Archive of Our Own

1.

“There you are.”

Startled by Mobius’ sudden appearance around the nearby stacks, Loki near-violently jolted from his fixed yet somewhat enervated perusal of the file before him, pinning his partner with an unimpressed glare.

Hands held aloft in supplication, Mobius seemed both amused and concerned by his admittedly rather excessive reaction. 

“Uh, sorry?” he offered hesitantly. “Is… everything okay?”

Deflating a little, he nodded vaguely as his eyes fell to the report he’d been flicking through with mounting frustration.

“My apologies,” he mumbled, rubbing at the niggling ache of tension in his brow before hunching forward, elbow braced on the polished table as his hand supported his head. “I’ve been at this for several hours now, and I feel I’ve made negative progress, if that’s at all possible.”

Frowning at this, Mobius moved towards the seat opposite, lowering himself into it.

“‘Negative progress’? How does that work?”

“The more I read about our subject, the more I suspect that their activities are unrelated to the branch-arresting phenomenon.”

“Oh… damn it. Really?” Mobius groaned, face scrunching up in what was frankly perfectly warranted aggravation.

Narrowing down their exhaustive search of the timeline in question for the individual they’d been studying and attempting to locate had been time-consuming enough. But upon what they’d thought was a positive identification, what followed was weeks of research and remote monitoring from the TVA, and then even further research, before they even came close to the planning stage of a recon mission.

And now that they’d finally reached said stage, by pure chance Loki had uncovered new information suggesting their attention had been focussed on the wrong individual after all.

“I really hate to say it,” he ventured, flicking a glance up at Mobius, his eyes aching with the movement after far too many hours spent staring at TVA typeface, “But we’re likely back to square one.”

“No…” Mobius too leaned upon the tabletop as he covered his face, a heavy sigh gusting noisily against his hands. “Are you sure?”

He peeked at Loki beseechingly between parted fingers — no doubt praying for him to be kidding — but unfortunately all he could offer in response was a resigned nod.

“The temporal anomaly that our subject is responsible for has no correlation with the stunted branch growth. It’s become clear that her actions did indeed trigger a nexus event, and the resulting branched timeline was similarly curtailed at negligible growth, just like the others.”

“So we need to look even further back?”

“Yes, so it would seem.”

“Oh, gods,” Mobius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry I was stuck with the council all that time. I could have told you to pack it in sooner.”

“I had to be certain,” Loki shrugged. “It was this report here that finally confirmed it, after hours of going down a rabbit hole.”

“Well, the least I can do is help you clear up the mess,” he offered, and Loki managed a tired smile of appreciation as he dragged himself to his feet, legs stiff with disuse. 

It was whilst stuffing a stack of papers inside the folder they’d slipped from that Mobius hissed sharply, grimacing as he looked down at his index finger before clenching his hand into a fist, biting his lips together with a grunt of irritation.

“Are you alright?” Loki immediately questioned, hastily stepping around to his side of the table. “What happened?”

“Heh, it’s nothing,” Mobius shook his head, smiling ruefully as he fleetly met Loki’s gaze. “Just a godsdamned paper cut.”

Wincing in sympathy, Loki reached for his hand, Mobius reluctantly opening it out for him to inspect.

“What are you doing?” he asked warily, and Loki’s brow furrowed at his suspicious tone. 

“I’m going to heal it for you,” he replied as though it were obvious, which it really should have been, actually.

But to his surprise, Mobius immediately flinched, eyes widening in horror as he instinctively attempted to tug his hand away.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he blurted in a rush. “It’s totally fine. It’s tiny, Loki… please don’t waste your seiðr on something so insignifi–”

That was as far as he got, however; the rest of his words cut off by a pained yelp as a heavy trickle of blood began flowing with worrying rapidity from what had been an innocuous paper cut… but after a burst of Loki’s well-meaning ‘healing’ magic, was now a deep gash.

Weary exasperation met heavy remorse as their gazes locked, and Loki swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.

Faen.

* * *

Wearing a groove in the floor of a treatment cubicle in Medical, Loki couldn’t even bring himself to look in Mobius’ direction as a young medic stitched up the absolutely botched mess he’d managed to create, back in the archives.

“The stitches are dissolveable,” the medic informed Mobius as she worked, “So no need to come back unless you get an infection, or are worried about it not healing properly. We’ll call you in for a check-up in a couple of weeks.” Finishing the final suture, she clipped the end of the ugly thread that stood out starkly against his skin as Loki glanced over at the two of them, jaw set grimly as he caught a brief glimpse of the now-completed row of neat stitches. “They should last around ten days, give or take. But in the meantime, keep it clean and dry for the first forty-eight hours, and get in touch if there’s any problems at all.”

Flashing Mobius a smile that was far too charming for Loki’s liking, he was only further aggrieved when she then cast him a look that was merely a shade or two shy of positively venomous.

She didn’t bother to address him, instead simply gathering the materials she’d been using in a kidney dish, and swiftly taking her leave through the gap in the blue concertina divider. It was fortunate that he’d avoided any disdainful beratement, because Loki knew he had not a single leg to stand upon with regard to his defence. He already blamed himself enough, and as it was, he felt disconcertingly nervous about being alone with Mobius for the first time since they’d madly rushed from the archives to the infirmary, Mobius gripping an increasingly bloodstained handkerchief around his finger.

Once the medic had breezed out of the room, Loki stood in her wake for several moments with his hands in his pockets, taking a composing breath before managing a meagre half-turn towards Mobius, who he could see in his peripheral vision was rolling his shirt sleeve back down and buttoning the cuff.

Letting his head drop forward with a heavy sigh, Loki’s eyes fell closed under the crushing weight of his guilt. But finally, he brought himself to speak, forcing out a weak and strangled, “Mobius…”

But he then trailed off hopelessly, because ‘sorry’ just didn’t seem adequate enough. 

Not for literal disfigurement.

There was an extended moment of silence as Mobius got to his feet, hooking his jacket from the back of his chair with his unwounded hand, and swinging it casually over his shoulder.

“Much as I appreciate your good intentions,” he said wryly, and Loki’s eyes flicked up to him in hope, because perhaps he wasn’t quite as pissed off as he’d been anticipating, “I think I would’ve handled the paper cut just fine.”

