“What do you think about Mobius?” Casey asks, by way of explanation.
Loki looks up from where he is diligently working for once to see O.B. and Casey standing in front of his desk, kind of looking like two kids in the doorway of their parent’s room in the middle of the night. It’s an odd sight to see. Not because they’re an unusual duo, but because Casey is more often than not living a perpetual life behind his desk unless the situation called for otherwise, and O.B. is more often than not living a perpetual life in his workshop unless the situation called for otherwise. Momentarily, Loki wonders if the world is ending, though if that was the case, the two would probably look more panicked. Casey looks determined, and O.B. is simply just… there. With a notepad.
Slowly, Loki raises his brows. “Hello to you, too.”
“Hi,” Casey greets, fairly chipper, before he appears to realize why he’s here and gets back on track once more. “Uhm, anyways. Mobius.”
“An old killjoy, which, if I may, says very little about the majority of you all, given he’s one of the more mellow members of the TVA I’ve had the pleasure of meeting thus far. Honestly, you all could benefit with a drink or two,” Loki easily answers. “Is there a reason you’re here? I’m sure there must be other things to do. Documenting those endless files, for example.”
“Is that the truth?” Casey asks instead, completely avoiding Loki’s own question, which is greedy and a little rude.
“Not an answer.” Loki’s gaze flicks to O.B., who is still standing there. “What is he doing here?”
“Casey told me to take notes,” O.B. helpfully replies, holding up the notepad. Then, he frowns, as if he’s realizing something. “Problem is, I didn’t bring a pen.”
Loki hums in agreement. A problem indeed. “I see. Would you like a pen?”
“I kind of need a pen to write,” O.B. considers, “so, yeah.”
From where he had set his pen down atop his paperwork, Loki picks it back up to hand over to O.B., who enthusiastically thanks him before proceeding to scribble something down. The inventor, at the least, isn’t greedy nor rude.
“Okay,” Casey says as O.B. finally gets his pen, mild irritation cracking through that voice of his as he repeats, “Was that a genuine answer, Loki?” And, by this point, the hilarity of the situation is washed in bulk by creeping confusion.
Loki leans back in his chair, his lips pulling downward just slightly. “Have I ever lied?” he prompts.
Casey looks as if he’s about to say, yes, Loki, God of Lies and Mischief, before realizing that Loki is jesting. Pulling his leg, as Mobius would phrase it. Loki is met with Casey’s gloriously irked expression instead, and it seems like that’s the moment the clerk’s decided he’s got whatever answer he’s looking for — or, perhaps, just doesn’t think going back and forth with Loki is worth the effort, which is admittedly a smart way of thinking — because it’s in that moment he turns around and leaves.
Loki’s gaze trails after him before it pivots to O.B., who, none the wiser, continues to write things down on the notepad.
“O.B.,” Loki calls after a bit.
O.B. looks up at Loki, looks around for a bit to see that Casey is gone, says, “Oh,” and, too, leaves without another word.
Loki sits there for a bit afterwards, failing to make sense of what just occurred, then goes back to work.
____
The thing about money in the TVA is that it’s useless in every complete and utter sense of the word.
The same goes for many things. Loki had found this out the moment he witnessed infinity stones being used as paperweights, and he only continued to find out: the Darkhold, the Casket of Ancient Winters — Hel, Loki’s sure he’s seen a variation of Mjolnir hanging around somewhere. Even now, a niggling thought in the back of Loki’s mind finds it odd how everything he’s once known renders so unimportant here, but the TVA treats it with such casualness to the point that Loki decides that, well, he better get used to it.
Meaning that, naturally, when he clocks in earlier than usual and saunters into the break room, it confuses him that the first thing he sees is a good chunk of the departments crowded around one of the round wooden tables, like there’s something particularly interesting to the group that’s seen everything. It’s a very claustrophobic sight, what with such a tiny area occupied by a couple tens of people, and the fact they all look very focused, murmuring lowly, makes the whole thing just a bit unsettling. As Loki gets closer, the second thing he sees from a better angle is that they’ve all got money in hand. Dollar bills, more specifically — the likes of which have never mattered before.
“A betting pool,” Loki acknowledges, peering over Casey’s shoulder, tone loud and amused. He remembers the influx of these back in Asgard, the gambling addicts Thor and his friends were. His brother would often leave with less money than he’d come with, but that didn’t exactly matter much when you were prince. Either way, he’d always insist on going back for more. Loki himself never cared for betting much — only chipping in his own bets when he was certain he’d win, or to prove a point — yet, all in all, the view is actually a bit nostalgic. The god tilts his head, inquiring, “What of?”
Loki’s well aware he’s not liked throughout the TVA — tolerated, yes, if only because he’s proved himself as generally on their side (“UNTIL PROVEN OTHERWISE,” his file notes) — but he’s become a constant that the workers are used to, at least to the point of them not flinching every time he walks into a room. So, it only serves to confuse Loki further when they all pause the moment they hear his voice, apparently just now realizing that he is there when he isn’t supposed to be. It’s actually a bit concerning; Loki thinks they should have more awareness of their surroundings, given their jobs.
