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3,002,020 hours
Loki can't do it.
He can't leave.
All preparations have been made. Plans and calculations, logistics smoothed out over years worth of research. This grand idea of offering himself up as a new source did not come in a day or a year, or even a decade. He's poured hundreds of hours into planning, spent a century pouring over the specifics, until he's nailed every single step into his head, every scientific and supernatural requirement, as natural to him as breathing.
Within those long years, he makes his peace.
He tried everything to fix the Loom. Revisiting it uncovers no new cure, no miraculous remedy to the branches ripping apart. It seems there is no fix for the structure. It is, as it was always intended to be, a failure.
So Loki grows used to the idea of leaving, in theory. It's logical. It's necessary. He has to do it.
For them.
Closing in on the cusp of the fourth century, he finalises the plans. All of them, laid out in his mind, rehearsed to complete familiarity.
Goodbyes are the hardest.
Loki sets aside a loop for each of his friends. A singular iteration, a time allocated purely to the act of thanking them, of wishing them well, of memorising their mannerisms so he may carry them with him, wherever he might end up.
He's not sure he'll survive the transition – he's not sure anyone will survive – but be that the path he laid out for him, he hopes the impressions of his friends are found etched into the forefront of his skull.
All of this is done without telling them, of course. That one version of Casey will never know why Loki spent a whole cycle listening to him explain varying types of capacitor designs. That one version of O.B. will never understand why Loki pulled him aside and planted the idea of writing in his mind. That one version of B-15 will never understand why, in the heat of catastrophe, Loki chose to make amends, to apologise and settle the uneven ground between them.
None of these variants make it past Loom termination. But, in Loki's head, he's left them with something. In a forgotten branch, long gone, he changed the tides.
He appears to a branchside Sylvie once more, to discuss the matter of killing her. He long ago ruled out that option, but revisiting it cements that fact in his mind.
He's closing all the doors on his way out.
Mobius is last.
Loki knows he won't stand to face a present version of him. He'll crumble to pieces.
He slips to the Time Theatre, the interrogation, wanting for more than a farewell. He needs a shove off the edge, someone to finally give up clinging and let him fall off the precipice. Mobius has been holding him over the abyss for long enough. Loki needs his permission to let go.
And he finds it.
Past Mobius is the exact level of firm that Loki needs. Scar tissue. Choose your burden.
It's the release into the void.
"Thank you, Mobius," he says. He shakes his hand. He tries not to throw himself across the table. He succeeds. Somehow.
Timeslipping to the present, the loop termination for the final time, he looks around at his friends and smiles.
Despite everything, he smiles.
He takes a step towards the stairs.
"Loki?"
Loki tries not to react. A flinch travels, unbidden, up his spine. He grits his teeth.
Another step.
"Loki, what are you –"
Mobius' voice is cut off by a sonorous boom, ringing from behind the blast doors. The team duck back, wincing as a beam of colour hits the glass.
Another step.
He's moving so slowly.
"Loki?" Sylvie's voice, and there's motion in his peripheral vision now, a bustle of movement.
He has to save them. They'll all die if he doesn't save them. He has to.
Finally, his body catches up with his mind. Survival instinct breaks under the pressure of responsibility, of care, of love for every single person in the room. Worn away already by centuries of solitude, his desire finally wrangles his preservation into a corner, letting him take control.
He has to do this.
He darts towards the top of the stairs. Instantly, behind him, shouts, footsteps, the team's realisation arising in a heartbeat.
Loki throws himself to the airlock doors, flinging himself into the metal with a gasp. He fumbles for the controls, forgetting his magic in his haste, reaching and –
Too slow.
Someone gets their hands on him, and all the fight drains away in the space of a breath.
He's tackled, hoisted back from the door. He complies with them for a few shaky steps before his legs give out entirely and he slumps forward. He hears a curse, so foreign in Mobius' mouth that he doesn't quite believe it's him, until he's lowered gently to the floor and he can hear his ragged breathing against his ear. Though he's now entirely limp, collapsed to his knees, Mobius keeps an arm wrapped tightly around his chest, the other gripping his waist so hard it aches, practically folded over him. The restraint, for all its roughness, feels like a cradle.