Chin dropping in shame, Loki addressed the floor. 

“I only wished to help, I assure you,” he muttered feebly.

A sigh from Mobius this time, and he stepped close to his side, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

“I know that, Loki,” he replied, with a gentleness that somehow made Loki feel even worse. “Of course I do. But, uh– see, the thing is…”

He paused rather awkwardly, causing Loki to frown at him in query, and Mobius huffed another breath, bracing himself.

“You- you do kinda suck at healing,” he finally stated in a bit of a rush, his manner conveying a hint of mortified remorse. “I mean… really.” 

Loki’s frown morphed to one of agitation, with perhaps a little hurt thrown into the mix. Because certainly, he’d never been the greatest at the healing arts, but whatever skills he did possess were surely better than nothing. 

Well. He’d always assumed as much, anyway. But after another reluctant glance at the row of sutures along Mobius’ finger, he realised they stood as bleak testament to quite the opposite.

“Er… right,” he reluctantly conceded.

“And perhaps, I dunno,” Mobius shrugged casually, stepping towards the divider and shoving it wide open, then striding out to where the first-aid medic station overlooked the bays, “Maybe it might be prudent for you to practice a bit, before you try anything like that on anyone else again.”

“But how am I supposed to practice, without any test subjects?” he protested indignantly.

“On yourself, Loki. Clearly.”

Pulling up short, Loki halted abruptly, and Mobius turned back to fling him an inquisitive look.

“Myself?” he echoed.

“Yeah, why? What’s wrong with that?”

“When do I ever need healing?” 

Mobius only stared at him incredulously, prompting his memory to release a retrospective slideshow depicting numerous examples of his greatest hits — quite literally, in some cases — flying rapid-fire past his mind’s eye.

“Oh… yes. I see,” he amended sheepishly.

“You’re not exactly one to come out of missions unscathed,” Mobius pointed out unnecessarily. “So yeah. If you really wanna get better at this whole ‘magical healing’ thingamy, your training dummy for the time being is you.” He poked a finger into his chest for emphasis. “At least to begin with, until I’m fairly confident that you’re not going to make anyone else bleed out.”

“‘Bleed out’, that’s a little dramatic,” he scoffed, face nonetheless warming in humiliation.

“Speak for yourself,” Mobius shot back, as he turned to make his way out of the medical suite, Loki tagging along behind him. “I feared for my life there, for a moment.”

2.

It was only a matter of days later that Loki had his first opportunity to refine his ‘skills’... or lack thereof, as it were.

And remarkably, Mobius was surprised to learn, it wasn’t because he’d done something foolhardy or dangerous out in the field. Instead, it was a pedestrian sort of accident in R&A that occurred whilst Loki and OB were attempting to work through some of the temporal science-y aspects of their ongoing case that were far beyond Mobius’ understanding. 

Unfortunately, the TVA was no closer to discovering the root cause (pun unintended) of the branch-stunting anomaly they were investigating, and Loki was hoping that by breaking things down with OB, it might provide more insight and clarity as to the motivation of the culprit, and the potential scope of their technological capabilities. 

But all of that was irrelevant in this particular moment, as Mobius strode into OB’s workshop, unable to help but wince in sympathy the moment he spotted Loki. Perched on one of the plastic chairs OB had acquired a while ago — after realising that the steady stream of visitors he now accommodated was perhaps not a fleeting phenomenon — Loki glanced up at him, ice pack pressed to the top of his brow, and a dangerous glint in his eye that dared Mobius to make any quips at his expense. 

“What happened?” he elected to ask instead, schooling his expression into one of concern as he drew closer. 

With a token moment of hesitation, Loki reluctantly removed the ice pack, allowing him to take a peek at the darkening bruise along his hairline.

“It was my fault,” OB admitted, standing attentively beside Loki. His eyes were earnest and full of remorse, enhancing his typical impression of an innocent puppy. “We were working on some repairs as we talked through the branch growth thing, and I dropped one of my tools, and when Loki picked it up for me he smacked his head on the edge of the bench.”

A snort erupted from Mobius before he had the chance to smother it, and if looks could kill, the medics would’ve already been on their way with a body bag.

“That… doesn’t really sound like your fault, OB,” he pointed out, grinning. “I think even Loki would agree with me there.” 

And indeed, Loki graciously inclined his head in concession, though his eyes were tight with pain as he readjusted the ice pack.

“Have you–” Mobius began without thought, but paused upon realising that what he was preparing to say was likely a sore spot… pun unintended, once again. 

“Have I…?”

“Y’know. Tried the, uh… the ‘thing’, yet?”

Avoidant, Loki stared fixedly at the floor.

“...No. Not yet.”

Exchanging a Look with OB, who had obviously heard all about the paper cut debacle, Mobius placed an encouraging hand on Loki’s shoulder.

“It’s only a bit of a bruise,” he ventured, keeping his tone light, “Should be a pretty simple fix, in theory?”

Heaving a sigh of resignation, Loki raised his eyes to him, nodding in agreement despite his obvious trepidation.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not have an audience.”

“No problem,” OB piped up perkily. “I need to check on the drinks machine down the corridor anyway, the one that keeps dispensing the wrong thing. And I could use your help too, Mobius.”

Clearly this was a bullshit excuse, because not only did Mobius have zero expertise regarding automated hot beverage machines, but OB had underlings who did that kind of menial task for him. Nevertheless, Mobius trailed behind him as he swept out of the room, shooting a quick glance back at Loki in what he privately thought to be perfectly warranted apprehension.

* * *

“Loki?”

A feeble groan was his only response, and Mobius bent right in close to where Loki lay, slumped bonelessly upon OB’s workbench. Examining what little he could perceive of Loki’s too-pale face — one closed eye and a brow pinched in pained distress, with the remainder concealed by the arm that was curled around his head — Mobius rubbed his back in soothing circles, careful and tender as he avoided jostling him.

“You okay?” He kept his voice lowered to a gentle murmur. “Uh… can I safely assume that the healing didn’t– didn’t really ‘take’, this time round…?”

“‘M fine,” Loki immediately mumbled, though it was barely audible, particularly as the utterance was mostly muffled into his bicep. 

To his credit, however, he did presently follow this claim, laggardly pushing himself upright with admirable gumption… if not convincing stability.