They stare at him. He stares at them back. In what he thinks is supposed to be a discreet attempt, some of the hunters and agents around the table begin to pocket their money in a too-late act of hiding it.
Loki looks at Casey, then, who very well shrinks. Seems his confidence from sauntering up to his desk a few days ago is gone, Loki amusedly notes.
“Hey, Loki,” Casey offers.
“Hi,” Loki drawls. “You’re up and out of that desk, today. What’s this?” he asks once more, gesturing to the sight before him that Casey is trying, and failing, to conceal.
“Nothing.” Casey seems to pick up on Loki’s unimpressed lack of response that wordlessly beckons Casey to spill, because he audibly gulps as he tries once more. “Just, taxing?”
“Ah. Taxing,” Loki repeats, as if a revelation. “Tell me, Casey, what are taxes?”
Casey’s silence speaks volumes. It’s a cue for Loki to know he’s backed him and probably everyone else in the room into a guilty, weeping corner. Loki crosses his arms, feeling a bit like Mobius in how he portrays the universal body language of disappointment.
“Come now,” Loki coaxes. “For those here so hellbent on my honesty, it’s a bit hypocritical to be so secretive. Besides, friends aren’t supposed to keep secrets.” He flashes a grin. “We are friends, aren’t we, Casey?”
Weakly, Casey laughs. “Uh…”
“It’s a bit early for manipulation.” Mobius enters as he always does; he is not bright, nor loud, nor overly dramatic in his arrival. Yet, all the same, the man always seems to grab the attention of everyone in the room just by being there. He certainly has that effect on Loki, at least; the god watches him as the agent makes his way towards the coffee machine, stretching. “Bad boy. Don’t mind Loki, everyone,” and it is approximately eight moments into entering that, in slow succession, Mobius seems to fully register that, one: basically everyone is cluttered into this one room, and two: mostly everyone is stiff, awkward, and remorsefully silent, as if fifty different people’s hands were collectively spotted reaching inside a cookie jar. Spare for Loki, of course.
Mobius blinks, steps slowing before they come to a complete stop. Loki is relieved to recognize that he looks just about as perplexed as Loki feels.
“What? Is it someone’s birthday?” Mobius jokes a bit awkwardly, especially since it gets no reception. “No, really. Did I miss a team bonding activity? Help me out, here.”
“They’re betting,” Loki bravely speaks up for the rest of the room, seeing as they’re all intent on looking at and acknowledging anything but Mobius.
The agent makes his way over to Loki’s side, supposedly trying to get a good look at the whole thing, too. From the moment they became aware of Loki’s presence, everyone had already begun to pack it all up, however the process still isn’t quick enough to stop Mobius from catching a glimpse of green, stark against brown clothing.
“When’d we get money?” he asks, sounding surprised. To Loki, Mobius’ question completely dodges the elephant in the room — the topic of the bet — but Mobius is a natural at fixating upon the more minuscule of things. This includes, however is not limited to, picking apart the underlying quirks and woes of Asgard’s biggest scandal.
The room is emptier now since most of the occupants have wisely decided that the easiest way to escape Loki and Mobius’ scrutiny is by exiting. “That, alongside what it is they're wagering on,” Loki answers, a hand extending to grasp Casey shoulder from where he’d been inching away, stopping the man from fleeing with the flock and pulling him close to his side, “is what I’m trying to figure out.” With a smile, he pins Casey with a gaze too cheery to be authentic. Casey gulps, again.
“Oookay. Loki,” Mobius’ prior amusement is replaced by something slightly less entertained and more piqued. “Loki, let Casey go. Sorry, Casey. Prince Pussycat here just isn’t used to having pals; he doesn’t know how to act.”
“… Hey,” Loki frowns, loosening his grip on Casey who makes haste in skittering out the door. Thus, with the initial party dispelled, that leaves two.
Loki stares at where the door swings in the wake of Casey’s leave, the god’s eyes narrowed in thought. Mobius has left his side to finally get the coffee he’d meant to get in the first place. As the machine whirs to life, Loki finds his voice.
“They’re hiding something,” Loki declares.
“Sure are,” Mobius agrees, although there’s a considerable lack of interest. It makes Loki pause, a frown pulling at his lips. He turns to face Mobius.
“They are hiding something from us specifically, and you aren’t, at the least, interested in knowing what?”
“I can’t say I am,” Mobius admits, and to Loki’s befuddled expression, he shrugs. “What’s the fuss? I’m sure it’s not anything dangerous, if that’s what you’re worried about. As long as the world’s not ending, that ain’t my business.” Mobius recites this as if it’s some sort of prophecy to go by. As if letting things go right under your nose is a good thing.
