Mother
TW: Gore, Psychological Trauma, Panic attack
Fraser, the real Fraser, wakes up with a jolt. His head hits the bedfame, and he trembles, slowly finding his footing. He’s in his tiny bedroom, one that smells of old metal and rust. He’s flopped across the bed, disoriented. He shakes his hair out of his eyes.
He doesn’t remember how he got here.
This is the third time this week that he has blacked out.
Trembling, Fraser reaches for his nightstand and grabs a small notebook with a red pattered skin. His fingers scan the pages unsteadily. It’s a calendar, on which little crosses are marked on dates at nearly alternate-day intervals. Sighing, he marks another X on yesterday’s date.
They’re growing clustered, happening too close together. The blackouts.
Fraser looks down at his hands, and lets out a diminished gasp. They’re dripping red. He lets out a hum of disappointment; he knows how to deal with this. He has ceased to find this scary.
It’s scary that Fraser doesn’t find it scary he regularly blacks out to wake up covered in blood.
It’s only kindling to the fire of his research. Fraser eases himself out of bed, careful not to touch anything with his blood-caked hands, and slowly makes his way to the bathroom. He washes his hands in the sink, not before carefully evaluating the blood. It seems like it was only shed a few hours ago.
Whatever he did, it was between 2AM and 4AM this morning. He carefully catalogues it in yet another journal. Fraser finds paper the best tool for record-keeping, cue the tree hugger crap. He slides it into his shelf, before moving to take a shower.
Fraser has been blacking out like that since one particularly exhilarating experiment in the lab.
The Time Stone was a high-traffic specimen, and not many got direct access to it. Due to his clever resilience and admittedly suspicious contacts, he was able to get it in his lab for an hour. However, the same night Fraser ran experiments on the Infinity Stone, he began to lose control of himself.
Perhaps they had always been there, the delusions. But lately what he found surging through himself was something unlike normal human endeavours. Fraser felt empowered yet cursed. Fraser felt lonely and suffocated.
And it was up to him to find the answers.
Answers to why he woke up with blood caking his hands, and why there were random articles on his shelf. Today, it was a patchy witches’ hat. Yesterday, it was the Tesseract. But it disappeared when he blacked out before he could even get to his lab.
Finding out where the Tesseract went, and why it showed up in his home in the first place, was something he added to the mounting list of Things I’ve Not Quite Yet Figured Out.
Fraser pockets the witch’s hat to take to the lab and run some tests. Over the years, he’d found items from the seventeenth century all the way up to material that seemed like it hadn’t been invented yet. For regular people, it may be a cause of serious worry.
But for Fraser, it is a cause of amusement.
People need to find reasons to smile. Fraser smiles at every turn in life, for in every sorrow hides a reason to laugh.
He seems to be in an intense game of hide-and-seek with himself. Perhaps that is what geniuses to, dazzle and enthral even themselves. Perhaps by leaving little mementos, he was leaving himself clues, clues which his present self to discover.
He was never flimsy about the drugs, after all. Which, now that Fraser considers it, is an opportunity worth pursuing.
****
Loki finally stops convulsing, and feels himself back in his old body. The tight, scruffy leather clings to his skin. The muzzle digs harshly into his face, restricting his jaw from moving. The sand is soft and grainy under his skin. He shifts, groaning into the muzzle.
He rips the damned object off his face. The harsh sun lashes against his skin, making him feel stuffy underneath all the leather and metal. He shakes his thin, dirty hair off his face. Loki moves across the sand, looking around. He picks up the glimmering Tesseract from the soft sand, brushing its particles off it.
For the time being, it’s just him occupying stretches and stretches of land.
Loki’s probably got under a minute before the villagers show up and ask who he is. He even remembers what he said at the time: I am Loki of Asgard, and I’m burdened with glorious purpose. Such a short time after, it was all ripped away. He was shown his gruesome death.
He didn’t understand the true resemblance of his purpose. It came to him, in fits and starts, when he met Mobius. When he was reminded that he is not a monster, but a living, breathing creature with a sharp mind and an aching heart.
Everything changed, right where he is standing.
The events in the reel never happened. He was given a second chance to live, to grow. He was shown true compassion and care. And it was all because of Mobius, his Mobius, the one who he fought to protect in the midst of it all.
Sylvie hadn’t had a Mobius in her life, someone who proved her wrong, someone who showed her she was worth loving. And that’s where their paths diverged.
He was the only Loki that found someone they loved with all their heart.
And perhaps that’s why he was the only one to make this great sacrifice, to fully realise the extent of his actions. It was him who brought everyone together, who brought the Loom, and all of time, to safety. He was the God of Stories, after all.
Every Loki had the capacity to do that. But not every Loki had Mobius.
Trying to fix what’s broken is hard. It took ages, a tapestry of care and betrayal, to convince Loki of that. To convince him that Mobius would stay, resilient and non-judgemental as ever, by his side. And he has been living by that promise, even now, after Loki gave everything up.
He feels a sliver of guilt. Mobius doesn’t know.
Mobius doesn’t know he had a vision. He doesn’t know Loki set out to deal with the Variant himself, hands-on. Loki knows if Mobius knew, he won’t have let him do such a thing. That was partly the reason why Loki left it unsaid.
I’m going to fix this, Mobius. For you.
He wants him to be happy, no matter what. He is willing to sacrifice everything if Mobius can have the life he desires. The life he yearns for, and always has. The life without him. And as much as that pains Loki, he knows better than to say anything. He doesn’t have the capacity to hear fake, sugary assurances that Mobius can’t help but make, because he’s always been so kind.
Loki almost doesn’t hear the characteristic sound of a Timedoor wiring open.
And there is is. The Variant.