“Whoa, easy.”

Lunging forward, Mobius caught him as he came perilously close to toppling sideways, nearly falling from the stool that he’d only half been sitting upon to begin with.

“What are you doing here?” Loki asked in perplexity, words slurring as he blinked up at him sluggishly. “Why’s it so bright?”

Glancing at OB, who bit his lip for a moment in wide-eyed concern, Mobius huffed in consternation as he slipped a supportive arm around Loki’s shoulders.

“The light’s the same as always, Loki,” he informed him patiently, masking his worry as best he could.

“No it isn’t. I always keep it… keep it… oh.”

Chin dropping as his bleary eyes slipped closed, Loki took a deep breath, and swallowed hard.

“You’re in OB’s workshop,” Mobius reminded him softly, “Not your quarters.”

Eyes still shut, Loki nodded, then looked like he promptly and vehemently regretted it.

“D’you need a trash can?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the low mutter came, and Loki’s lids parted infinitesimally to pin Mobius with one of the least effectual glares in multiversal history. “I said I’m perfectly fine, and I meant it.”

Opening his mouth to reply even before figuring out how best to refute this, Mobius instead released a kind of half-strangled yelp as Loki again tried to prove his point by surging to his feet defiantly… then a moment later collapsed to the floor, limbs sprawled haphazardly as he roll-flopped onto his back in an ungainly manoeuvre, staring up at the far-above ceiling with pain and confusion marring every feature.

Stunned into inaction for a moment, Mobius’ feet did the thinking for him, carrying him to Loki before crouching down beside him. 

“What’s going on?” Loki whined dazedly, puzzled at finding himself on the unpleasantly cold floor of R&A. “Where’s my bed gone?”

It sounded so godsdamned childlike that Mobius couldn’t suppress a snort of fond amusement, despite his escalating anxiety.

“If it’s your bed you’re wanting, we’ll get you there soon enough. But I think we’ve probably gotta call Medical first.”

Flicking his gaze to OB, who still hovered nervously above them, Mobius gestured with a tilt of his head towards the little-used rotary telephone on the far corner of the workbench, and OB hurried to comply with a short nod of acknowledgement. 

“No no no, no medics,” Loki mumbled, though his eyes had somewhat widened in panic, giving the illusion of lucidity for a transient moment. “I’m perfectly– I’m… ugh.”

Cutting himself off with a pitiful groan, Mobius was briefly consumed by a wave of empathetic nausea as Loki paled even further.

“Seriously, you need to tell me if you’re about to make a mess of OB’s floor, okay?” he grimaced, and Loki blinked up at him morosely. “What the Hel happened Loki? How in the worlds did you take a minor bruise, and turn it into a concussion?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered pathetically. “I can’t even begin to explain it.”

“Maybe- I mean…” Mobius trailed off for a second, then resolved to continue. “Look, I don’t wanna sound like a jerk. But maybe you’re just not cut out for healing, Loki. And there’s no shame in that, honest,” he rushed to add. “It’s not like you have any shortage of amazing abilities. But at the same time, you can’t expect to be amazing at everything. It’s unrealistic.”

A slight frown further creased the pained pinch to Loki’s forehead.

“This is important though,” he murmured, “It could save-” A laboured swallow, and Mobius again eyed the nearest trash can. “Save someone’s life, one day.”

Heart going out to him at his quiet frustration, Mobius placed a supportive hand on his shoulder, and another over his hand, warmly clasping the lax appendage.

“Maybe we could find someone for you to train with?” he suggested mildly. “There’s gotta be someone out there on the timelines who would take you on.” His brow furrowed in thought. “As a matter of fact, I actually know someone myself…”

Feeling rather than hearing OB approach, he glanced up to where he stood over them once more.

“They’re on their way,” he said quietly, and Mobius nodded in gratitude.

“Who do you know?” Loki spoke up, belated and hazy. “Not anyone from Asgard…”

It was unclear whether this was a question, a statement or a plea, but regardless, Mobius shook his head. 

“Not… no. Definitely not. Just someone I met, a very long time ago. I’ll look her up, while you concentrate on getting better.”

“Gods. How long is that going to take?” he complained.

Mobius smiled, his hand moving to Loki’s forehead as he stroked it gently, carefully avoiding the site of the injury. Loki’s eyes slipped closed at the gesture, even as he swallowed hard yet again.

“A few days, max,” he assured him. “And with your propensity for quick healing — the natural sort, I mean — could be significantly less.”

“The Norns could only be so kind,” came the weak reply, and if it were even possible, his pallor became even more disconcerting.

“You sure about that trash can?” he prodded.

Shallow breathing grew even shorter, and the resounding silence was answer enough. 

Fortunately, a vigilance born of the need to protect his workshop floor had OB already coming to the rescue.

3.

“This is wholly unnecessary, Mobius. I actually healed it. Look!”

Waving his arm around in Mobius’ face, Loki pretended not to notice the way he balked and grimaced at the sight. 

“I mean, I’ll grant you it’s not perfect, but it’s a right sight better than my past efforts, you’d have to agree.”

With a resigned sigh, Mobius tugged him along by his other elbow as they headed towards the godsforsaken infirmary, a picture of barely-suppressed exasperation.

“Okay. I won’t deny that your handful of coaching sessions with ‘Mystic Meg’ have had a positive impact thus far,” he conceded, “But the bar was already pretty much subterranean, you gotta admit.”

“Harsh.”

“Truth.”

”Regardless,” Loki groused impatiently, “The matter still stands that the fracture to my ulna is healed. Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

He again held it up triumphantly, and Mobius visibly paled.

“Put that away until you’re alone with a medic, I’m begging you,” he muttered weakly. “It’s making my skin crawl.”

Side-by-side they turned into the corridor that led towards the double-door of the medical wing, and Loki tsked, his eyes cast ceilingward.

“Come on Mobius, you’re horrifically overreacting. It is really not that bad.”

* * *

“I beg your pardon?”

Incredulous, Loki stared dumbfounded at the doctor who had been responsible for both examining his x-ray results, and keeping them waiting in the bland, sterile reception area for a frankly absurd amount of time. He’d told Mobius more than once that he was quite at liberty to leave, especially given that he apparently couldn’t even handle looking at Loki’s arm without feeling faintly ill.