Sylvie did not remain idle – he lifts his head and watches through his hair as she fries the control panel entirely, rounding on him, teeth bared in fury.
Those doors will not be opening this loop.
"What are you thinking," she hisses, voice alight with rage – which he knows, by now, is all concern, hidden under anger.
Loki places his hands firmly on the floor, hunching over. Sensing his desire to play hero is no longer viable, Mobius releases him in part, straightening to sit against the wall, but keeps one arm tight around his torso, tugging him in the same direction. His breath is still coming fast, Loki can hear it ringing harshly in his chest.
"Are you insane?" Sylvie says, in the same tone. "Going out there would be suicide, you absolute –"
"Sylvie," Mobius warns, a little gruffly.
She falls silent.
Loki finally gives in and collapses into the wall beside Mobius, turning over so he can lean against it. Mobius' hold on his chest moves instead to his shoulder, near the base of his neck, the steadfastness of his touch suggesting he's ready to restrain him if he so much as shifts.
Vaguely, through the yellow light at the top of the staircase, Loki can make out the outline of the rest of the team, uncertainty evident in their ceaseless quiet.
Mobius breaks first. "Can we have a second," he says to Sylvie, shifting to sit up straight. He releases Loki. She goes to protest, but he presses on. "Team needs to regather. Might still have time to get the original plan rolling."
At long last, a short nod. She turns to the stairs and begins to climb without another word. At the top, she begins barking orders for everyone to continue working, to get Timely scanned and the multiplier set up.
It leaves Loki and Mobius in relative silence.
"Loki," he starts, and, instantly, Loki knows that his actions this loop have lifted the disguise entirely. This is not a version of Mobius who is oblivious, who is disillusioned or unaware, nor is it a version who is only vaguely suspicious, unable to pinpoint a reason.
This is a Mobius who has seen what he's done, and all the pieces have fallen together entirely.
"Whatever is making you think this is the right choice – however long you've been doing this – don't."
"Of course you'd say that," Loki says, voice wavering, "but I have to."
"No you don't." He turns, kneeling close to him on the floor. "There is no reason you have to."
"But there is," he whispers, "There is and I can't. I can't go through with it. I can't."
Mobius grabs him, demanding, and never before has Loki heard him so fierce, so unrestrainedly urgent. "And I am telling you. You don't have to."
Loki's rationalisation starts to shatter, melting to nothing on the floor. "No," he murmurs, a pitiful noise climbing into his words.
"Yes." Mobius gives him a small shake. "Let me help you," he says, as he's said before, and as he'll always say. "Find the next version of me, and make him help you."
"It never works. We never find anything."
"But maybe this time you will."
And here, down to the overwhelming strength in Mobius' conviction, is why Loki did not want to say goodbye to this version.
He wants to give in. More than anything, he wants to give in.
"Loki, please," Mobius begs, eyes wide.
But he can't.
He can't.
He can't.
He shuts his eyes, leaning away from the touch. Gathering his strength, he wrenches away, taking the only escape remaining to him.
He timeslips into an empty corridor, somewhere long before the Loom becomes a major issue. Stumbling into the wall, he clutches at his stomach, gulping down air and trying not to retch.
His foundations are crumbling. All of them, centuries worth of preparation, disintegrating in the wake of a failed attempt. Holding his arms tight around himself, he attempts to force everything back into place, sealing all the fear inside.
Why couldn't he do it?
What stopped him? What halted him, when he's confirmed it's the only way?
He waits for his shaking to subside, the image of Mobius' face, terrified by the full awareness of his plan, lingering on his eyelids.
He has to talk to him. He can't just try again, not after that. He needs to see him. He needs to figure out what's holding him here.
Fighting to remember the intricacies of this time, he begins his trek along the corridor.
He finds Mobius in O.B.'s lab, chatting with the team. Without even feigning normalcy, he launches at him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling.
"Loki, what –"
He clings to him like he'll vanish if he lets go, dragging him away and down the corridor, towards the elevators.
He's always been far stronger, of course, but he's never used that to his advantage, not against Mobius.
It seems today is a day for many firsts. There's no way in hell Mobius could wrench his hand back, not without ripping his jacket. Sensing he's close to doing just that, Loki slips his fingers around his wrist instead.
