DISCLAIMER: I claim no ownership of Marvel's Loki or affiliated branding (sadly).

SUMMARY: Three hundred and fifty eight TVA cycles after Loki's unexplained disappearance into the Void with the timelines in tow, the universe begins to collapse. Metaphysical horror. A fix-it (of sorts).

NOTES: See end.


Chapter Ten: It works (yippee)

"This is really odd." Loki, the planes of his face alternating between cast in bright green and dark with shadow, raises his eyebrows.

Mobius moves across the rock to stand beside him, vision somewhat blurred where his breath has steamed up the visor. They knock elbows together as they survey the body on the throne – a limp, suspended corpse across the open chamber. "It's pretty... gruesome." Where the timelines eat into his skin the particles have dimmed to a dull grey, his fingers stiff at the knuckles but dissolving into the universe nearer the nails. Face broken into a thin, emaciated contour.

The initial plan was for them to be well over and done with the extraction by now, but the comms dying out about fifteen minutes ago – proceeding to not come online again – has left them stranded. Mobius isn't too worried, because hitches are to be expected, but it really doesn't bode well for what's coming. He's praying this is the bad dress rehearsal before the showstopper of a performance.

There isn't much to do except twiddle their thumbs and pointedly avoid looking at the body on the throne. Though, evidently, that's now fallen through, with Loki's inclination to intrigue. "I mean, it is fascinating, I'll admit, but vaguely sickening."

Mobius swallows. "How much of it did you feel, when it was happening?"

His face flickers to guarded, which is telling enough in itself, but he makes a visible effort to force his way past the instinct to lie. "Most of it. You'd be surprised, but after so many years of timeslipping, it genuinely didn't feel so different to the norm."

"I am surprised, and not really sure I believe you," he replies, which draws a knowing smile.

"I won't be so bold as to suggest I was not utterly terrified the entire time, but that was more due to the potential ramifications on the mental side. Which ended up not being so potential." Loki says the last part with a hint of self-consciousness, unusually open in that regard.

Mobius clasps his arm firmly, knowing that the sentiment will be appreciated even though it cannot be felt in full, and tilts his head. "Your mind should slowly heal when you get out. We're lucky that it's not got too bad yet."

He shoots him a glare. "Mobius. I forgot your name."

The incident he's referring to happened only a cycle or so ago, but given its short-lived existence – plus the rather amusing leverage it has given Mobius as a light-hearted tease – it's scaring him less than it should. "You forgot it for ten seconds max. And it makes up for past me not knowing your name when you were 'slipping, so seems fair."

Unamused, Loki huffs. He strides towards the dias, the molecule emulator tucked safely into a pocket – magicked up for the task, given the original green robes were not initially designed for a great level of practical work.

"Watch the timelines," Mobius calls, in sharp warning.

Loki ignores the command, treading on the branches that cascade over the stairs. Mobius winces.

But the particles of his shoes and trailing cloak seem to melt into the universe, like water tumbling downwards in its haste to reunite with Time, the branches clawing their way upwards with equal fervour, pulling together into one singular being. A hazy shimmer follows in their wake, the outline of his legs beginning to lose clarity as though overlaid with a gaussian blur. He turns, glowing colours making a fond tangle of his new frame, and smirks. "Multiverse," he says, pointing to himself with no shortage of egotism, "hi."

"Show-off," Mobius grumbles, aware that his arrogance is fairly warranted, "Don't get cocky, 'cause we really don't want you getting absorbed in this form too."

Loki rolls his eyes, returning to his traversal towards the skeletal figure. He stops short, crouching, face a picture of disconcerted amusement as he studies his own defunct body. "Dear me, I was not having a good hair day."

"You were dying," he replies dryly, "I don't think you can really blame yourself for that."

A fizzle as the comms, followed by a rushed, "Sorry!" from O.B.. "For some reason the setup didn't work right when we ran it through this time, even though in testing it was fine, so –"

Casey cuts in, exasperated, "Yeah, it didn't work because O.B. forgot to lift the defensive mechanisms from when Loki timeslipped last time, so we just locked ourselves out."