“It might,” Loki points out, brows raising. “We don’t know. It could be life-threatening. Universe-ending. A case of the multiverse splitting apart, perhaps.”
“We’re the TVA. Not you in 2012.” Mobius wears an expression that is most comparable to a very tired babysitter. He grabs his mug the moment the coffee machine stops dispensing, and, sipping it, goes to exit the room. He jerks his head to indicate for Loki to follow. Loki does. “They’re not planning to conquer New York.”
“Mobius,” Loki hisses, eyes tattling on the way his patience fleets before he catches and collects himself, lips pursing. “You can’t expect me to stand here and believe that you aren’t a bit curious. I know you. You and I,” he gestures between them, “we’re curious.”
Mobius chuckles, shaking his head. “Are you trying to convince me?” is the question he asks in response, which Loki pointedly ignores.
“For the sake of the possibility that, maybe, this is something gravely important, and lethal, and by knowing this information we could save everything and everyone — and there is a chance, no matter how thin, because there’s always a chance — I think you should try to find out what it is.”
“Why me?” Mobius immediately wonders. “It’s your idea.”
“Well, they don’t trust me.” Loki rolls his eyes. “Use your head, Mobius. They won’t tell me anything. They’d be more likely to tell their cordial agent, their long-time confidant. It’ll be easy for you to slip in, get ahold of whatever information has been rudely kept from us, and tell me.” Loki is just vaguely aware that he sounds far too passionate about this plan, even more so when Mobius very pointedly does not harbor the same enthusiasm.
“See,” Mobius sighs, “now I just feel guilty.”
“Yes, well, they deserve it.” Loki sniffs. “Don’t make me beg.”
“You wouldn’t,” Mobius says, like it’s a known fact. “You’re too prideful, and your princely dignity’s too dignified, yada, yada.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Loki agrees. “But, I can say please.”
Deadpan, Mobius stares at him, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Loki puts on his best grin, which ends up being a little too wide for anyone’s comfort. It’s only a short while longer before Mobius cracks, running a hand over his own face; it’s due to this that Loki knows he’s won, because he recognizes the way the other man’s shoulders slump in defeat. It’s the same way it often does when Loki convinces him to do something fun — or, in other words, stupid by Mobius’ standards.
“Alright, alright.” Looking to the side where he can deliberately avert his eyes from meeting Loki’s cheeky expression, Mobius practically bores a hole into the painting at the end of the hallway with how hard he glares. He’s as disgruntled as one often looks when it’s too early to deal with something. “Just because you won’t get off my case about it otherwise. And, for the potential sake of the multiverse, or whatever it was you said. I’m gonna be honest, I only listen to about 20 percent of what you say sometimes.”
It’s 15 percent more than most people all of the time. Loki tries to not look as triumphant as he feels, but it’s probably not very successful.
“There’s that sparkling wit.” The god doesn’t hide the noticeable pep in his step as he continues down the corridor with Mobius, swiveling as to walk backwards and properly face the agent. “I say you do it tomorrow. Bright and early — or, whatever term you use in a timeless place such as this. That way, they are too sluggish to properly hide anything.”
“‘Kay, well, I say we can do it whenever I get enough coffee in my system to pull through. Speaking of, I don’t think I’ve had enough.” Mobius makes a sharp left at the next corridor, the one leading to the cafeteria this time. Startled, Loki minutely skitters from his straight-lined path before falling right back into step with the other man. “How about we come back to this later, scamp?”
It’s posed as a question, but, really, it’s not. Mobius ends it with a sort of finality that reinforces he’s done with this topic. Loki doesn’t bring it back up this time, nor does he point out that Mobius is on the way to get more coffee despite having a still half-full mug of it. No, Loki’s too satisfied to care.
____
There is something so exhilarating about the times Mobius goes through with Loki’s ideas. How much the agent complains and protests is no matter, because he is doing it anyway. Loki thinks the enjoyment comes from how defiant Mobius is, generally. He’d recruited Loki to help the TVA, which had gone against the TVA’s earlier wishes — then, nine out of ten times Loki had tried to pitch his own ideas to help, Mobius said no, since, apparently, Loki’s ludicrous ideas went against the rules. It gives Mobius a peculiar sort of independence. He doesn’t just do things that others tell him to do, making it all the more special when he does follow through with Loki, of all people: a variant with no authority over him.
Unfortunately, Mobius is also a snake that is infuriatingly unpredictable, so in hindsight, Loki should have known better. He does not think he’s ever felt more betrayed after giddily waiting out in the hall the next day, around approximately the same time as the last, just for Mobius to emerge from the break room and keep his mouth resolutely shut.
“You didn’t even find out, did you,” Loki accuses, because it’s the only logical reasoning for keeping Loki in the dark. He matches Mobius’ pace with long strides, and by the slightly faster gait in which Mobius is moving, Loki is almost inclined to believe he’s trying to lose him. “That’s why you won’t tell me. You’re ashamed.”