He leads them to Mobius' apartment, keying in the code he shouldn't know. He yanks Mobius inside, shutting the door behind them, then releases him. He strides into the center of the living space and rounds on him, breath heaving in his chest.
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have brought him here. He should leave while he still has the bearings to do so. This isn't fair.
Mobius straightens his jacket, smoothing over where it's been pulled askew. His eyes never leave Loki's face, beckoning explanation.
Loki opens his mouth. He shuts it again. He can't. He can't give in now, not after all this time.
Mobius sighs, tilting his head. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"
He stares at him, helpless. Arms resting uselessly at his side, as though he's waiting for Mobius to move first, to fix any part of this disaster.
"Or is it just one of those days?" The words are too muted, missing lighthearted by a mile, but the attempt is so Mobius.
Loki finds himself nodding. "One of those days," he replies, voice a choked whisper.
They stare at each other. Loki inhales, grappling to keep himself under control.
Mobius draws his hand from his pocket, tilting towards the bedroom to gesture him over. "Okay, you look like shit. I think maybe you should take a –"
"If you could go anywhere," Loki cuts in, sourcing his courage, "if you could go anywhere ever, where would you go?"
"Is that… relevant?"
"Where, Mobius? When?"
He shakes his head. "I've said already, I'm not interested in learning about –"
"Not that. I don't care about your variant. I'm asking about you."
"Then I'm not kidding when I say I've literally never thought about it."
Loki hisses in frustration, the discordant nature of his conscience affecting his cover.
Mobius laughs, a little bewildered, "Loki, there are infinite possibilities. It's not like I've got enough memories to base preferences on. If I remembered I was from –" he waves his hand absently, "– I don't know, nineteenth century San Francisco or something, I might think different. But I've got no clue. Where would you go?"
"Asgard," Loki answers, without hesitation.
"See?" With a nod, expression gentle, Mobius folds his arms. "If you're looking to take time out –" of course he catches on immediately, "– why don't you head there for a bit? We've got loads of people jetting off these days, I can get the clearance sorted and –"
"I don't want to go there. This isn't… this isn't about that."
"So what –"
"I want to get out of the TVA. With you. For… for a while. A few hours. Where we're not working, and we can just… do something. I don't know."
Mobius blinks. "Why?"
Because he's not ready to leave. Because he's holding himself back. Because he can't help but think he's leaving something behind.
Because all of this is about to end long before he even tried to let it begin.
But, "I don't know," he replies. "Just… please."
It's a cruel hand to play, the one that he knows will crumble Mobius' hesitation in an instant, but he's starving for acceptance, desolation making him harsh.
"Fine," Mobius says, still suspicious, still cautious, but making the jump onto his side. Loki could cry. "I'll put in a request, get that signed by –"
"No. We need to go right now." Loki strides into his space, grabbing his arm as he pulls out his TemPad.
"Now?"
"Right now."
"No, we're gonna get –"
"Choose a place," Loki interrupts, thrusting the keypad towards him. "Somewhere nice, preferably, but I'm not picky."
"Loki, this is –"
"Choose or I choose, and I have far less knowledge of popular destinations."
"I'll come, but I am not picking a place." Mobius' concern simmers down, a glint in his eye. That rogue desire to sow mild carnage, always well cloaked, appears to have overtaken his doubt, as Loki hoped it would. Adding to the fact that, in this post-Sacred timeline period, he is overworked and tired, probably wanting for a break almost as much as Loki. "Dealers' choice on that one. And we need to be quick."
Loki voices his frustration in the back of his throat, racking his brains for somewhere suitable. "Fine, but it's your fault if this is terrible." He taps the coordinates in, releasing Mobius for a second.
"We're gonna be in so much trouble."
"You can blame me," Loki says, still fumbling with the input.
"Trust me, I will. As far as I'm concerned this is kidnapping." Contrary to his statement, he's smiling. "Just so happens that it's a kidnapping I'm pretty willing to go along with, if it gives me an hour off."
The Time door sparks into life ahead of them. "That's the plan," Loki replies. Without warning, he tugs him through, tapping at the TemPad to shut it behind them.