"That was definitely your job."

"Then why didn't you put it on the board? I can't read your –"

"We think this can wait?" Mobius smooths, raising his eyebrows at Loki, who's smiling at the bickering.

"Ah, yes, sorry, let me just –"

There's a moment of fumbling quiet, before Casey says, gently, "Wrong command."

"Ah! Sorry. I – I think –"

"O.B., don't let the stress get to you," Mobius says, equal parts a reassurance and an admonition. They cannot afford mistakes. "There's no rush."

"Yes. Working on it. Okay, Mobius, you have the extractor?"

"I got it." He pats his pocket.

"You remember how to use it?"

"Hopefully."

"That bodes well," Loki says, sounding more the long-suffering royalty than he has at any point in this ordeal, all dramatic flair returning – as it often does to smother his nerves.

Mobius ignores him, instead saying, "Should we do the first part then?"

"Yeah, I think we're as ready as we ever will be."

A falter in the defences of Loki's unaffected demeanor, a dip forming between his eyebrows. "This isn't the bit that will get rid of me, is it?"

"No." Mobius begins his own trek over towards the throne, which is far more difficult given he has to play universal hopscotch to avoid killing billions with a misstep. Loki doesn't move, but suddenly the branches blocking the steps slither aside, some floating upwards to rejoin the others, some merely turning over to leave a free run up to the throne. "Oh. Thanks. You couldn't have done that last time?"

"I appear to have gained more control as I was further absorbed." He offers a hand to help him up the final steps, which is accepted without real necessity.

Neither of them let go.

Mobius uses his free hand to unzip his pocket and pull out the extractor, the small disc running between various shades of TVA orange in the centre. He passes it to Loki. "You do the next bit."

"What's the next bit?"

"Did you pay zero attention to the briefing?" It's more amusement than anything, but an undercurrent of concern beneath.

"It was a little difficult to focus on," Loki replies. He takes the extractor from his outstretched hand, turning it over a few times.

"Your part is easy. You've just gotta put it there –" he gestures at the figure on the throne "– and they'll do the rest. I can't do it, 'cause that might destroy the universe, which is probably counterproductive."

Loki narrows his eyes, digesting the instructions, then shrugs. He takes a step forward, the white of the now insurmountable dying timelines casting his face in a glare, and presses the extractor into the chest of his old body.

"O.B.?" Mobius says, to relay that their part is done, as Loki holds it there.

They don't get a confirmation, but the extractor extends at four points, gripping onto the universe so that Loki can release it and it maintains position.

"Let's stand back." Mobius tugs at him, pulling him carefully down the stairs. "I think this might look cooler if we're over here."

Despite everything, Loki laughs at that, a little breathlessly. He follows him, both of them spinning as the device gives a mechanical chirp.

For a moment nothing happens. Then, expanding outwards from the centre, the mixture of green and blue and white becomes infused with a different colour, intertwining through the branches. Threads of timelines start to glow a luminous orange, sections of histories and universes turning a golden amber. The colour spreads outwards like a crawling wash of ink, dripping slowly and steadily until above their heads, caught in the mesh of the roof of the Tree, the ceiling of branches is highlighted in warmth.

"Look," Loki whispers, pulling Mobius to turn around.

Beyond their central section, way off into the far distance, the orange takes hold, picking its way across the roof of the world, tapering off in intensity but not halting in its advance – stretching out like the sun raises its arms to herald the dawn.

When it's finished, the whole timeless world seems to hush.

"Told you that would be cool," Mobius murmurs.

"And you were right." Loki clutches his hand uncomfortably tight.

"We've got the lock!" O.B. sounds more himself, now they're into the swing of the plan. "Loki, I need you to give that boost if you can."

"I remember this part," Loki says, at Mobius' expectant raised eyebrows, "don't fret."

"Be careful." His mouth is dry. "Do we… do we want to do goodbyes now? Because this is where it might start to go wrong."

He looks down. "Have we ever really been ones for goodbye?"

