The observation room is silent.
With no Loom to require constant monitoring, most of the analysts on this level have found other ways to employ their time. Mobius stands alone against the wide window.
The fluorescent overheads are off, allowing the radiant illumination from the Tree to wash over him. It flashes sporadically; it moves from the base, up through the branches like summer lightning and stirs a million memories (of warm, lonely nights; of bitter cold ones) collected throughout an existence that has lasted long enough.
He let time pass. He’s lived his life; a hundred lifetimes. He mastered the Jet-Ski. He’s experienced every thrill and decadence the multiverse has to offer.
And still he finds himself back here, in this room that overlooks the very peice of his heart for which he has tried so desperately in vain not to yearn.
Mobius lets out a breath. He follows another ripple of light with his eyes before he shuts them and lays his forehead against the glass. Grief clenches like a fist around his heart and, by now, the feeling is as familiar as an old friend. He allows himself to wallow for just a bit.
“I had another dream about you,” he murmurs into the darkness. He doesn’t put into words that dream which makes his heart race to remember, however briefly.
It’s always the same: he walks down a darkened hall to find a large set of circular double doors at the end; sees his own hands on the heavy lever that opens them. Beyond, instead of whatever he expected to find, is his own bedroom. And Loki. Standing, waiting, smiling that soft smile that tucks itself into his cheeks and brings out the light in his eyes. No horns or billowing capes, just a familiar, button up, white collared shirt and tie. And wordlessly they crash into one another, all grasping hands and salty kisses.
The dreams don't end there but his reverie does; perhaps it’s too embarrassing to go on when the other character in this fantasy sits before him, at the center of the very testament to his sacrifice.
But the second he snaps open his eyes, to cut off his imagination, he sees it. And he wonders how it could have taken him so long to notice?
The darkened hall that, in reality, leads down a set of stairs.
The handle bar that he has to grip with both hands and throw his full weight against.
The hatch door which, as he drags it open, sets off the alarm system throughout the entire TVA. He doesn’t care. The flashing red lights, the wailing sirens, the rhythmic vocal warning all fade away the moment he steps out onto that tumultuous bridge. Out there the only sound he can hear is Loki’s voice. And he’s calling Mobius’ name.
Radiation whips around him like wind in a hurricane. It tears at his clothing and nearly knocks him on his ass, but he doesn’t feel a thing. He plants his feet, lowers his center of gravity and locks his eyes onto that gargantuan Tree of Time. If that’s where Loki is, then that’s where Mobius wants to be.
Some manic part of his brain is aware that his skin should be coming off but it hasn't yet, so he only hesitates for half a second before he continues to push forward. It's like trying to walk against a river current. It takes all of his strength just to stay upright, let alone move, but the distance is relatively short and though he struggles until his entire body quakes from the exertion it isn’t long before he finds himself at the end of the bridge, gazing far up into the Tree’s ever-expanding branches.
The trunk is unfathomably large, made up of tendrils of time that stretch as far as he can see in every direction. There is no way through.
Without another thought, Mobius reaches forward.
He is in his bedroom.
… No. There is a bed, a sofa with a small coffee table, a desk with a chair and an orange lamp all of which look almost familiar. But it seems like it’s been put together by someone who doesn’t quite remember how everything is supposed to go.
In the middle of it all stands Loki. Not as he
looked in Mobius’ dreams; he’s draped in the dark green robes he donned when he ascended to his golden throne. And he looks so weary.
But there’s that soft smile and the hint of a twinkle in his eyes.
Mobius isn’t really sure he’s not hallucinating after all. Or maybe he’s dead.
He bites down on his tongue and it sure as hell hurts. But not as much as gathering the shattered pieces of his heart in order to fit them back together, just so he might then lay it at the feet of this god. His god, who once held all of time in his hands.
He doesn’t know when he started crying, but when Mobius draws a breath it shudders and sticks in his throat. He tries to swallow it; he speaks around it.
“You made it back.”