He stands proudly under the harsh sunlight, strawberry blonde hair wavy and haphazard. He’s missing his cloak now. His tunic is dusty, modest. He has pale blue eyes through which he regards Loki. The God shivers slightly, remembering the interaction in the vision. The one where he was beaten to a pulp right where he was standing.
”What do you want?” He asks, guarded, clutching the Tesseract tightly to his abdomen.
The Variant says nothing, but prods his finger at the object clutched within Loki’s grasp.
”What do you want?” The God repeats. “Why are you after me?”
The Variant raises his brows, face breaking into a sinister smile. “You’re not that Loki, aren’t you?”
“What if I’m not?” Having blown his cover, Loki transforms himself back into his Midgardian ensemble. Against the scorching heat, cotton feels much better than leather and metal.
“Tell me.” The Variant scoffs. “How did you know I’ll be here?”
Loki narrows his eyes. Not intentional, then.
“Who are you?” He quizzes.
“Call me Fraser.” Said man beams, splaying out his arms. “And I don’t mean harm. At least, not if you comply. Well, that-” He gestures to the stone glimmering in Loki’s arms, “-is not useful at the TVA anyway.”
“What d’you wanna do with it?” Loki asks, raising his head.
“Let’s try this again.” Fraser warns, his voice taking a sinister edge. “You wanna be alive to get that job at the TVA and build that fucking tree, you hand that over.”
“Ah, but it would be unwise to do that.” Loki mentions, twirling the Tesseract between his fingers. “You don’t wanna mess with the flow of time, do you?”
”What if I don’t care?” Fraser mocks lowly.
“I suspected you wouldn’t.” Loki mentions, chuckling sarcastically. “You see-”
A fiery beam of light erupts and shoots him squarely in the chest. Loki collapses into the sand, hacking, but still keeping a hold over the blue stone. Pain shoots up his abdominal cavity, and he curls into himself. He hears slow footsteps approach him.
”You talk too much, anyone ever tell you that?” Fraser murmurs, looking down at him in pity.
Loki forces his head up, looking Fraser in the eye. “A- a lot of people, actually.” He wheezes.
A kick, right at the base of his forehead. Loki’s face slams into the sand, but he still refuses to let the shining blue cuboid go.
Why did he have the vision, if he couldn’t rectify his own mistakes?
He remembers, from seeing it in the vision, the exact moment Fraser would strike, and where. So he ducks, and props himself up. Averting two more well-timed blows, Loki gets to his feet, keeping a clutch over the Tesseract.
”What the-” Fraser looks horrified, and Loki can’t help but enjoy the look on his face.
“Surprising, right?” Loki booms, wallowing in sarcasm. “Loki can do something other than talk!”
Fraser says nothing. His crumpling face dissolves into a smile, that of pure hunger and malice. Loki frowns instantly. He should be scared. Why is he smiling? He scrambles to defend the Tesseract, before Fraser could get any moves on him.
But he instantly melts at the next.
Cold, harsh fingers are pushing at his temples, and Loki groans at the intrusion. He attempts to wrangle them off, but he finds that his body is completely immobile. He crumples helplessly against the sand, twitching, gasping for breath.
A wave of haunting familiarity washes over him.
Not again. Not now.
Loki tries to buck, to fight the power paralysing him, but it doesn’t work. His nerves rattle as he once again begins to lose consciousness, and he barely catches Fraser’s malicious laugh before his vision turns black. Once again, a burst of red shimmers before his eyes.
But this time, the image that flashes before him is something familiar. It’s a large space with a marble floor and gilded columns. He seems to be draped over silken sheets, and a merry sun peeks through the giant window mounted into the side.
He’s in his chamber at Asgard.
Loki feels a surge of sorrow, looking over the space that used to be such a big part of his life. The memories flood him, of days at the castle, where he was happy. He remembers the giant bed and crammed bookshelf and enchanting art hung over the wall.
And then the door opens, and Loki can recognise from the footsteps itself who it is.
Mother, he would have wailed, with no small amount of longing, if he was able to talk. Frigate walks up to him, wearing her usual regal gown. Except that- Loki’s insides clench- the entire front of her gown is covered in blood.
A surge of nausea crawls up his throat, and Loki tries his best not to choke. He yells silently, he thrashes against his inactive muscles. Not this. Anything but this. He can’t even close his eyes. The sight of his mother like this is enough to send him over the brink of panic.
Please not her. Don’t hurt her. Hurt me instead.
Frigga hobbles to her son, leaving a trail of blood on the shiny floor. Her face is pale and purplish. Her hair is askew. Her hands are tainted red. She’s nothing like the woman Loki knew and loved with all his heart, the one who believed in him the most, the one who always understood him.
The one he ended up killing.
The memories are too much. His body is burning, brimming with lava, threatening to explode at any second. Loki feels the tears streaming down his face; at least he can cry. He feels dizzy and disconnected. He chokes on another breath.
Not my mother.
Frigga opens her mouth, and Loki sobs as a trail of blood runs down her chin. Please, Norns, not her. Yet he’s forced to endure, forced to watch her crumple, turn into a ghost of a being. She crawls closer, horrifyingly close.
”You did this.”
No, no, no.
His stomach drops, his senses flare, his entire being begging to be let out. Please, I’ll die, I’ll do anything.
”Why, Loki? Did I not love you enough? Was I such a bad mother that you had to kill me?”
Loki can’t hear his breaths, can’t feel his chest heave, can’t register the flow of oxygen in his system, and he finds he doesn’t care. I didn’t kill her, was what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe that. He is reeling, the lack of air driving him further towards insanity.
The image of the broken and bloodied Frigga is plastered in his mind.
I’m a monster. I don’t deserve to be loved.
He loses the last of his breath, and Loki is relieved as he finds himself fading out of consciousness.