"No. But I don't want to –" he cuts himself off. Thinks. "If something happens and you don't –"

"If I don't make it back?" Loki cuts in, a sad smile forming on his features. "Now is not the time to lose faith in the reply to that statement, Mobius."

A sigh. "Fine. You'll make it back. But please don't die."

He raises both his hands in a flourish. "If I've learnt anything by watching the timelines, we Lokis are extraordinarily difficult to kill."

"That's bullshit. You die every other second."

"Okay, difficult to keep dead," he accedes. "I'll be fine."

He waits for Mobius to nod, taking that as permission, and strides into the centre of the chamber. This time, he waves his hand briefly, twisting it, and the branches return to their previous position, settling back over the rock. He flickers briefly out of view, which is frightening for about two seconds, before Mobius hears him through the comms, asking O.B. for clarification back in the Observation Room. He returns within a moment, form jumping back into life.

He turns to face Mobius. "Don't look so worried."

"I am worried," he replies, tapping his foot.

Loki simply nods, then outstretches his arms, like a bird about to take flight. A hint of seiðr plays across the long line of his fingers, sparks catching the branches that are once more curling over his shoes.

He closes his eyes.

The Tree bursts into life – or more life than previous, which was already fairly buzzing with it – shining a thousand times brighter. Mobius winces, covering his eyes until they adjust to the surge in power. Above, the branches oscillate between light and dark green, like a heartbeat emanating from the centre, where Loki meets the timelines.

"Can he do a little more? We've got to have enough residuals for the source swap-in."

Mobius takes a step forward, closing in on Loki, whose complexion has gone from muted to a dangerous level of pale. "Loki, you hear that?"

"Just about," he grits out. "It may –" he inhales sharply "– it may help if you relay any further instructions, so I can maintain focus here."

"Sure thing," he replies. "You're doing great, not too much longer."

Loki's appearance is becoming increasingly worrisome, sweat forming on his forehead and his outstretched arms beginning to tremble.

A violent shake rocks his position, followed by a second that forces him to knees, dropping with a muted gasp.

"Woah," Mobius rushes forward, crouching down so he can be eye-level with Loki, halting in any further movement, aware of the timelines all around him. "You okay?"

"I'm good," Loki reassures. His tone is the opposite of reassuring, as is the now vehement shudder that seems ceaseless, and the sharp, fast breathing, not pausing for rest. "It'll – it'll be easier from here."

"Your part is almost over, just a tiny bit more," Mobius says, unsure if his words are even vaguely true, and unable to ask O.B. with much privacy.

Loki is clearly trying to stifle the worst of his affliction, holding a careful neutral face, denounced by the way his eyes are scrunched tightly shut, fists clenched so hard his hands have turned paper-white.

Mobius bites his lips. "O.B., can I touch him in this form?"

"Yeah, should be okay. He's not actually connected via the new body."

Gently, careful not to disturb him greatly, he reaches out and places a steadying hand on his shoulder, propping him up.

"Thanks," Loki says. He leans into the touch, weight heavy, and now Mobius can feel quite how viciously he's trembling.

"You're doing so well."

His breathing is rattling now, the short pants doing little to alleviate any desire for air. Still, the Tree seems to glow ever brighter, the green and orange appearing brighter than the white, overcoming the sickness. Loki, on the other hand, seems to be fast approaching a cliff. With a muted noise, he falls forward onto one hand, now practically on all fours as he tries to stay upright.

"Oh shit," Mobius mutters. With one hand still on Loki's shoulder, barely keeping him up, he scans the mass of branches at his knees. It's not safe for him to move closer. "Loki, I know you're busy, but is there any way you can move some of these timelines back? Might be easier if you can lean on me."

Another small sound, dimmed by gritted teeth, that rings like a protest. But then the branches slowly slither back, keeping close enough for him to continue his spellwork but far enough that his body is largely unhindered. The moment this is completed, Loki makes a weak grab for Mobius' jacket, pulling himself forward. He rests his forhead on his shoulder, a significant weight pressing against that place as he attempts to sit back upright.