“Obviously I know what the betting pool is for, Loki.” Mobius rubs at his temple. “I just went in there and came out telling you that I know.”
“Then why won’t you tell me what you know?”
“Because knowing you, you’d make this whole deal about it, and I don’t wanna deal with all the collateral damage. Besides, you’re not gonna like it.”
“How could you know I won’t like it? I don’t even know if I won’t like it, because I don’t even know what it is yet!” Loki widens his eyes, dumbfounded.
“Look, why don’t we take a minute to listen to the pro here? The Loki expert? I know.”
“Loki expert? I am Loki!” At this, Mobius raises his hands in a placating gesture — Loki becomes aware of just how much his voice has raised just in time to hear the sound of his own echo reverberating back to him. Once he’s significantly more calm (not to say he’s any short of annoyed), Loki extends his hands, palms up; an olive branch approach, he goes for. “What if I promise to like it?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“It could be how it works.”
“Alright,” Mobius throws his arms up. They’ve made it to the elevator which closes the second Loki hits the button to their floor, meaning, for a precious amount of time, they’re now effectively trapped together in a small, metal box and Mobius has no escape from Loki unless he decides to climb into the tiny vent in the ceiling, but Loki’s sure he’s not that desperate. “I’m cutting this short because I’m actually a little fond of the three brain cells I have remaining. No, I’m not telling you. Yes, it’s for your own good.”
“My own good — Do you think of me a child to be kept from, Mobius? Because I can assure you I’m not.”
“You could fool me with all this pushing. Pushy, pushy, pushy. That’s you.”
”I don’t think I’m being pushy enough, actually,” Loki argues.
Mobius, apparently, deems it fit to not grace that one with a response. Loki knows the agent has something to say about it — sees the sheer restraint — but the elevator dings itself back open and Mobius is quick to retreat into the bland, fluorescent-lit, endless hallways. As Loki often does, he trails after him. With their height difference, Mobius’ steps are always easy to match regardless of how quick they are. If Loki wanted to, he could stride right alongside him and continue to be a little fly on the wall with no problem. Yet, he makes himself fall behind, an idea coming to mind.
“I have been kept from things all my life, Mobius,” Loki starts, suddenly. Just as abruptly, he stops walking, working his jaw. “I thought — you know, I was starting to think the Time Variance Authority was different.”
Mobius actually halts at this, and twisting around just enough to look back at Loki, he looks at the god as if he’s grown another head. “… Are you guilt-tripping me?”
“Of course, I am always the perpetrator—“
“Not working, sweetheart,” Mobius interrupts before Loki can delve any further. Loki blinks out of his ruse, pouts, but Mobius only goes on. “But, hey, nice try. I give it an eight out of ten. It’d work on someone else, I bet.”
Mobius turns away once more, walking at a more leisure pace this time. Loki doesn’t think it’s because Mobius knows he’ll follow, no; it’s because Mobius knows he probably won’t.
“Are you honestly not going to tell me?” Loki calls after him, incredibly disbelieved.
“I’m keeping you on your toes.” Mobius’ voice gets fainter and fainter the further he goes. When the agent responds, the man doesn’t even look back. The sheer indifference makes Loki even more offended, however possible. It also makes his traitorous heart skip, but that is another matter entirely. “Think of it like this. You’re a smart cookie. You’ll find out eventually. Between you and me, the TVA’s horrible at keeping secrets for too long.”
Loki has half a mind to say something mean — to insist a little more, maybe — but he does not. Instead, in spite of being irritated and betrayed and confused and even more curious than before, he considers Mobius’ words, running them over in his mind. Mobius cracked the bet with no problem, it seems, and people have hid stuff from Loki often enough for him to know how to look, how to find. They’ve lied to him countlessly for him to figure out how and when he, at last, hears the truth.
Loki opens his mouth to respond — to firmly conclude that he doesn’t need Mobius to find out, anyways — but as he looks down the hallway, Mobius is already long gone.
Whatever.
____
It’s a quick, yet not entirely surprising realization that the number of people Loki actually talks to in the TVA can be counted on one hand.
His options are terribly limited; interrogating a stranger would just be awkward, for one (which is silly, because why are a bunch of strangers betting on something that, for all Loki is concerned, pertains to him?), but it’s even more complicated when most of the workers Loki does talk to refuse to speak. Casey seems to avoid him at every given chance, B-15 claims she doesn’t even know what Loki’s on about, get back to work, and the situation with Mobius went without question. In fact, as of late, Mobius seems almost delighted by Loki’s struggle to figure out what he’s missing out on.
“It’s like those omniscient drama TV shows,” Mobius had told him at some point. “You know. The ones where the viewers know what’s happening, and they’re all just waiting for the main character to piece it together.”
That same day, Mobius learned that Loki has not watched “those omniscient drama TV shows” or any TV show for that matter. Loki pointedly turned down Mobius’ offer to binge one with him after work. The god will indulge, possibly, once he’s finished getting to the bottom of the more important task at hand.