Notably, however, there was no sign of any such reaction now, as Loki turned to him in horror after being blindsided by the doctor’s assessment. Only very poorly disguised glee.

Seething restrainedly, Loki set his jaw in supreme annoyance as he rounded back towards Doctor Carlton.

“Explain,” he demanded, injecting the single word with every bit of haughty regality he could muster.

But naturally, she remained as irritatingly unaffected as ever.

“You heard me,” she said archly, “Your dodgy healing spell, or whatever you prefer to call it, has set the bone crookedly. We’re going to have to re-break it, so that it can be realigned.”

“But it’s fine!” he blurted, absolutely aghast, and beginning to feel a little sick himself.

How does one re-break a bone? Why would one do that?

“Don’t panic, Loki,” Mobius took pity on him, patting his uninjured arm from where he sat at his side before Carlton’s desk. “It’s a surgical procedure. She’s not actually gonna grab a hold of your arm and snap it in half.” He hesitated all of a sudden, uncertain as he glanced at her. “Uh… are you.”

In a rare moment of expressing anything other than clinical indifference or weary resignation, the doctor snorted in something astonishingly close to amusement… and almost smiled, to boot. 

Loki fancied he could practically hear her facial muscles creaking with the effort.

“As much as such a measure would provide yours truly a most unprofessional thrill,” she drawled, “Agent Mobius is correct. It’s surgery performed under anaesthesia, Mr Laufeyson. Nothing barbaric.”

“Says you,” Loki grumbled, not fancying the idea of surgery any more than having his arm violently maimed. “I’d rather take my chances in allowing an unreasonably volatile variant to pummel me with a blunt object once again, to be truthful.”

* * *

“There’s a very good reason we haven’t yet tackled bone knitting and regeneration,” High Priestess Margaranthe told Loki, her manner terribly severe… even more so than usual, which was saying something. “It is a far more complex process than the superficial injuries that, may I remind you, you’re still yet to master.”

“I thought I could handle it,” he muttered weakly, with no small degree of chagrin, all at once feeling like the child he’d been when first commencing magical instruction back on Asgard.

Her eyes blazed in reaction as her voice lowered dangerously. 

“Demi-god you may be,” she murmured, leaning in closer, “But it would serve you well to remember who calls the shots, in this… association of ours.”

Whipping around to face away from Loki with far too much drama to be as impactful as she was probably hoping, she stalked several steps away, and he wisely resolved to keep his mouth shut henceforth.

“I’m hoping the harrowing experience of undergoing something as uncivilised as surgery was sufficient to ensure that you reconsider any future attempts at healing, far beyond your dreadfully limited capabilities.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, almost forgetting his resolution of seconds ago, and she spun around like she could sense it, advancing towards him. 

“It’s only out of deference to our… ‘friend’,” she hesitated, one eyebrow lifting infinitesimally, and Loki could fairly feel the heat of blood rushing to his face, “That I’m willing to perpetuate the fallacy that you have any genuine hope of mastering the healing arts.”

Eyeing him assessingly for a long moment, she gathered her robes up and swept away with practised haughtiness, Loki left to trot along behind her like an overgrown puppy, as they headed towards the quaint courtyard she favoured for private tuition.

It was a mystery to him how Mobius could have possibly formed any sort of connection with someone so godsdamned cold. And he seemed awfully reluctant to tell him, too, which only made him all the more curious. 

But Loki was nothing if not persistent, and was confident that one day he’d pry it out of him… though perhaps it would help if inhibitions were lowered.

4. 

Oh gods, Loki whined inwardly, barely biting back an agonised moan. 

The only reason he was determined to hold it together was because the hunter who had been backing him up on this mission, M-18, was in as bad a shape as he; the two of them suffering burns to their skin from some kind of native plant that their target had cleverly utilised for the purposes of a booby trap; devastating in its effectiveness due to its innocuous appearance as nothing more threatening than a cluster of bushes.

It was only due to Loki’s godly strength and agility that he was able to extract the both of them from the poison-barbed tendrils that flung themselves from concealed pods along the branches of each specimen, before hurrying away from the target’s domain without anyone spotting them.

But now that they were sequestered in the nearby forest, it was all Loki could do to not scream, every movement producing an effect like hot ashes sliding over his flesh.

M-18 had been screaming, until Loki hastily shoved a stick between his teeth — hoping that action too wouldn’t result in some devastating consequence — and tersely instructed him to clamp down on it hard, and for the love of the gods, please shut the Hel up. 

Unfortunately, Loki couldn’t get his hands to cooperate for long enough to use his tempad, as every point of contact upon his skin burned with an intensity that had reflexes alone forcing him to cease every attempt, dropping the damn thing over and over onto the damp detritus of the forest floor.

Writhing uncontrollably, and only semi-conscious, M-18 was certainly not going to be of any use to him. Hence, with rapidly mounting dread, Loki realised that if he was to have any hopes of sourcing assistance, he’d need to attempt to heal himself.

The lessons with Margaranthe had been… well. He still wasn’t exactly winning any favour with her, he grumpily acknowledged. Yet there had been a noticeable decline in both the frequency and causticness of the criticism she freely flung at him, and when he’d finally noticed this, it felt like glowing praise, and had bolstered his confidence immensely.

Although, that was only up until she saw fit to subject him to a controlled dose of a powerful hallucinogen that would’ve likely killed a human, but merely had him panickedly dodging a herd of rampaging bilgesnipe that did not in fact exist. Once it had become clear that he was unable to counter the effects of the drug — a diplomatic choice of words; in reality ending up curled in a ball on the ground, hands over his head like a cowering toddler — Margaranthe had needed to step in and purge the substance from his body herself.

In his current situation, however, that short-lived sense of self-assurance was something he sorely needed (pun again unintended), and Loki latched onto it with all the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a life-preserver. 

He had to heal his hands, if nothing else. 

He had to, if there was any hope of helping M-18.

Eyes closing tight, face drawn with tension, Loki braced against some of the worst pain he could ever remember experiencing, dropping down to his knees upon the cool, moist earth beside the unfortunate hunter. Breathing deeply of the cleansing air, he visualised the restorative and soothing energy of the lushness that surrounded them, and set to work.