"There we go," Mobius says, dipping into that old habit of throwing out fairly mindless comfort where there might not be anything real to provide assuage.

It seems to help, because the power ressurges, back to as previous, when it had been dwindling seconds ago. "I'm – I'm not sure I can do this."

Mobius exhales. "You are doing it. You're almost finished."

In truth, he has no clue. And he's beginning to worry that O.B. might have miscalculated how much energy this would require.

"I'm not – I don't –" He wobbles, even supported as he is.

Mobius reaches out, wrapping a careful arm around his lower back to bring him closer. The movement goes unresisted, Loki settling so he's resting almost fully against his side, top of his head pressed into the crook of his neck.

"O.B.," Mobius says, "how are things looking back there, 'cause we're not doing so hot on this end."

"We're so close, but there's not enough energy to isolate the different parts yet. We're past the source threshold, so we can extract whenever, but Loki needs to keep going so we can pull his consciousness out safely."

"Is there no other option?"

"If I cut seven corners off of a square, it's not really a square anymore."

"Maybe we don't need the full square." Mobius adjusts his grip to keep Loki propped up – now a definite ashen shade, a hint of blue blooming on his lips.

"We do need the full square if Loki is the square, Mobius," O.B. replies. "Just keep him going as best you can."

"Right. On it." Mobius returns his focus to Loki, who now appears barely awake. Realising their current position may not lend well to focus, he instead shuffles and cups Loki's chin with his hands, bringing him upright again. "Okay, sleeping beauty, don't give in on me just yet."

Loki opens his eyes a fraction, blinking, a flinch forcing a jerk that seems to break him from his reverie. He chokes down some air, a little colour returning to his face.

"That's better. How you feeling?"

A strangled whisper. "Bad."

He breathes out. "I know. O.B. said it wouldn't feel nice."

He hums, though it sounds more like a low sob. "How much more?"

"I don't know."

A nod, and then his eyes flicker shut again.

"Nope," Mobius says, voice firm, giving him a short shake to force him back to awareness. The action twists his stomach, the guilt rising on hind legs, but he pushes it back, shoving it in the back of his mind for later dissection. Besides, the movement works, Loki instantly attempting to follow the command. The lethargy in obedience is concerning, however, with how quick Loki tends to concede in that area in normal times.

"Mobius," Loki whispers again, and his tone is so close to shattering that his plea nearly breaks through the logic overriding Mobius' desire to sweep him out of the situation.

Instead, Mobius gives into another urge, extending both arms forwards to wrap around Loki's back.

Loki folds into the contact instantly, hands darting to grip the lapels of his jacket, clinging to the material as if he'll fall apart when he lets go. The magic doesn't cease, despite the lack of contact, so Mobius deems it safe to pursue the connection, enveloping his shaking shoulders, a hand pressing gently to the back of his head where it's resting on the line of his shoulder, cradling him carefully.

"Ninety percent there," O.B. says.

"We better be," Mobius replies, feeling every spasm making a hardship of Loki's task. He runs his hand softly over the tangle of his hair, now wet with sweat. "Hear that? Almost done."

"You've said that five times," Loki says, the humorous sentiment lost under the pained tone.

"I'm serious this time," he says. And he means it.

Loki's presses forward, if even possible, melting into the hug as his strength finally gives out fully. Mobius clings on tighter, doing his best to pick up the slack.

And then Loki vanishes.

It's only for a split second, the illusion reforming within moments, and the emulator picking back up half a second after that – but for a heartbeat, Loki isn't there.

"Oh, hell," Mobius says, tightening his grip to hold him in place, "O.B., he's getting –" Loki vanishes again, this time for longer, then reappears "– he's getting too tired to keep the illusion going."

"Oh no. Oh dear."

"That's bad, right?"

"Yeah. We need the body for the extraction. So we need the illusion."

Loki winks out again. "Shit. We need a new plan, then." He returns.

"Okay. God. Right. Casey?"