With Casey, B-15, and Mobius all being frustratingly non-compliant to his cause, that is three out of four options down. After seeing that he, literally, only has four options, Loki wonders if he should go out and make some friends, but he waves off the thought quickly. There is one option left.
“O.B.,” Loki greets as he walks into the man’s shop, not exactly caring about interrupting a conversation because nobody else is ever in O.B’s shop, anyways. Loki sometimes speculates that he and Mobius are the only frequenters.
“Loki! Hi!” O.B. looks up as Loki stops in front of his desk, the god tinkering with the first object he sees — something akin to a tiny lava lamp, it looks like — but his acknowledgement is fleeting. O.B. spares Loki a smile and a glance for just a moment longer before he’s right back to working on… whatever it is that he does these days.
“That’s a prototype,” the inventor helpfully informs without looking up. “Don’t touch it. There’s a 60 percent chance that it will activate upon any sudden movement and rearrange your molecular structure. Permanently.”
Loki blinks, looks down at said prototype which is currently in his hold, and carefully sets it down. “Right.” He shoves his hands in his pockets instead.
“Did you need something?” O.B. asks eventually. It takes a bit for the question to come, but the man has apparently noticed that Loki isn’t rambling incessantly as he often does whenever he visits, thus probably waiting for something.
“Yes, actually. I’m glad you asked.” Loki feels as though he’s answered that a bit too immediately to be casual about it, clearing his throat. He looks off to the side momentarily, a hand coming up once more to thrum restlessly against the desk, and he leans just a tad bit further forward. “A notepad. I saw yours the other day, and I… am running short of spare paper.” A lie. The TVA never runs out of supplies, and with endless timelines to document, paper is especially something they have an influx of. O.B. doesn’t appear to suspect anything, so, innocently, Loki goes on. “I was wondering if I could borrow it for a bit.”
“Sure,” O.B replies, sliding his chair away to pick up another work order, scanning through it. “It’s next to the guidebook. Just return it when you’re done. All my notes are in there.”
“Of course,” Loki nods, an air of inattentiveness in his tone, distracted by scanning around for the notepad. He finds it where O.B. had described, and with a small nose of success, he flips through the pages quickly. He’d usually have more sense than to so deliberately scrounge through someone’s belongings, but something tells him O.B. wouldn't mind. Loki finds something that calls to him rather quickly — namely, writing that wasn’t complete chicken scratch, cryptic words, or equations — but has to squint to read it. On the page is a list of TVA workers, Casey and B-15 included, with individual numbers beside them. The amount they’re betting, Loki concludes, and raises a brow at the fact some of these amounts were particularly high. The names are separated into two columns. Below them are dates and times, accompanied by percentages.
Loki’s brow furrows. O.B. was doing calculations for this, apparently. “What’s this?” Loki plants the notepad on the desk, face-up, and slides it towards O.B. with two fingers for him to see.
The inventor wheels his chair towards Loki once more, peering down at his writing. “Oh, that’s the bet! Casey told me to keep track of it, so I’m not allowed to participate. The names are everyone betting, which takes up roughly 90 percent of the workplace, and these,” O.B. points at the numbers, “are the calculations for how likely it is that you and Mobius will get together by the end of the month.“
Loki gapes.
O.B. goes on. “We’re going by an Earth month. Since it’s currently March on the Earth of the universe you came from, the count is 31 work days. You and Mobius are together all the time when you’re at work, and since you two are at work most of the time, that’s a chunk of your current lifespan together. I didn’t record how many times you and Mobius are spotted with one another, because that’s an easy 100 percent of the time, but Casey did tell me to record how many times you look at Mobius in That Way,” O.B. says it as if it’s a name, a title, a common phenomenon, “and how many times Mobius looks at you in That Way. Not to mention every time you touch each other, or laugh in a way you don’t laugh at anyone else, or just treat each other differently.” O.B. sighs. “It’s hard work! Anyways, I calculate the minutes you do those things when around each other and put it over the 720 you’re around each other each day. Every week, the individual 720 minutes add up, as well as the minutes with the actions supporting you and Mobius’ future relationship, then to get the current likelihood, I divide and multiply by 100. Right now, it’s at an 80 percent rate of success for the people who bet in favor, which is why the numbers on the left side are so large.”
“What?”
“The minutes alone don’t line up perfectly with the end result since there’s also external factors to take into account,” O.B. considers, “like the probability of you and Mobius being too scared to confess. Or, what you say about each other to other people. For example, you insulted Mobius when Casey asked, so that deducted 3 percent.”
“I was joking,” Loki says, although the way in which he does is a little lost; he is stomaching far too many things at once.
“Well, we can’t be certain that you were joking, so we go off based on your actual words, not the intent. Casey told me to not put anything subjective.”
“O.B., you’re saying — sorry, I’m desperate to understand — you’re saying that me looking at Mobius, and Mobius looking at I, in ‘That Way’ isn’t subjective?”
