Chapter One - Lunch
“You’ve just got to be patient.”
Loki gave Mobius an exasperated look.
“I don’t have patience,” Loki rolled his eyes, “I’m a god, you know. It’s part of the job description to be given whatever I demand, as soon as I demand it.”
Mobius chuckled to himself and took another bite of his apple, having removed it from Loki’s tray the moment they took a seat at the small, uneven table. They had decided to let the variant out of his cell, so long as Mobius kept him close with the collar on, and it seemed Loki had taken it upon himself to make that particular task irritatingly difficult.
The cafeteria was quiet, as it usually is. Only three other TVA members are seated inside the hall and neither pay any attention to the two men sitting together.
They made an unlikely pair, he mused- a bureaucrat, and a prisoner. One polished, the other unkempt. One composed, one openly frustrated. Peace and chaos.
“Well, maybe it’s about time you learnt to have some,” He winked at the scowling face.
Loki sniffed dramatically, leaning back in the plastic chair with his arms folded across his chest. He tugged at the metal collar around his neck, wincing as the constant weight bit deeper into his already tender skin.
Mobius looked away, a small flush of shame on his cheeks. He knew the importance of keeping Loki, the variant, contained, but even after the short amount of time they’ve spent together, he’s begun to pity the great god of mischief.
Mobius seemed to view him as utterly powerless. A tiger caged. A snake defanged.
But Loki had other strengths, not just his magic. That thought alone was just enough to keep the rage at bay.
I don’t need his pity, Loki seethed internally, but I will relish the day he comes to realise how much he underestimates me.
“If we don’t figure out where the variant is hiding soon-”
“What are you gonna do? Are you going to use your powers and break out of here? Kill us all? I hate to tell you this, but you’re not going anywhere,” Mobius gestured to the device firmly secured around the variant’s throat.
Loki glowered, hands curling into fists.
“You’d be the first one I’d kill.”
An empty threat.
Mobius let out a soft chuckle.
“If you’re somehow able to escape,” he said, the mischievous glint in his eyes expressing how much he believes this to be an impossible feat, “I’d give you a free shot. Sound good?”
His prisoner scoffed, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“You’re an arsehole.”
“It’s ass hole.”
And he snapped.
The boiling fury overflowed and drowned any voice of reason he had left.
Loki lunged forward over the table, shoving the stacks of files and food wrappers onto the tile floor. He reached for Mobius’ arms, digging in sharp nails and pressing their faces inches from each other.
A moment too slow, Mobius reached for the button to the shock-collar, only to be pinned to the floor, still sitting in his overturned chair. The god of mischief knelt over him and forced the bureaucrats’ arms above his head, a wicked grin spreading on his face.
“Do you think I care?” He hissed between clenched teeth.
His hair brushed Mobius’ cheek, his scent of spices and berries intoxicating. He could feel the agent's breath ghosting the tip of his nose, his pulse a steady thrum under his fingers.
He looked up at the other TVA members, who were slowly approaching. One quivered in fear, clearly contemplating making a run for it.
He chuckled darkly, looking back at Mobius, expecting to see fear, or anger, or both. Instead he was met with a gaze that was mostly curious amusement, and an indecipherable emotion dark in his eyes.
Loki growled in frustration. Does nothing I do shock this man? He huffed as Mobius smirked, before leaping off him to busy himself with peeling an orange that he plucked from the table beside them.
“Finished with your little temper tantrum now?” came the voice from behind him, the older man’s amusement barely concealed.
Loki gazed steadily at the propaganda poster on the wall, long fingers peeling the fruit of its skin, before turning around with a breathy chuckle. He grinned down at the disheveled man on the floor before he replied.
“A god does not have a temper tantrum, you clearly haven’t done as much research as you claim. No, I was merely testing your reflexes. You must be aware and ready at all times if you are to stay with me, for I am not powerless, though you have taken my magic and continue to restrain me like a dog,” he sniffed for dramatic effect before continuing, “you failed, by the way.” He finished by perching on the table and sucked loudly on an orange slice.
“You’re right.”
Loki’s head snapped back to Mobius at his words.
“No, no, you’re absolutely correct. I should have been more prepared, I won't underestimate you in the future. Thanks for picking me up on it.”
Mobius got up from the floor, but he didn’t look sorry or scared.
“As for you being restrained like a dog, I think you’ve just proven why that’s necessary.” He picked up the remnants of his salad pot before walking towards the door, snapping his fingers at the shocked Loki to follow.
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The razor bit into Mobius’ skin, the shallow cut bringing a smear of red across his cheek. He hissed, wiping the blood away with his hand. Shaving is unwise, it seems, when you are distracted.
He leaned on the counter and studied his appearance in the mirror. His hair, usually meticulously styled, was disarranged from running his fingers through it too many times. Stubble covered his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes were beginning to look more like bruises.
He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Or fourty-three hours, which is precisely the time that he’d been kept awake by the incessant pestering of Loki. It seemed he never ran out of energy, always bouncing about, running ideas and schemes, hands moving faster when he got excited about a particular plan. As knackered as he made him, Mobius grudgingly thought there was something endearing about the Asgardian, a side to him that was hidden by the controlling persona he put up for the rest of the world.
The God of Mischief.
The very same god who jumped him at lunch, relatively unprovoked. He’d admit that he’d made some unnecessary remarks, but none that hadn’t been made before, and certainly none that warranted such a response. There must be something else-
Mobius shook his head, as though he could physically dislodge the thoughts within.
Loki's reasoning doesn't matter - his feelings don't matter. He is a prisoner. And as his keeper, I should let him be pruned for merely defying me, let alone assaulting me. I should be objective. Unbothered.
But I’m not.
Icare.
Mobius continued to muse about the variant, pondering the discomfort that Loki must have felt from the heavy collar, from the thin and scratchy uniform, from the unease that he must have felt being at the mercy of the TVA. He thought about his breath on his cheek and his strong grip on his arms as the god knelt over him. He thought about the shine in his long dark hair, begging for him to run his fingers through-
His breath hitched and he flushed bright red at the intruding thoughts, splashing his face with cold water to bring himself to reality. Reality of the TVA. Reality of his job as an agent. Reality of the importance of finding the missing variant. People have lost their lives at the hands of this Loki, and he’s stood here over-analysing a small, inconsequential moment.
It seems that the god of mischief isn’t so powerless, after all.