"No clue," comes the second voice, an unsettling amount of calm retained, despite the circumstance. It's fairly welcome. Mobius can feel himself beginning to go from not calm to absolutely not calm. "Is he definitely not gonna make it?"

Someone reads off the vitals in the background. L-23. An overwhelmingly negative outlook.

"Ah."

"O.B.," Mobius begs, as the press of Loki against him lightens to nothing yet again, "please."

A nervous, "Agh! This is going terribly. Uh… okay, options. Option one is we activate the extractor and hope for the best, which'll secure the universe but might hurt Loki. Or two, we drop the source in early, which might overload the universe."

"Now is not the time for an ultimatum!"

O.B. has the decency to sound apologetic. "You deserve to choose, Mobius."

Mobius doesn't have time to think. He doesn't have time to ponder over the options. He clings tighter to Loki's frame, holding him as safely as possible. Warm in his chest, the only option that seems right is the one in which it's Loki he picks.

He meant what he said when he told him he'd damn the universe.

But it's always that infernal duty that wins out, the protective shell. "Extract him now," he says, his stomach knotting in fear. "Make sure the Tree is safe."

"Will do. We'll do the rest now. You're both done."

Mobius would love to feel relief, or overwhelming joy, or any layer of positivity that their part in this ordeal is over, but all of it drowns in the terror as he lifts Loki's chin back up to look him in the eyes, half-shut with exertion, wondering if this might be the last time he ever sees them. "Okay," he whispers wetly, "they're going to activate the extractor. It should... it should work."

"You –" his voice is terrifyingly small, "– you sound confident."

"How the hell can you be sarcastic at a time like this," Mobius says, a breathy chuckle falling through the fear. He tilts his head. "I'm sure it'll be fine. I'm sure."

"Sure," Loki echoes, teasing, his voice fracturing. How he's lucid, Mobius has no idea.

"I am sure," he repeats.

Loki leans forward again, the branches about them dimming as he stops pouring every ounce of his seiðr into the multiverse, and simply collapses back into his arms. "Not such a bad way to go," he says, "either way."

"Nobody is going anywhere. Not you, and not me."

A beep from across the chamber. Over the top of Loki's bowed head, Mobius watches the extractor flicker from orange to green. "I just need you to keep this illusion going now. You think you can do that?"

A nod, felt against his chest instead of seen.

"Ready?" comes O.B.'s voice, rife with nerves.

Mobius holds Loki closer. He briefly wonders if this might be the last time.

He inhales. "Ready."


"You look awful."

Mobius unclasps his hands, straightening. His shoulders send a dim rush of an ache through the rest of his body, stiff from hunching over in the low chair – the seat of which is extended too far beyond the back to be comfortable. In front of him the squat table has been made home to an endless stream of disposable cups, a recurring gift from well-wishers.

B-15 is no exception to this, though she surveys his hoard with some trepidation as she passes another into his outstretched hand. When he raises it to his lips, he finds it's cocoa. "Thought a caffeine break might be nice," she explains, eyeing the collection of half-drunk coffee, "and I'm glad I did."

"Yeah," he says, voice rough, "though I think I've paced most of it out."

"Your hands are shaking," she says, raising her eyebrows as she takes one of the seats opposite.

"Yeah, but that's – that's just… everything." He smiles, a little embarrassed at the visibility of his anxiety, finding his expression met with warmth across from him.

"I'm guessing you haven't slept."

"I actually have," he replies. "Second I got back I blacked out. O.B. thinks I might've got a radiation dose or something."

"I don't really classify that as sleeping, but I suppose it's better than nothing."

"Well, I've been resting up here. I promise I'll get a proper nap once I know what the hell's happening."

B-15's eyes flicker to the closed door on the other side of the room. This being one of many infirmary waiting areas, it's empty apart from the two of them, an uncomfortable hum of fluorescence permeating the stillness. "They haven't said anything yet?"

"No." He leans back, folding his arms and stretching out his legs. "It's been a whole cycle."

"How –" almost hesitant to ask, she bites her lower lip, eyebrows upturned in an increasingly common show of worry, "– how was he when you last saw him?"