“No,” O.B. says, simply. “Everything I list is factual!”
That makes no sense, and Loki has half a mind to figure out what “That Way” is, even, but he finds that getting an explanation would probably only make him more confused. He shakes his head. “Well, what if one confesses but the other one rejects the proposition?” he proposes. “Did you take that into account, as well?”
O.B.’s face scrunches up. “No. That’s not possible.”
“No?” Loki asks.
“No,” O.B. insists.
Loki stares at him. His jaw works, as if he’s on the tip of responding. Another futile question of why, which would only devolve into even more questions of why, and thus an endless stream of it. If he stays here expecting to fully grasp this absurd concept everyone in the TVA is in on, he and O.B. will be here for perpetuity, probably. Not like they don’t have all the time in the world, but still.
Since O.B. doesn’t deserve to be victim to Loki screaming at him, with all the self-restraint he has, Loki takes a deep breath in and an even longer one out (something he’d learned from Mobius — maybe he is spending time too much with the oaf).
“I’m taking this.” Loki smiles quickly and more out of decency than it is a reflection of how he’s feeling — completely out of decency because he is the furthest thing from a smiley mood — and takes the notepad back.
“Sure,” O.B. replies. It is the exact same way he replied the first time Loki asked, and Loki momentarily gets the urge to strangle him dead for his unconcern. Or, an urge to strangle just about anyone, now that he thinks about it. It’s a terrible old habit he has.
To prevent himself from doing just that, Loki leaves the shop without another word, his evidence in tow.
____
“TVA,” Loki announces, his arrival loud as he enters the main office room, arms spread out, the pitter-patter of heels against the tile floor ear-gratingly attracting; being outside of space and time for as long as he has might have taken many things from him, but not his ability to cause a scene. Grinning, he makes his way to Casey’s cubicle and hops onto the man’s desk, papers flying as Loki rises atop it. From his leverage, he looks amongst the area of busy bees. “I’ve come bearing great, great knowledge.”
“Loki,” he hears Mobius hiss from the crowd, scolding, but Loki promptly ignores him. The room and those visible in the hallways connecting to it collectively stare at him with an impressively unanimous bewilderment, which just as quickly blends into variations of either irritation or the familiar tiredness that comes from working at a desk until the end of time. Either way, it’s universally known as a “here we go again” type of regard.
Before they can decide there is peace in not knowing and resume their work, Loki clears his throat noisily enough that it is heard all throughout, makes a show of taking out the notepad, and reads, “The burning, piping-hot debate of Mobius and I getting together by March 31st.”
Loki does not need to look up to know he’s got their attention now if the gasping says anything, but he does anyhow. He feigns surprise at their shock. “What? Have you all not heard? Me neither. Let’s see.” Loki clears his throat. “In favor, top of the list, Casey.” His gaze flicks towards the worker mentioned, who, after Loki had jumped on his desk, seems to have scooted his chair the furthest away possible and is still trying to shrivel back more. Casey looks as though he doesn’t know whether to be offended, angry, or scared, and the indecision creates a combination of all three into an expression only a mother could love. It’s a very funny sight.
“How did you — where did you even get Ouroboros’ notepad?” exclaims Casey, perturbed.
“He lended it to me. Amazing friend, that one.” Loki looks back down at the list, scanning it until he catches eye of another familiar name. “B-15,” he hums, eyes flitting around the room before they find her. She looks satisfyingly red-handed once he meets her gaze. Loki tilts his head. “You didn’t know what I was on about, you said?”
“I…” B-15’s brows knit, voice trailing off as she appears to weigh her words on the tip of her tongue. She huffs, and ends up just shrugging. “I lied.”
“I admire your honesty. On the opposing side now. Highest wager being Brad.” Loki clicks his tongue. “How fascinating. I didn’t take you to be so interested in my life.”
“Hey. Look,” Brad brings his hands up from where he lingers at the doorway, “correction: your love life, and it’s easy money. You both need to get your shit together before anything happens, and that is,” he barks out a chuckle, shaking his head, “not happening before the 31 days.”
“Yes, because you are just the picture of one’s shit together. Gambling, by the way, is such a pathetic, last-ditch hole to go down. Where I’m from, at least.” Within Loki’s peripheral vision, he manages to catch sight of Brad looking around the room in a way that asks see what I mean, but Loki does not exactly register it enough to gauge it in the slightest because, at that moment, there so happens to be one more name that draws his attention.
He passes by it once. He thinks it’s a trick of the eye, but goes to double check anyway. After the quadruple check, Loki thinks he might be hallucinating, yet after a few prolonged seconds of staring and the name not going away, he just has to ask.
“Mobius,” Loki begins, perturbed, “why did you bet?”
To his credit, Mobius has enough sense to look sheepish. “I thought it was funny.”