A wave of warmth hits, the damp, humid kind, heavy in the atmosphere. Around them, on the seafront pathway they've stumbled onto, the crash of turbulent water echoes, ringing against the opposing cliff-face. Hazy, the sky is a dim blue, perhaps a tinge more purple than that of Midgard, the sun a bright orange. Of the few people sharing the walkway with them, all are human – outwardly, anyway – the features close enough in appearance to trick the eye.
Loki rounds on Mobius, still clinging to the sleeve of his jacket. "Okay. What do we do?"
Mobius brings a hand up to shield his eyes, brows knitting together as he glances around, drinking in the world. "Is this –"
"Not Earth. I briefly studied this place in a previous case, and thought it would suit our needs well enough, given we both appear to be indecisive."
"I'll say. Seems nice."
"Indeed. Now, returning to my previous question, what –"
Mobius laughs, the sound sharp and clear. "Loki, you brought me out here. I can't host the date if I don't know what the vibes are."
Loki freezes, before allowing his body to resume a natural posture. It's just as likely he meant the word in an entirely normal sense, referring to the event-like nature of this outing. But there is an offhand chance he meant it the other way, and Loki isn't quite sure how to feel about that. "I see."
"Did you pick this location in particular?" Mobius prompts, careful. He's wearing an easy grin, slightly teasing, the crooked nature of it lighting his face up.
"I... I don't know. You like watercraft. And missions outside of urban areas. The ocean is a natural choice, no?"
"It's a very thoughtful one," he replies.
Loki narrows his eyes. "Sarcasm?"
"Nope," he says cheerfully. "Not a drop."
"Ah. Thank you, then. I'm glad it's an acceptable location."
Mobius' face breaks into a fully-fledged beam, eyes twinkling. "Did you have any ideas for what we might do once we got here?"
Loki falters. Too many years have passed since he last existed without a visible purpose, so to choose a path without a goal seems impossible. Even in his rest periods, the focus remained on healing, in order to continue with his mission.
Mobius takes pity on him. "Walking is a pretty normal way to start these things off. Y'know, if you're stuck for ideas."
A short nod. "Walking, yes. That sounds good, if you are –"
"I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't want to do it," he interjects, stepping forward and grabbing his elbow, tempting him into an easy pace. He releases him as they fall into step, making their way along the seafront.
The location Loki chose is small, a settlement to their right that begins to taper off almost immediately. The population – mostly research-based meteorologists – is minimal, and due to be wiped out by an earthquake in two years. It's one of the few places Loki remembers as somewhere they checked very early on in their Sylvie investigation, in part due to his fascination with their similarities to Midgard, despite the distance.
The walkway ahead of them winds alongside a towering rockface, cliffs of brown and grey high above the ocean. The tide is rolling in, water crashing against the storm defences, spraying up in white foam. The coolness of the salty mist is welcome.
It's been so long since he was just outside. Away from the TVA. Away from the Loom. Away from the loop.
All of which he's definitely still trapped in, but not here.
Mobius hums. "Sand's pretty," he says, indicating the stretch of exposed beach.
He must be exaggerating, because Loki has seen sand in far more appealing shades, much softer, in nicer conditions, and less likely to result in being barrelled over by a surge of the sea. "I think that may be a collection of pebbles, rather than sand."
"Spoilsport."
"Apologies. The sand looks lovely."
"There we go," Mobius nudges him. And then heads towards the uneven steps leading down from their raised path to the water level.
"Oh, absolutely not. Terrible idea."
"Loki, how often do we get to actually take in this kind of stuff?"
"While I share your sentiment," he says, tailing after him reluctantly, "I think the ocean is rather more interested in taking you in right now." He halts at the top of the stairs.
Mobius reaches out, beckoning him down to the beach. "Come on."
Loki hesitates.
"Come on, scaredy-cat."
He grimaces, descending the stairs. "You flatter me so."
Mobius smirks, but says nothing, waiting for them to be on equal ground before he turns to the sea. Wind whistles along the coast, still warm, but a little clammier, cooling down. The waves crest and break before them, reaching across the sand and halting a metre or so from their feet.
"Y'know, if you're gonna be piloting out in this weather, it's actually better to have a stand-up jetski model?"