* * *

Standing stock-still at M-18’s bedside, the roiling guilt pervading Loki’s insides somehow burned far worse than the poison from the gjahni bushes that had assaulted the pair of them offworld.

Sedated until the pain abated sufficiently for him to remain conscious without experiencing relentless and blinding agony, the hunter was lying in a private infirmary room, bandaged head to toe; the innermost layer of dressings steeped in a specialised salve to promote accelerated dermatological healing.

This measure wouldn’t have even been necessary, however, if it wasn’t for Loki.

Footsteps approached, tentative and quiet, and he swallowed against the burgeoning swell of remorse that constricted his throat like a physical force. A hand settled softly upon his shoulder, mindful of the sensitivity of his own freshly-healed skin.

Grateful that Mobius didn’t speak right away — the touching consideration more appreciated than he could possibly know — Loki blinked back sudden tears at the gentle comfort of his companionship. 

They remained in silence for far too long, Loki spending the majority of the time trying and failing to come up with anything remotely appropriate to say.

In the end, however, as is often the case, it was when he stopped thinking that the words came out.

“They say he’ll be okay,” he murmured in a half-whisper, choked and reedy, “No thanks to me, of course.”

Mobius’ hand twitched, presumably in an aborted squeeze of comfort, and Loki shifted a little closer to him, hungry for absolution whilst well aware that he was wholly undeserving.

“At least you healed yourself enough to get him back here,” Mobius offered quietly. “That’s no mean feat, for you.”

The statement was meant kindly, though Loki couldn’t help but interpret it as an underhanded insult, his brows knitting in both indignation and self-recrimination. 

He had not a leg to stand upon in defending himself, however, and he was made cruelly aware of this at Mobius’ next words.

“No offence, Loki, but how the Hel did you manage to make burns caused by a poisonous plant even worse than they already were?”

His cheeks flamed with shame and mortification, unable to tear his eyes away from M-18’s partially-bandaged face.

“Please don’t tell Margaranthe,” was all he said, inwardly cringing at how juvenile it sounded. “Trust me, I’ve suffered more than enough hostility from her, and I already feel absolutely wretched.”

Mobius did squeeze his shoulder this time, ever supportive and caring, and Loki felt wholly undeserving of either.

“I won’t,” he murmured in reply, “So long as you promise me that you won’t attempt healing anyone other than yourself, until Meg clears you to do so.”

“Not even in a life-or-death situation?”

A careworn sigh, and Mobius’ hand lingered on his arm as he slowly released him.

“I trust you to use your judgement, in that case,” he replied at length.

Loki glanced at him, incredulous.

“You are joking… right?”

5. 

“Christ, Loki, you look awful. I thought you said it was just a bit of congestion?”

Hastening across the room to him, letting the apartment door spring shut by itself with an echoing bang, Mobius’ insides flipped unpleasantly in mild dread as he took in the pitiful image of the debilitated mass of misery personified that was currently slumped over Loki’s small dining table.

Breathing shallowly through his mouth, flushed patches of red high upon his cheekbones, Loki lay sprawled across the cool formica surface surrounded by a scattering of used tissues, the empty box beside him sitting adjacent to a half-drunk cup of tea that was most certainly stone cold; a dark ring of tannin residue marking the inside of the mug.

Knowing what he’d find, Mobius brushed the backs of his fingers across Loki’s cheek anyway, flinching at the blazing heat.

Glazed eyes blinked up at him, though Loki didn’t otherwise move.

“When you left my apartment last night,” Mobius began, striving to keep his tone gentle despite his piqued concern, “You only had a teensy sniffle, but seemed otherwise fine.”

He paused expectantly, in spite of the likelihood of Loki not being particularly lucid, optimistically presenting him a chance to explain his inexplicably dramatic downturn overnight.

However, Loki’s eyes merely slipped closed again, his laboured breaths interrupted by a couple of cringeworthily congested sniffs.

“Were you actually okay, last night? Or just trying to be stoic?”

“W’s okay,” Loki rasped, not bothering to prise his eyelids open. “W’s fine.”

‘Fine’ sounded more like ‘fide’, and Mobius’ heart fractured a little, unable to recall whether he’d ever seen Loki so unwell, even as a child.

“Then how’d you end up like this?” he pressed unhappily, though the question was mostly rhetorical.

At that, Loki did look up at him, which took him by surprise, and Mobius frowned at the shadowy spectre of guilt that suddenly tainted his expression.

“Loki?”

Crouching down beside him, he reached up to trace fingertips across Loki’s forehead, trying his utmost to ignore the raging temperature beneath his touch, and the feverish brightness of the gaze currently levelled at him. 

“I… I thought it was a good opportunity,” Loki mumbled lifelessly. “To practice,” he added, by way of explanation, then broke into a productive cough. 

The revelation shone upon Mobius like the first rays of the morning sun.

“Oh. Oh,” he uttered, the second inflated with billowing dread. “Oh, gods Loki, you tried to heal yourself, didn’t you.”

Rolling his head to hide his face in the tabletop, the silence spoke for itself.

“What the Hel did you do that for?” Mobius exclaimed, though the expulsion was born of worry, not anger. “You haven’t come anywhere close to being able to heal illnesses yet! Jesus, what would Meg say?”

Turning away in frustration, he retreated several paces, hands coming up to his face as he scrubbed at it roughly. 

“I- I thought I had it,” Loki croaked hoarsely, and Mobius spun round to find him pushing himself upright — or at least some imitation of it — on arms that shook feebly. “It was scarcely even an affliction, so I thought… it’d be easy…”

His eyes lost focus as he spoke, and Mobius darted forward, catching him by the shoulders as he swooned a very little. 

“Hey, hey. It’s all right,” he murmured, shifting around behind him and bending close to his ear. “I’d say you’ve more than paid the price for being an idiot, so just forget about it, okay?” 

Looping an arm around him, he drew Loki back against his chest, heart lurching at the disconcerting sensation of his elevated body heat; a veritable furnace, even through the layers of clothing between them. 

“Let’s get you over to Medical, huh?” he ventured, capitalising on the assumption that Loki was too weak to argue. “Hopefully they’ll get you onto the good stuff.”