“You’re telling me that this,” Loki takes to flapping the notepad wildly in the air, not caring if it makes him seem like a madman given he certainly feels like he’s spiraling into one right now, “is what you were up to in the break room that day?”
“This is what I was talking about. You’re making a scene,” Mobius deflects, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Will you get down from there?”
Loki does, but not because Mobius told him to, no. He marches straight towards the agent, who is already rising from his seat before Loki can open his mouth.
“Alright, come on.” Mobius nods his head towards the door, leading them out into the hallway. The way he walks now is reminiscent of the previous time they’d been on this topic: not looking back, somewhat tense, and his steps coming in equally quick succession if not a bit faster to the point that Loki has to jog a bit in order to properly reach his side. Loki waits until they’ve just barely gotten out of earshot to speak, simply because he’s self-aware enough to know that he won’t be quiet about it.
“Quick warning: I’m going to ask again. You didn’t tell me, why?”
“I already told you.”
“Because you think it’s funny?”
“No, I don’t,” Mobius stresses, then pauses, head inclining like he’s considering something. “Okay, maybe a little, but that’s not the main reason. I didn’t tell you ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t like not knowing things.”
“No, you don’t, and someone’s gotta teach you that ignorance is bliss. Ever heard of the time that curiosity killed the kittycat? This is that time.”
Loki scoffs, indignant. “Who said I didn’t like it, anyways?”
“Yeah,” Mobius squints, “you standing on the table and calling everyone out because of how affected you are by the information is just the epitome of you liking it.”
“Well, we could have taken advantage of that bunkum! I could have asked you out. Make Brad lose a few hundred.”
Abruptly, Mobius comes to a halt. “We’re not dating out of spite,” he baffles, staring at Loki like he’s just said the most insane thing ever, although maybe that’s not all it is. Mobius has a certain expression whenever Loki suggests something dumb; it doesn’t hold the same… offense? Immediacy? Ache? The swirl of more personal emotions going beyond that’s stupid, which the face Mobius is wearing now holds.
It clicks.
The realization is sudden, instant, and unsuspecting as he was, it hits Loki in a way that’s utmost comparable to a slap in the face. The words tumble out of his mouth when he suggests, “… It doesn’t have to be out of spite.”
Mobius continues to stare at him. Opposition melts into shock, then something awfully resigned takes hold of his expression. A chuckle escapes him. “You don’t mean that.”
“But I do.” It’s raw and exposed how he states it, yet Loki’s insistence does not stop Mobius from turning away, continuing to walk.
“Mobius,” Loki calls, breaking into a small sprint until he catches up to Mobius’ side once more. “Mobius, for Norns sake — can we talk? Please?”
“Now, are you sticking it out because you want Brad to lose his money, or is this a genuine reason?”
“I promise you, I have never been more genuine in my life.”
A lengthy sigh escapes Mobius’ lips. He turns around to face Loki, the agent’s hands atop his own hips, and with a begrudging expression, one palm splays itself in a gesture for Loki to speak.
“Casey asked me some time ago what I thought of you, during which he was collecting data for the bet,” Loki begins. “I told him you were an old killjoy—“
“What?”
“— You probably haven’t heard—“
“I’m not a killjoy, I’m the opposite of a killjoy—“
“But,” Loki stops him, grabbing ahold of Mobius’ shoulders, “I lied. I think of you as funny, endearing, and impossibly compelling. I’m not sure how you’ve procured such a riveting sense of self when you’ve spent your entire life mingling around the blank slates you call coworkers, but you have, and it is so suffocating that it feels like I’m drowning in it. I like the way you ramble incessantly about jet skis, the way the first thing you do upon coming into the office is get a coffee after already having disposed of one or two back at your housing because there is no such thing as too little caffeine when a TVA work day is ahead of you. I like how when you talk, you talk in this hushed tone. I like the way you have an appetite for key lime pie, even if I don’t quite fully understand the obsession, and I like how nice you are to me and how mean you are to me all the same. Now, whenever you see fit, I’d like to…” Loki pauses. His face twists, thinking, because wandering the multiverse in search of a perfect first-date spot seems a little much. “… watch those omniscient drama TV shows with you.”
O.B. mentioned there’s a specific way the two look at each other, apparently so distinguishable and often enough that it is something any spectator can recognize. After their conversation back at the shop, Loki didn’t do much more than chalk it up to ludicrousness because he thinks he’d know if he was looking and being looked at in a certain way, but now he finds that, as his rambling stops and he takes in Mobius fully — the analyst looking up at him with something terribly soft surrounding his eyes, his obvious surprise not concealing the indisputable fondness in his gaze — perhaps it’s not so much of a stretch as Loki had thought.
The thing that gets him is that it’s not an unfamiliar expression. In fact, it’s one he’s met with every day.
“Wow,” Mobius says rather stupidly after a minute. They’ve backed up at some point, Mobius’ back against the wall and Loki’s proximity leaving little room for personal space. The agent is a bit wide-eyed, but there’s nothing about his composure that screams opposed. Mentally, Loki is already preparing to head out and go binge whatever terrible Midgardian-esque series Mobius will have him watch… “No.”
