bringing them closer. "How you feeling?" he asks.
Loki realises the tea has gone cold. He's been here far too long already. He shakes his head. "A little better," he replies, voice hoarse. "Thank you."
"Is there anything I can do to help? Beyond fixing everything," Mobius adds, mouth twitching up.
Loki wets his lips, perilously close to letting the truth spill forth. So close. Too close. "I just…" he tails off and bites back a sob, breath hitching. "I want to stop."
Mobius instantly looks forlorn, an unusual distance coming over his demeanour. "There is never a situation in which I would begrudge you a break, Loki. Never." A delicate pause. "No matter which version of me it is."
Loki's exhale catches in his throat.
All that lying, all the decades hiding under a mask, and Mobius still knows. Of course he still knows.
Maybe all of them did.
"I'm just saying," Mobius continues, when Loki can't unfreeze and open his mouth to respond, "I always take some time out when I'm working on something big. Come back kicking." He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Loki's ear, leaving his heart pounding in wake of the touch.
"I don't know if I will come back," he whispers, at last.
Mobius gives him a look, the mixture of firm amusement that always makes Loki want to move the universe for him. "Yeah, I don't believe that. You don't believe that either."
And Loki looks down, murmuring, "Okay. I don't believe that either."
Mobius slots a finger under his chin, drawing his face back up, eyes fond. "There we go." He leans back. "Now, you want anything else? Not that I got much else to offer, but I can give it a shot."
Loki gives a watery smile. "You've done more than enough. Although the idea of a nap is quite tempting, I'll admit. Though not feasible, given…" He can't sleep. Not when he's responsible for reverting the loop.
Mobius understands. "You don't even want a little shut-eye? I could stay with you. Wake you up, if you're scared of… or if you need me to."
Loki falters.
Never has anything sounded so appealing.
A glimmer blooms in the corner. The leg of the table begins to fray, wood twisting and turning into thin strings of molecules, and then breaking off into nothing. From that point outwards it grows: not a Loom explosion, but a loop termination caused by diverging too far.
It's too late.
Loki's heart skips several beats. Mobius notices the change in his expression, face falling.
"Don't look," Loki begs, drawing his attention back. "Please."
A grimace. "Okay."
"Mobius, I'm so –"
"Yeah, I know," Mobius replies, and beneath the grim resignation, it's as genuine forgiveness as a dying man can give. "I know."
"I promise, I will –"
"You will. I know you will. Then we can finally have that nap, huh?"
Loki laughs, all of Mobius' care undone as he fails to swallow back tears. "I'll look forward to it."
A small smile in return, but shaken, fear washing off him in droves. His eyes flicker shut, a furrow forming between his brows. "Is this gonna happen really slowly?"
Never has Loki had to reassure him. A benefit of hiding behind the veil.
"No," he chokes out. "It's fairly quick."
"That's good," Mobius says, words more air than voice.
Loki's shields crumble.
He darts forward, gathering Mobius into his arms.
It's awkward, with the way they're sat opposite, but he ignores it, cradling his head against his shoulder. He wraps himself around him like he might be able to protect him, using his body as a safeguard.
Mobius leans into the contact, grabbing him with equal vigour, nails painful through Loki's shirt. "Look after yourself. You can't save us if you're dead."
"I will. I will."
"Breaks, Loki," he stresses, because of course he does, even now. "Please be careful."
"I will," he says, and doesn't stop saying. He says it again and again and again. He holds him there and hopes he'll never go.
And he holds him even when he's gone, eyes screwed shut and arms outstretched around empty space.
He stays for a long time.