"Breathing." Mobius extracts one hand to rub the back of his neck. "He was unconscious by that point though, so I don't have any idea if it worked. His brain could be universal mush right now."

B-15's eyebrows draw together, lips pressed thin. "Lovely imagery. Thanks for that."

"Sorry," he says, and he means it.

"O.B. seemed fairly positive."

"Yeah, but that's O.B.. He'd be cheerful about imminent spaghettification."

She laughs softly, and he smiles. "You're probably right. Still, he knows what he's talking about."

"Hopefully." Mobius swallows. "If this has gone wrong –"

"It won't have."

"But if –"

"Mobius. It'll be fine. Don't work yourself in a circle."

He lets out a shaky breath. "You're right. I'm pretty strung."

"And no wonder. You think you could manage to step away for a few hours? Come back later?"

He's shaking his head before she finishes her sentence. "No. I need to be here when they let me in."

B-15 doesn't press the matter, letting it settle like dust on the furniture. Immovable.

"How's the Tree?" Mobius asks, wrapping a hand around his cup. It warms his palm, warding away a portion of the lingering chill from the out-of-time rock.

"Everything looks fine," she replies. "My team didn't have many hitches with the source connection."

"Was it you doing the unsync?"

"Uh-huh."

He grins despite himself. "Five-star experience?"

"Six. I hope I never have to do it again."

"Me neither."

She tilts her head. "The Tree was just as amazing as you said it was, but the throne was a little creepy."

"It's appeared in several of my nightmares. Pre-warning you."

"Oh, something to look forward to, fantastic," she says, all mock enthusiasm. Her expression melts back into something serious, but optimistic. "But yeah, the source took to the Tree well, so all the branches are fine. You want the best news from my side of things?"

"I'd love it." Mobius raises the cup to his lips, taking a long sip of the cocoa. It's sweet, and thaws a handful of his fear.

"No more branches have died since the extraction. No new white timelines. We've got a couple of ones in limbo, where they're half-gone, but we think they might be reversible." She nods at him. "No matter what happens, we've saved the Tree. The whole multiverse. You've saved it."

Mobius pauses, cup halfway to his mouth, and studies her over the rim, catching the sincere note climbing into her words.

"O.B. told me that you made the choice to prioritise the branches," she continues, softly. "Thank you."

"It was the right decision. I told you I'd try to think rationally."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't the hard choice, and you picked it despite that. So thank you."

"Yeah, well, if he goes and dies on me now I will not be happy."

"I mean, the fact you've been waiting so long is probably a good sign. It's quick enough to tell if someone is dead."

"I know, but they said they'd tell me soon about eight hours ago. Apparently he was too radioactive to even access to start with."

"That's impressive."

"I bet he's doing it just to be contrary." Mobius quips. He finishes his drink in another sip, carefully slotting the cup into his growing pile. He presses it until it fits snugly within the last one, then stands, stretching his arms up. He collects the dirty cups and makes the short round to the bin, tossing them into the otherwise untouched bag.

As he makes his way back, the door opens.

An infirmary technician steps out.

Mobius doesn't waste time with asking a question. He's sure it's written all over his face, all over the way B-15 rises to her feet expectantly.

The technician gives a small smile. "He's fine."

Mobius is lucky he's near a chair, because he collapses back into it, raising unsteady hands to his face. He takes a deep breath, working out the last dredges of dread.

"Any issues?" B-15 asks, strength bolstered with relief, but words still tentative.

"A fairly concerning level of both physical and magical fatigue, but not something that can't be fixed with rest. Other than that, minimal symptoms at current. Time, and his condition in an awake state, will tell of anything we've missed."

"Can I see him?" Mobius' mouth is dry.

A nod.

He stands, throwing a quick glance at B-15, an offer hidden in his gaze.

She gives a shake of her head. "You go. I'll have plenty of time to catch up later."

The technician leads him from the room, taking him along the corridor of the TVA's rarely used care unit. She rattles off lists of procedures and tests run in the time between extraction and now, explaining their remote monitoring system, but Mobius can barely listen with how his mind is buzzing with anticipation.

