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The halls looked the same, for the most part. Loki had stopped picking up on the differences after a while. The brown tones and vaguely threatening propaganda posters blurred together after the first fifty versions of the timeline, and as that number mounted up all he knew was that Mobius, his Mobius, wasn’t there.
There was no soft chuckle, no gentle reprimand or exasperated sigh, no comforting presence. That feeling of being understood, that perplexing calmness. That thing that apparently he’d needed his whole life, and came in the shape of a grey haired man of middling years with a moustache and a drab suit. There was no Mobius.
Except for when there was a Mobius, but there was something off. He tried to wrangle his heart into order, not to raise his hopes, not to look into that face that was so familiar and see no recognition. He failed every time. A new timeline, a new door, he wasn’t sure what number he was on now. Another corridor with brown carpet, rows of documentation in the archives, similar but so different.
He walked past rows of shelves and desks, keeping an eye out for the statues of the timekeepers, single or multiple. Sometimes they didn’t have any. He got a kick out of spotting those differences. A part of him knew it was easier than looking for the real difference he was after, this wasn’t as close to home. He came to the archives first, always, like it was a test. Unfortunately he’d started to come across more timelines with the right set of statues. He tried to tell himself it was because he was getting closer to his.
Another row of shelves, the statues were almost visible. He’d taken two steps past a nearby desk before pausing and glancing back. There was a can on the table, a can of Josta. He made a point usually of not looking at his peripheral too closely, it had resulted in too much heartbreak. He had a system, get to the statues first, it was like a ritual now. A tired, hopeless ritual, but he had noticed that bright can of Josta. That innocent little can he knew hadn’t appeared in any of the hundreds of timelines he’d come across before. That can affected him more than he cared to admit. He froze, his breath caught, and without his permission his hopes climbed. All it took was a stupid little fizzy drink, something he hadn’t seen in so long but was so familiar, a memory of a gentler time.
He picked it up, and the sweet, cloying smell reached him. He drew a shaky breath, it was ridiculous, that a can of fizzy should reduce him to this. He slammed it back down, crushing it slightly, but couldn’t block out the emotions that had been threatening to spill for so long. His hands were shaking. He looked at them with a frown, as if he couldn’t understand. His chest tightened, and he shoved those emotions down.
Distantly he could hear noises around him. People in the archives as they worked, returned files, walked through the space. He could hear footsteps. He knew he needed to go, to tick this timeline off the list and move on. He wasn’t sure if he could pass off his pretend analyst act right now, not unless it was an analyst having a breakdown – which was entirely possible given the state of the timelines. The footsteps were coming closer, he needed to leave. He moved a step backwards, away from the table but his mind was in a fog, he’d let things get the better of him. He knew better than that, and clenched his fists in frustration. Distantly he could hear those footsteps. He’d let them get too close, they were coming up behind him with a soft regular beat against the carpet. He took a deep breath, the footsteps faltered.
Loki whirled round, a smile that would convince no one fixed to his face, eyes a little red and too watery. His smile dropped slightly, he was never very good at pretending in front of these false versions of Mobius. His Mobius had always seen straight through him, so he guessed he’d given up trying.
He was stuck, staring as the figure opposite him stopped. The sight of the Josta can had left him vulnerable, he wasn’t as quick to assess and move on. The particular shade of brown of the suit worn by this Mobius had caught his attention. He stood in front of Loki, tie loose, grey hair ruffled, he looked as tired as Loki felt. A noise escaped the man, a sigh let loose as if under great pressure. Loki drew his eyes to the man’s face, his wide eyes that were fixated on him.
“Loki…” he said, softly. He shuffled a step forward, which caused Loki to shift backwards, into the desk. His brain kicked into gear, dragged into functioning by his heart which screamed Mobius. This was his Mobius, it had to be, surely after all this time it was true. He took in everything about the man in front of him, cataloging every detail and coming up with the answer he’d longed for. Loki let out a strangled sound.
“Mobius?” he cried, watching for any reaction.
The man in front of him let out a huff of a laugh, his eyes softening, his mouth curling into a smile.
“It’s me. You found me”.
The sound of his voice was like an electric shock to Loki. He’d heard so many that sounded like it but none with the same depth of feeling behind the words. In two strides he launched himself at Mobius, his Mobius. Loki’s arms curled around him, wrapped him up tightly, gripped him hard as if he couldn’t get close enough. He’d dreamed of this. But unlike his dreams he could feel soft hair against his cheek. He could feel strong arms as they held him close. He could feel a warm breath as Mobius murmured in his ear.
“I’ve got you, it’s ok. I’ve got you Loki”.
Loki slowly surrendered his weight onto Mobius, and he knew he would catch him. His journey was finally over, he was safe. He was home.