* * *

The ‘good stuff’, as it were, certainly helped in reducing Loki’s fever, kicking in almost immediately, thank the gods. But two days later, under the watchful eye of the TVA’s infirmary staff (many of whom Mobius had begun to know by both sight and name over the past few months, much to his dismay), each and every breath of Loki’s had become charged with conspicuous effort; his sinuses and lungs now frighteningly congested. And any attempt from his doctors to ease his suffering yielded no positive change to his progressively worsening condition.

Unable to leave him for any reason other than meeting the bare minimum of his own physical needs, Mobius was beside himself with anxiety, semi-convinced that every rattling inhalation could be Loki’s last.

It wasn’t until an automated alert on his tempad reminded him of Loki’s scheduled training with Meg the following day that he realised, almost kicking himself in fury, that she was the one person he knew of who could potentially save his life.

Of course, in the interests of full disclosure, he was going to have to explain to her what Loki had done, and was well aware that they’d be swapping his current suffering for that of being subjected to the High Priestess’ wrath.

Not an enviable position, certainly. But if the alternative was death, Mobius was positive Loki would forgive him. 

Maybe.

Well. A pissed off Loki was better than none at all, at any rate.

* * *

“I beg your pardon?” Margaranthe spoke calmly in her cultivated accent, though one eyebrow was arched incredulously. “He did what?”

“I know, right?” Mobius huffed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he struggled to maintain eye contact. 

She’d always had that effect on him, ever since the day they met; possessing some inexplicable ability to arouse paranoia, convinced that he had a stain on his jacket, or his shirt was untucked, or his fly unzipped. 

Or all three at once.

“I suppose I can assume that you hadn’t a clue?” she questioned, her glower enough to get him to deny anything, even if he was lying.

But at least, in this instance, he was able to tell her the truth. 

“None whatsoever,” he assured her, shaking his head in latent exasperation. With a glance at Loki, who was mercifully sedated — his breathing easing somewhat once the panic had been eliminated — Mobius’ brow creased in worry and empathy as his eyes traced the sunken contours of Loki’s deathly pale face. “There was hardly anything wrong with him, really. Just a little cold. So all I did that night was push him to turn in a little earlier than normal.”

Looking back, he really should have foreseen what Loki would attempt. After all, he’d been increasingly cocky lately, with his ability to heal injuries and suchlike improving by leaps and bounds, to the point where Meg had permitted him to fix the sprained ankle of one of her acolytes… under her attentive supervision, of course.

The pleasure Loki had exuded at his own success had reminded Mobius of a child bringing home an artwork from school with a gold merit sticker from the principal’s office.

“Hmph,” Meg sniffed loftily, inclining her head, then turned with a subtle whirl of her robes, stalking to Loki’s side. “I knew he was an imbecile, though I wasn’t fully aware that he was this much of a hopeless case.”

Uncertain as to whether to be amused or offended, the latter on Loki’s behalf, Mobius decided that it was best he said nothing at all, and instead offered her the courtesy of silence in order to concentrate.

He watched as she bent low over Loki’s supine form, listening closely to the horrible sounds produced by Loki’s open-mouthed, and far too laboured, breathing. 

Several seconds later, Meg straightened again, mouth set grimly as she held her hands several inches above his straining chest, fingers splaying as her eyes slipped closed. Mobius shifted a little, unsure if he was welcome to stay. But she paid him no heed, so he stealthily retreated to the far corner, lowering himself into the spare chair that stood there, his gaze flicking between Loki’s face and that of his tutor-turned-saviour.

He hoped, anyway.

* * *

“I told you,” Loki whined, his expression wounded, “I really did think I had it, for a while there.”

Arms folded as she stood beside Mobius, her disdain palpable, Margaranthe clicked her tongue impatiently.

“Really,” she said mockingly, in patent disbelief, “Was that before or after the extreme fever universally invalidated every sense of perception?”

Chagrined, Loki’s eyes dropped to his lap, where his hands fidgeted like a scolded preschooler.

“I’m sure he’s learned his lesson,” Mobius chimed in, unable to resist taking pity on his partner when he looked so godsdamned pathetic. “Pretty sure he’s not about to try anything else, without your preapproval.”

“As it should be,” she articulated imperiously, then turned to address Loki once more. “I expect to see you in two days’ time, now that you’re feeling better,” she continued. “And I shall refrain from invoking the disciplinary action that I typically resort to with my acolytes, as long as Mobius can confirm that you have followed the directions of himself and your healers here, to the letter.”

Leaning towards him almost threateningly on those last three words, Mobius had to conceal a snigger at Loki’s expense as the latter shrank back against the thin infirmary pillows behind him.

“Thank you, Meg,” he spoke up with a grin, drawing her attention away from the shamefaced god. She turned around, adopting the smile that was seemingly reserved especially for him; not precisely the height of amiable warmth, but far more genuine than her usual supercilious smirk.

“Anything for you, Mobius dear.” She patted his arm almost condescendingly, but a hint of affection in her tone was enough to make him blush, especially at the choked-off sound that came from the hospital gurney. “You take care of yourself, yes? And make sure this miscreant isn’t given an inch.”

Hastening to open a time door, having acquired special permission for Margaranthe to be transported between the Halls of Healing on her world, and Loki’s private room in the medical suite, he nodded to her in automatic acquiescence, not daring to do otherwise.

“Absolutely,” he assured for good measure, and lifted his hand in a wave of farewell as she gathered up her copious skirts, and stepped through the timedoor with nary a hesitation, despite not having ever used a portal of any kind before that day.

Oh to possess such self-assurance, he lamented, taking a preparatory breath before reluctantly turning to face Loki.

Keeping his eyes trained halfway between the bed and the floor, he braced himself, knowing exactly what was coming.

“‘Mobius dear’??” 

The gleeful outburst was ripe with both hilarity and scorn, and Mobius sighed, contemplating arguing the case for prolonged sedation with the next medic who came along.

+1 

“Loki, it’s B. Get over to Infirmary right now. It-It’s Mobius…”

That was all he’d needed to hear before he was off and running; the tiny catch in B-15’s voice saying far more than any words could.

Blood running cold, he tore along the passageway that led to the nearest time door embarkation zone, summoning a golden-orange portal that would take him directly to the emergency admissions facility. Flying through it seamlessly, without breaking stride, he almost collided with the glass double-doors that materialised before him as he exited at the other end.