"Oh?" Loki's lips curl up, a thrill running through him as he realises Mobius has taken to this environment as he'd wanted him to, but hadn't dared to hope for.
"Yeah, something like the Kawasaki SX-R range would be good. Better shock absorption if you're on your feet in the swell."
"I should have picked another location. You could've actually attempted to ride one."
He shakes his head. "This is great. I'll get around to it one day, but it's nice just like this. And it's not in good taste if I spend the whole time jabbering on about dynamic shock dampening anyways."
"I'm certainly not opposed to it."
"Don't tempt me, 'cause I'll get annoying real fast."
Loki moves ahead, angling himself to face him, rather than the rolling water and the clouds gathering, a deepening grey invading the clear. "You could never truly annoy me."
"Oh, now who's laying on the flattery?"
He rolls his eyes. "You are quite impossible to genuinely compliment."
"I'm not sure that calling me tolerable is really high praise, but by all means, keep it coming."
"I'll make my best efforts to." Loki presses his lips together, fighting a smile. "You are inadvertently funny on occasion."
"That so?" Mobius plays the role well, battling to keep a neutral expression as his eyes gleam, bright with amusement.
Loki takes a step forward, back to the waves, focus directed entirely on the man ahead of him. "And you happen to be one of the most bearable mortals I've met."
"God, that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said. How can I move on?"
Sincerity begins to build in Loki's chest, desperate to spill forth. Behind the jesting, the idea of admission resurfaces, bubbling to the forefront of his mind – the thing tethering him here, at least to his knowledge, this confession chaining him to repeating the loop over and over and over. He'll always be too slow to leave so long as it's weighting him down, a restraint forcing him to slow at the blast doors, to wait for them to drag him back.
He needs to be rid of it.
"Mobius," he says, and they're close now, faces on the same level with how Loki is lower down on the sand, "I need to –"
Mobius grabs his shoulders and yanks him back, both of them stumbling towards the sea-wall. Loki, too surprised to resist, follows as bidden. "Wha –"
A cool sensation as water catches up with his feet. The swell of the wave reaches to his ankles, climbing over the toes of his shoes and flooding his socks.
Mobius continues tugging him away from the chasing sea, even as it retreats. "Sorry," he says, laughing, "I wasn't paying attention."
Loki looks down at his sodden trouser legs. "Evidently," he mutters.
Still laughing, Mobius raises a hand to cover his mouth. "My bad."
"It is of little consequence. I could have escaped it myself, had I wished to."
"What, with your powers of foresight?"
If only he was aware how close that statement veers to true. But not here, so Loki simply huffs. "I do not require rescue."
A shrug. "Suit yourself," he says, releasing him with a playful shove.
No doubt this was intended as little more than a ploy to return him to ankle height water. But, as minimally as the mischief was intended, Loki has not slept in four hundred years, and his balance does tend to echo that quite clearly. Following the mild motion caused by the push, he fights to keep himself upright for about two milliseconds before his brain decides to entirely give out on him. He feels the ocean underfoot, and promptly falls with a splash onto the ground.
As seems to be a theme with rockier beaches, it gets deep far more suddenly than it would appear from the surface.
He's spitting and cursing when Mobius reaches him, cackling now, braving the knee-deep sea to help him up. His apologies sound more genuine, at least, though not entirely sincere given the volume of his laughter.
"I retract my earlier statement," Loki splutters, as they retreat to the base of the stone stairs. "You apparently can be that annoying."
"In my defence, I didn't think you were gonna go flying," Mobius snorts, "so that's a you issue." But despite his mirth, once he's pulled Loki back up onto the main walkway, safe from the waves and the spray, he turns to fuss over him, pulling a stray piece of seaweed from his collar. "You look like a cat fell in a bathtub."
Loki's heart is hit with a pang of longing. Too many versions have said that, at one point or another. "That is unsurprising," he replies, somehow maintaining a steady tone. He shakes off Mobius' searching hands to draw his hair over his shoulder, now sodden, hanging straight in parts and wildly curly in others, trying to wring it out with his hands.
"Can't you just use magic to do that?"