Loki shakes his head. “Not quite.” He steps forward, slowly closing the gap between them and takes Mobius’ face in his hands. His smile is warm, infectious. “You made your way to me.” His eyes seem to search for something in Mobius’ own and he must find it because, after a moment, he makes a thoughtful sound and leans toward him.
Then Mobius is once more convinced that he’s doomed to wake up at any moment. They crash together like waves in the ocean, all clinging fingers and fervent lips. Except this time Mobius is sobbing and he can’t, for the life of him, stop.
Loki pulls back and Mobius cannot find it in himself to be ashamed of the wounded sound that comes out of him. But then he’s drawn into a tight embrace. Strong hands hold him steady; the same hands that weave together the very fabric of time.
Kisses fall upon his hair like gentle rain and he just can’t take it.
And he can’t get enough.
He weeps in the arms of the only god he’s ever prayed to, the only being he has ever loved.
Eventually the maelstrom of emotion slows and for a long while they just stand there, quietly, in each other’s arms. He listens to the rhythm of their breaths, counts the beats of the pulse that thrums just beneath the delicate skin against which his lips rest.
When at last he finds the words again he asks, “What is this place?”
“A temporal pocket,” Loki answers and offers no further explanation, as if that should make sense.
Mobius lifts his head to look up. (He had forgotten how tall Loki is.) He takes in the warmth gazing back at him. He also notices the exhaustion and sadness that lines his brow and the sides of his eyes and decides to switch topics.
“Why are we here?”
Those eyes dim just a little.
“I miss you,” Loki murmurs in response. Mobius catches the present tense of that word and it twists in his heart. His fists tighten unconsciously in Loki’s gossamer garments.
“But…” he looks from the desk, to the beige and brown wallpaper, then to the bed, “what are we doing here?”
“We can do anything you like,” comes the reply. Loki smiles once more and that mischievous gleam returns like it never left as he leans forward to steal a few more kisses. Mobius lets him for just a moment before he leans away. It's Loki’s turn to sound hurt and Mobius catches a glimpse of real emotion before it’s blinked away.
“But, Loki,” he whispers, unable to trust his voice. “What is it that you want?”
For a long while Loki only looks at him. Then, just like that, he crumbles. Tears begin to rise and fall so quickly that Mobius can’t keep up, but he tries to catch them all anyway.
“Mobius…” He wraps his arms around the God of All Time as tight as he can, holding his best friend together while he falls apart. “I’m just so tired,” Loki finally answers, weakly, “and I miss you so much…”
Mobius tugs at him gently and guides them to the bed. (He belatedly realizes somewhere along the way that his tattered TVA pantsuit has been replaced by robes of his own, deep blue and light as gauze.) They settle down together in a tangle of limbs and linens, with Loki on top of his chest and both of them still holding on for dear life.
Though it takes a while, a comfortable silence eventually falls over them once more. Mobius’ fingers comb through Loki’s hair; Loki’s fingertips absently trace every part of Mobius he can reach. They almost doze off like that before Mobius speaks again.
“Loki?”
“Hm?”
“How long have we got?”
“All of time,” his god answers.
He feels a swell of comfort at the thought and almost allows the tide of drowsiness to pull him in again.
“Mobius?”
“Hm?”
“Next time just use a TemPad. I spent so long trying to get those coordinates to you just for you to throw yourself headfirst into the tree. Like an idiot.”
Mobius looks down at him. “What coordinates?”
Loki’s eyes remain closed, but one corner of his mouth quirks up.
“I knew you weren’t paying attention.”
They both shake with breathless laughter for a few minutes until that too fades away. Again they find themselves on the verge of drifting off.
“… Loki?”
No answer this time.
“I love you,” he whispers anyway.
“And I you,” comes a soft reply. “Always.” Mobius has to swallow fresh emotion and they both tighten their hold just enough so as to be barely tolerable. And they stay that way until, at long last, they are finally swallowed up by sleep.