Spotting B-15 just beyond in the waiting room, she looked up at him sharply from her agitated fidgeting as he barged through noisily, urgency eliminating any of his usual inclination towards propriety.

“B, what’s wrong,” he demanded breathlessly, hands grasping her by the shoulders in desperation. “What happened?”

“The suspect you guys have been chasing,” she explained shakily. “He apparently snuck a tracker onto Mobius during that raid yesterday, and- and got to him today, when Mobius wandered off on his own for a minute.”

“He what?” Loki cried in distress.

Heart skipping a beat, it then began racing; a hopeless attempt to catch up with the torrent of panicked impressions that washed away the remainder of his composure.

Unable to accompany Mobius on today’s mission, his absence wasn’t expected to matter, given that all the assignment entailed was the provision of basic management and supervision of a technical crew, charged with dismantling and confiscating the temporal manipulation technology that their subject had been dabbling in. 

Yes, after months of false leads and aborted investigations, they’d finally located the cause of the repeated culling of their timeline branch, although unfortunately not its elusive creator. 

But it seemed that said creator had found them, and to devastating effect.

“What’s happened to him?” he uttered, voice trembling as his pulse fluttered in his throat. “What did he do to Mobius?”

* * *

The medics and B-15 certainly tried their best to prevent him from even entering the surgical suites, let alone planting himself before the observation window that was currently providing rather graphic insight into the severity of Mobius’ condition. 

“This isn’t going to help anyone, Loki,” B said to him gently, and despite knowing she was correct, it would be a waste of her efforts to reason with him.

For there was no possible way he could tear his eyes away from the heart monitor; the sound of blood rushing through his ears positively deafening, as every beat of his own heart echoed that of Mobius’.

The head surgeon, the best the TVA had on staff, was working on his partner with a near frenzied energy, though her movements fortunately remained competent and controlled. Several surgical assistants bustled around her, they too showing demonstrative efficiency with practiced ease.

Clearly Mobius was in incredible hands, but that was of little comfort when his life was on the line. Stabbed violently through the chest, he’d have been dead before he hit the ground if the entry site of the blade had been another inch to the left. The faltering precision of his assailant suggested that Mobius had perhaps perceived the danger a moment or two prior to the attack, moving barely enough to stave off tragedy.

At least for the time being.

But given the grim line of the surgeon’s mouth, when Loki again glanced her way, his insides roiled at the stark realisation that said tragedy may yet be imminent.

He’d fleetly thought of contacting Margaranthe, since she’d no doubt be there in an instant to assist, if she knew of Mobius’ attack. But, tempad already open in hand, he’d remembered that she’d gone off on some forest retreat with a group of her senior acolytes, and B-15 had reluctantly confirmed that scanning for her temporal aura would take far longer than Mobius had.

And now, likely realising that he’d not be swayed in abandoning his vigil, no matter what she said to him, she merely squeezed his shoulder in quiet support, her warm hand remaining there for a good minute or so before she finally pulled away and withdrew from Loki’s side, the heelstrikes of her hard-soled shoes a fading echo along the gleaming white corridor.

It was the first time that Loki had observed traditional Midgardian surgery in the flesh — pun very much unintended, yet again — and although he was certain Mobius’ case was far less gruesome than other procedures, it was still dreadfully confronting, even without feeling ill with anxiety as a result of vast emotional investment.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, every muscle rigid with tension, and teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. But no sooner had it begun to seem as though Mobius was finally out of the woods, the surgeon beginning the arduous process of suturing the inner layers of tissue, then the heart monitor flatlined with a piercing wail. 

A flurry of activity erupted within the operating room, as an assistant rolled a defibrillator around to the surgeon’s side. 

Head swimming as though he may pass out at any moment, Loki planted his clammy hands against the cold pane of glass, holding himself upright as his breath was reduced to rapid gasps.

This can’t be happening… it can’t… gods, no…

He couldn’t hear, could hardly feel; all of existence narrowed down to one limp and ghostly white figure, whose heart was still not beating –

“Come on, Mobius,” he grit out in a low rumble, tears blurring his vision as the paddles were employed yet again, hope briefly spiking for a split second after Mobius' body jolted disturbingly from the shock.

But that Norns-forsaken line on the monitor remained stubbornly unchanging, and the tears fell unchecked as he stood stunned in horror.

Only two more attempts to revive him later, Loki had had enough.

Insensible with fear and heart-twisting desperation, he darted to the heavy door of the theatre, forcing his way inside.

“Hey, you can’t be in here!” one of the assistants yelped, but he paid them no mind, pushing past anyone who impeded his flight to Mobius’ side.

“Loki!” the surgeon exclaimed, “What the hell do you think you’re doing! He’s got an open wound, and you haven’t scrubbed up-”

She cut herself off as Loki shouldered her aside, the paddles she’d been preparing to use again now replaced with his hands, either side of the gory incision as emerald green light flickered and guttered around his palms, before he slammed his eyes shut and focused… Mobius’ life now literally in his hands.

You can do this, he told himself. You must do this…

But unfortunately, healing someone so close to death was not a simple case of mind over matter, much as Loki vehemently wished it to be so. The plaintive beeeeep of the monitor, the hushed audience gathered around him, and the intrusive muttering of self-deprecation from his own traitorous conscience coalesced into a repugnant entity that hung about his shoulders, infecting his mind with haunting premonitions of his imminent failure.

That isn’t to say that Loki didn’t fight the feeling wholeheartedly. In some ways he knew that he’d never fought harder, not in any field of combat or battle he’d tread upon over centuries of life. And this monumental effort, that within minutes resulted in a faintness of mind and body synonymous with overt strenuosity, was indicative of the untenable price that failure would reap.

And yet… and yet.

He’d never restarted someone’s heart before. Nor knit together wounds of this severity.

He didn’t even know where to begin, with either.

And with every moment that passed, Mobius was slipping further and further away.

“Loki,” the surgeon murmured at his side, “Nothing’s happening. Should- should something be…”

She trailed off as Loki released a strangled sob, because she was right, gods be damned. He couldn’t do this.

“I feared for my life there, for a moment.”

The jocular comment rose to the forefront of his mind, along with the teasing sparkle in Mobius’ eyes as he ribbed Loki over how terrible he was at healing. 