He can't tell him that he's exhausted, that he's saving his energy for the main event, that he's gathering the strength and the willpower to source more power than he's ever dreamed of possessing. That wasting any effort on drying his hair seems a lavish self-indulgence. "Given we have no clearance to be here, I am playing it safe," he lies instead, still fighting with the tangles. The weather has turned the air frigid now – although perhaps that's due to his less-than-warm clothing situation. He grits his teeth together as he again tries to squeeze the ocean from his hair.
"Here," Mobius says, shrugging his jacket off. He offers it to Loki, who stares at him. "Towel," he explains, shaking it.
"Oh, I can't –"
"Take it," he insists, and when Loki makes no move, gives an exaggerated sigh, crowding into his space, "Fine, c'mere." He lifts it towards his hair, patting the ends dry.
Loki hoists it from his hands before he gets too far into the work, "Alright, I have it." The material does little in terms of absorption, but is far better than just his fingers. The snarls smooth out into damp waves, coiling around his face.
The minimal company they had on the seafront has vanished, the locals departing back to the settlement. Loki looks to the sky, finding it darker than when they arrived.
Once satisfied, although regretful at just how drenched Mobius' jacket has become, he straightens, shaking his head to jostle the last of the water out.
When he finally looks up, Mobius is rooted to the spot, gazing at him as if he's uncovered the secrets of the multiverse.
"What?" he says, self-consciously tucking a stray strand behind his ear.
"Nothing," Mobius replies, weakly.
He frowns, "Then why –"
Water hits the pavement, too far away to be from Loki's wet clothes. Again, another drop, breaking and darkening the stone.
"I think we might've misjudged the weather," Mobius says, as more follow, increasing in intensity. Increasing very quickly. "Shit, maybe we should cut things –"
"No," Loki interrupts, anguished. He's not ready to leave. He can't go. No peace has been found here yet.
He wonders what will happen if he never finds it.
"Not yet," he says, darting forward and grabbing Mobius' wrist, "we can find somewhere to wait it out." He tugs him into a light jog, the sea drowned out by their heavy footsteps and the sound of raindrops breaking on the walkway, a low drone. He raises a hand, the jacket still balled up, to cover his head as best he can, all his work undone as the sudden storm drenches them. Though cooling, it's still warm enough, humid and sticky.
"Loki," Mobius calls, "this is not gonna clear –"
"Hold on," he insists, pulling him along. He's giddy with it, unfettered in being outside, away from the TVA. The fresh air and the downpour, wind rushing past in a current, the thrill of stumbling along an unknown coastline, all of it combines into a blur of sensation.
Here, there's nothing but the world he can see ahead of him and the man he knows is following just behind him.
It's freeing.
He spies a shelter, something resembling an enclosed pavilion, an open entranceway leading to a covered bench. Functionally, it appears to serve as a disused transport station, just enough space to fit a few people inside. He pulls Mobius towards it, both of them gasping as they stumble over the threshold.
Mobius is first to speak, as he collapses onto the bench. "Thank god for bus stops."
Loki, hands on his knees, waits for his beating heart to slow before he straightens. With a nod, he slumps next to him on the bench. Both of them are entirely soaked, trembling as the storm crescendos before their eyes, tucked safely away in their shelter.
"This is cosy," Mobius says, eventually. "Good we didn't jump ship straight away."
Loki hums his agreement. "Might've missed the nice weather."
And in this version of events, where they do stay a little longer, they watch the ocean work at the sea wall. It rolls in crashing motions, over and over and over against something entirely unmovable. One would think the rock will eventually erode into the water – but Loki knows all too well that Time can be cruel when dealing out forever.
The clouds break open anew, a fiercer downpour tumbling from the clouds, grey turning to dull orange as the sun starts to dip. Droplets patter against the pavement, sparkling offshoots glittering in the dim light.
Loki furrows his brow, the tiniest movement in his exhaustion, because the loop never lets him get this far into a divergence. Never. If not for the drone of the rain and the sea, he might think he's managed to stop Time to keep them here forever.
The thought is broken by a thud, Mobius letting his head drop back against the wall behind them, still out of breath, cheeks flushed with exertion. "We should probably hop on home before anyone misses us."
Loki shakes his head, eyes drooping of their own accord. It's far too chilly out here, and he's far too comfortable on this uncomfortable bench, and the company is warm enough to incite a dangerous sense of security.