"– and I'd advise you to avoid speaking too loudly, or touching him if he wakes up. Overstimulation is a likely issue."

He nods. And then they stop at a . And she pushes it open. She holds it. It clicks shut behind him as he enters.

What would be a familiar sight around five years ago – Loki, waylaid by an injury from a mission, healing up on an infirmary bed – now seems so distant.

It's strange, seeing him here, in a real place, a real time – or perhaps not real, but far realer than where he'd been before. He's propped up on the bed, hair fanned out behind him, settled into his surroundings. Fast asleep, skin still pale, but breathing. Alive.

Mobius runs a hand across his forehead, taking a moment to let it sink in. Then he moves to the chair beside the bed, taking up vigil beside him.

He waits for a long time.

He dozes off about two linear hours in, exhaustion finally taking its grip, seaweed clinging onto his limbs and pulling him down under. At random intervals he jolts awake, an unmoving, flailing panic resurfacing, only dimming at the rise and fall of Loki's chest as he breathes.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Mobius lurches into the waking world again. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, fighting the haze of tire.

All semblance of weariness is lost as he yet again glances at Loki's face, finding his eyes scrunched shut. As though he tried to open them and found the world too bright.

"Hey," he whispers, pressing forward. He rests one hand carefully on the very edge of the mattress. "You with me?"

Silence. Then, "Light." A mumble.

As expected. Mobius gives a nod, unseen, and stands. He makes swift work of switching off the main lights at the wall, then finds his way back via the lamp, before he flicks that off too, plunging them into darkness. The only illumination extends from the dim vital checkers, vague flashes of blue and green. "That should help," he says, taking care to keep his voice as soundless as possible.

Loki's eyelids flutter. Then he opens them, wincing. Mobius can only see them by the faintest glint where they catch the light.

"You know where you are? How you got here?" Mobius asks, heart in his throat. Past instinctual reaction to discomfort, only this will tell of the scale of success. "Hell," he adds, softly, when he gets no reply, "d'you know who you are?"

A second of tension.

Loki nods. The slightest of movements, but it lifts the burden of the world off Mobius' shoulders.

"It –" Loki's breath comes in a sharp inhale, breaking his sentence, "– it worked?"

It sinks in as he answers. "Yeah, it worked."

It worked.

Every word sounds as though it's costing Loki a universe of effort. A millennia of exertion dragging him back. "Is the –"

"The Tree is fine. The branches aren't dying anymore. We've got a rotating team on defence while it all settles down."

"That's good," he replies. He looks Mobius up and down, or as best he can in the dark. "You look awful."

"I feel awful," Mobius says, long beyond ability for deception. Especially here. Especially with Loki.

A quiet hum, in acknowledgement or apology Mobius can't tell. Then Loki turns over his arm, the slight movement causing his breathing to speed up, and reaches his hand across the mattress between them. The meaning is clear.

"They said touching you probably isn't a good idea," Mobius says, not without regret. In fact, with more regret than he can bear to stand. "You're not gonna be used to it for a while."

"I don't care," Loki breathes. "I don't care." His fingers twitch again, outstretched in his direction.

Mobius considers him, finding a conflict of the smaller kind in the decision.

"Mobius," he whispers, "please."

And how is Mobius meant to say no to that, after everything?

He moves his hand from the edge of the bed. He lowers it gently into the waiting palm, his touch feather-light.

Loki lets out a hitched exhale, whole body tensing, the flinch seeming to travel up his spine.

Mobius goes to pull away, instant, but then Loki's nails are digging into the back of his hand, holding him in place with an attempt at an iron-grip. In reality, it's flimsy and breakable, but the intensity with which Loki is clutching it makes him pause.

"Don't," comes the request. Simple. Desperate.

He moves closer, letting his hand rest loosely, a soft pressure. "I'm not going anywhere."

And he doesn't.


A/N: Feel free to review if you enjoyed! Thank you for reading :D