All this time, all this work… and when it actually counted, when he needed to save the person who meant the most to him in all the multiverse, he was going to fail.

A pulse of magic burst from his hands at the soul-crushing devastation, and he felt Mobius jolt beneath his touch, similarly to how he had with the defibrillator.

But still the monitor shrilled its mournful lament.

Gods help me, Loki whimpered inwardly, beginning to tremble from both exertion and emotion, What will Margaranthe say?

He pictured the look on her face as he was forced to confess that he’d failed her friend. That after hours and hours of her tuition, guidance, and patience (or lack thereof, with regard to the latter), he’d been unable to save ‘Mobius dear’.

And, Loki realised detachedly, he’d never find out what that was all about, either.

Because Mobius would be gone.

There was so much he didn’t know about him, so much they still had to share. He’d naively assumed they’d have all of Time, always, and now… now–

No.

A second voice rose from the depths of his conscience, which sounded less like himself, and more like an amalgamation of every person he knew who loved Mobius — B-15, OB, Casey, Sylvie, Margaranthe, that young clerk in the archives who always loaned him her revoltingly saccharine and predictable romance novels — all of them speaking to him at once, refusing to let him fumble this.

It wasn’t just himself who would be hurt beyond belief. There were so many people who needed him to succeed.

He opened his eyes, staring down at Mobius’ paper-white face.

For you, and for all of us, he promised, with fierce determination, and promptly harnessed both his focus and his seiðr, ignoring the tears that still streamed down his cheeks as he infused the outpouring of healing energy with the spirit of everyone who was depending on him.

So deep he fell into a healing trance that would have satisfied even Margaranthe, he didn’t register the steady blips as they finally restarted on the monitor.

* * *

“Mobius.”

Eyelids weighted by the potent painkillers he was currently dosed up on, Mobius was trying valiantly to prise them apart, but couldn’t quite manage it. Leaning forward in his seat, Loki’s grin of relieved amusement was insuppressible.

“Time to wake up,” he sing-songed teasingly, and at that Mobius drew in a deep inhalation, his eyes finally fluttering open as he glanced dazedly around the room, before his gaze settled on Loki.

“Hey,” he whispered, throat raspy with dryness. “What’s going on?”

The mystified frown that creased his brow was utterly adorable, and Loki bit his lip as he grasped Mobius’ hand, blinking away a prickling of tears.

“You don’t remember?”

“Loki?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he assured him, alarmed at how spaced out he was. “Do you know where you are?”

“Mmh.” A grunt of effort, as he fought to keep his eyes open. “Could be heaven. But I don’t believe in that crap.”

“Heaven?”

“Yeah. S’all white, n’ shiny. N’ you’re here.”

Loki’s mouth gaped open, midway into a reply, stunned into silence by the languorously frank explanation.

“Gotta say though,” Mobius huffed, oblivious to his bluescreening, “Thought being dead would feel better th’n this.”

“You’re not dead,” Loki responded automatically, the need to communicate this apparently overriding the momentary glitch. “I healed you.”

The words burst from him with a pride he hadn’t allowed himself to feel until now; the undertaking not registering as a success until Mobius had awoken.

Much to his offence, however, Mobius immediately started laughing.

“You? You can’t heal for shit,” he chortled, and even though Loki was well aware he was completely off his nut on drugs, he still couldn’t help the flare of irritation. “You’re worse than Meg was.”

“I’ll have you know,” Loki began loftily, “That–”

But his defensive rebuttal ceased the moment Mobius’ words had processed.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Huh?” Mobius rolled his head to the side to look at him, focus hazy.

“I’m worse than- than Margaranthe?” he prodded. “What do you mean, Mobius?”

“Pfff. She was such a shitty healer,” he chuckled. “Almost killed me once, didja know?”

“No,” Loki replied stonily. “No I did not.” Elbows propped on the edge of the gurney, cradling Mobius’ hand in both of his, he leaned in even closer. “Tell me,” he urged.

“Not much t’ tell. I was… hurt. On a mission. In a field near her house,” he recounted muzzily, slipping with all the steadiness of a glacier back towards oblivion. “Bruised rib, after a variant attacked me.” His eyes fell closed again, and Loki silently willed him to find the strength to finish. “She found me, n’ said she could… heal me.”

A long pause, and Loki squeezed his hand gently, rousing him just enough to mutter the last part.

“She broke my bruised rib, n’ punctured my godsdamned lung.”

And with an inexplicably fond smile at the memory, he once more drifted off.

Loki sat, staring at Mobius but not quite seeing him, processing this juicy little tidbit that he was absolutely not going to rub in the High Priestess’ face at the first available opportunity.

Also, there was no way after hearing Mobius’ tale that he would ever willingly admit to her that the mental image of meeting her apocalyptic wrath was catalytic; effectively frightening him into healing ‘Mobius dear’.

No wonder she was so bloody nice to him. It was nothing but pure guilt! 

That godsdamn, arrogant, two-faced hack, he seethed, I can’t believe this whole time I’ve been letting myself be bullied into submission by ‘Mystic Meg’, who as it turns out, is no better than me…

But his tirade halted at this realisation. 

She’d been just like him. And she’d clearly fought against her hopeless lack of skill, eventually reaching the zenith of prowess in mystical healing. 

Perhaps she did have something to teach him, after all.

Once he’d appropriately humbled her with his newfound knowledge, of course.

“Loki?”

Startling from his reverie, he was surprised to find Mobius had returned to consciousness, though he suspected it was only transient.

“Yeah?” he prodded, placing Mobius’ hand back on the bed beside him, and linking their fingers. 

“Why’s my chest glowing green?”

Face flushing, Loki’s gaze dropped down to regard the offending phenomenon.

“Oh. Uh, turns out I- I healed you a little too well,” he admitted sheepishly. “So you’ve kind of… got some magic left in you.”

Mobius frowned at his bandaged torso, then back at him.

“I have superpowers?”

A bark of laughter, and Loki shook his head.

“Not how it works. And it’s not permanent, either. It will fade in time.”

“Mm. Shame,” Mobius replied, eyes closing as he sunk into his pillows, almost asleep. “S’ a nice idea, having a bit of you inside of me…”

Fortunately Loki’s dignity was spared, as the strangled noise he made fell upon deaf ears.