A light nudge. "Where'd all the energy from earlier go, huh?"
He lifts his head, blinking at him. He forces his lips into a smile, though he probably lands on a mere approximation of one. "Just a little tired."
Mobius tilts his head, face carefully devoid of suspicion. Loki can feel it, hidden under the outer layers of amiability.
He exhales, shooting for a truth to cloak a lie. "I'm worried about things that shouldn't be discussed here."
A nod in return, lenient, given that keen awareness seems to be working overtime just below the surface. "Tell me later?"
Loki takes a second, then he tilts his chin in silent agreement.
Later is not something he has to worry about these days.
Still, neither of them make any attempt to move.
He's not thinking straight when he lets his head drop to Mobius' shoulder, neck craned awkwardly to facilitate the action. But he's not shrugged away, and it's incredibly pleasant to rest there, watching the timeline stretch out before them.
It would be so easy to never leave.
"Do you get scared?" he mumbles, the childlike composition of the question making his skin crawl. It's been silent for so long he's not even sure if Mobius is awake.
A beat. "Of course I do. Everyone does."
"It's not… it's not considered normal, where I come from. Or not discussed, at least."
No reply.
"I just sometimes wonder. I know it's expected in our line of work, but I feel… terrified. All of the time."
Mobius chuckles, a short, winded sound. "Everything is scary. And there's always gonna be something more scary waiting across the street."
"Is that meant to make me feel better?"
"Nah. Feeling better is looking behind you and seeing how many roads you've already crossed. The next one can't be all that bad."
Loki straightens, pulling away to look him in the eye. He's still drenched through, hair matted close to the top of his forehead, shirt dark with precipitation. Yet, though his gaze remains searching, there's a softer edge to it, watered down and gentle. He may not know the full extent of what's happening – though Loki has no doubt he knows more than he's letting on – but he can tell, somehow, that whatever Loki's really looking for, it's the answer to this. "What if it is that bad?" he whispers.
Mobius' expression shutters, a heartbeat of exclusion, before he shrugs. "Either life will wear on despite, or that'll be the end of things."
Loki looks at the ground. He swallows. "That's not comforting at all."
"I didn't mean it to be," comes the reply. "You're not gonna find comfort at the TVA." But he slips his hand into Loki's, intertwining their fingers and squeezing lightly. His palm is warm, a rough writer's callus on his middle finger, the nails just long enough to dig into Loki's knuckles.
The rain patters on, running off the roof of the pavilion and dripping in a cascade. The sheen of it sets them apart, together in their own world behind that door of water where the shelter opens to the universe.
"I just don't know how to bear it," Loki whispers, "that none of this is forever. All of this is going to end." Nothing is infinite. Not the gods, or the TVA, let alone the two of them together, alone in the furthest reaches of the multiverse.
A breath. "Yeah, it's not gonna last, but you had it."
It falls into place, dawn finally breaking after first light, the regard in which Mobius views those words. Grieving and longing and wistful, but grateful, above it all. Relieved it's over, in the way that nobody can break it now. The past is gone, and it's safe because of that.
It's not comforting, exactly, but it's something.
In that, Loki finds what he's looking for.
It's time to go.
He chokes down the ache in his throat, letting it settle in his chest instead. Unfurling, he rolls his shoulders. Mobius releases his hand, nonplussed, and is startled when he grabs it back, shuffling on the bench to face him. "Mobius. I – I want to tell you…"
Everything. All of it.
Nothing comes out.
"I – I just need to say how much – how –"
Mobius leans forward, tugging him into a hug. Loki goes willingly, because of course he does, wrapping his arms firmly around his back. Mobius' clothes have taken on a fierce chill, as Loki's sure his own have, and enveloped there he begins to shiver, trembling with the enormity of it all. "Yeah," Mobius says, voice bright with a grin, "message received. Little jumbled in transmission, but I got it."
Loki laughs, a breathless little "hah," burying his face in his shoulder.
This is about to end.
But he had it.
"Thank you, Mobius," he whispers.
For once, Mobius' reply is equally tentative. Vulnerable. "Always."
Loki stays until the branch dies, but no longer after that.
He's ready.