It is instinct when a spark of fear holds Loki captive, that horrible feel of insecurity harbored for centuries resurfacing. He thinks, of course he’s misread it. He’s ruined it all. As he stares at Mobius, however, the man is still wearing that face on his face: the open, obliging one that in any case goes against the rejection that just tumbled out of his mouth. The moment Loki is certain he’s not simply imagining it, his eyebrows furrow and he demands, “Why not?”
“Because I’m not losing fifty dollars, Loki.”
Loki gawks. The fact Mobius is still thinking about the bet at a time like this is baffling, truly. “I’m being very serious as I ask this, Mobius, but do you not realize how ridiculous you seem right now?”
“It’s fifty dollars!” exclaims Mobius, as if Loki is the unreasonable one here.
“Fifty dollars that hold no value in the TVA — Honestly, what even is the point of a betting pool? Where did you all even get money? Are we, the TVA, just a bunch of launderers, now?” He says this part loudly despite standing with Mobius in an otherwise empty hallway, spare for three passing colleagues of theirs, who all look an equal level of weirded out as they walk by a bit quicker.
Mobius mouths a quick ‘sorry’ to them, rubbing a hand over his face once they’re gone; Loki would normally think the action is out of annoyance, but he notices the smile that threatens to upturn the agent’s lips. “It’s the sentiment of the thing,” Mobius tries once more, because, yes, that just makes complete sense.
“Sentiment of the thing,” Loki huffs. “I will, personally, get you the amount of money from everyone on the losing side and triple it, given it matters so much.”
“So you’re buying my affections now, is that it?” There’s a teasing lilt to Mobius’ tone. Loki wonders if the agent is aware that Loki would very seriously do just about anything to win him over.
“If it’s working, yes.”
After a few beats, Mobius, biting the inside of his cheek, asks, “You sure we can’t just wait a few more days?”
Loki cannot help the way his eye twitches. “You’ve got to be kidding—“
“Easy, tiger, easy. I am. I’m joking. It’s funny.” Mobius’ hands come up, not so much resting upon Loki’s shoulder blades than grazing over them. The subconscious part of Loki wanting to feel the pressure makes a hand of his own move to press one of Mobius’ down, firm. Mobius’ smile widens just a fraction, and Loki doesn’t think he should find the expression as endearing as he does. “We’ll watch that TV show soon. Right now, though,” he glances off to the side, “we should probably get back to work.”
“We should, shouldn’t we,” Loki acknowledges, the hand that’s not on top of Mobius’ shifting to rest upon the agent’s waist.
“Busy day.”
“Mm. Very busy.”
“Plus, they’re all probably wondering where we skipped off to. I have to do damage control after that stunt you pulled, conjure a real good excuse for you. Un-scuff Casey’s desk, and all that.”
“You do that.” Loki makes no move to pull away. Neither does Mobius. It ends them up in this perplexing sort of stalemate, staring at each other; Loki’s lips are pursed and Mobius looks ridiculously serious.
Mobius folds eventually. The hard-lines of his face strained with the effort to keep the act up disappear, and he tops it all off with a long-suffering sigh as he leans in, brushing their noses together in the process. “Hey, tell ‘em I tried.”
____
Loki has never been one for betting, and despite that fact he sneaks his name onto the notepad at some point; it’s scribbled down on the side that claims, no, he and Mobius will not be together by the end of the month. He erases Brad’s name and egregiously high bet, transferring it to the side in favor. On what’s April 1st in Loki’s home universe (an awkward date, but luckily April Fool’s Day is a very Midgardian practice), Loki and Mobius lie to the break room that they’ve just gotten together, a day too late to matter, and reap their rewards.
The majority of their coworkers groan as they cede their meritless dollar bills. Standing by Loki, a small laugh escapes Mobius’ lips.
“They’re gonna be in a sour mood for the rest of the day, you know,” Mobius informs, nudging Loki who is in the middle of thumbing through his stack of money. “Maybe even a week.”
“Let them,” Loki says with a near manic grin. He is starting to understand it now; money means nothing to him here, but it does feel good to hold it. “This is fun. We should do this more often.”
“Yeah, well, maybe next time we’ll be in on it from the get-go.” Mobius’ gaze drops to the bills in Loki’s hands, raising a brow. “Starting to see the ‘ridiculous’ appeal, after all?” A soft type of sarcasm drips from Mobius’ next words as he inches ever so closer, and, looking Mobius up and down, Loki’s definitely seeing it.
“Yes,” he agrees, placing his money on a nearby counter. With or without it, he’s rich enough already; the prize in front of him just so happens to be much more tempting right now. Loki’s hand reaches out to clasp hold of Mobius’, and cannot shake the giddy feeling that it is a perfect fit. “I think I am.”