artemis

Author's Note: I don't think this is what Mobius did at the end of S2, not really. I don't think he'd be able to convince himself he could live his life on the timeline and raise his sons. There are some concepts I've seen people write about in regards to what Mobius did afterwards that I really love, especially ones that explicitly explore his grief and his desire to help Lokis on the timelines.

This is not that. My fingers simply started moving and didn't want to be interrupted no matter my thoughts on the content of the story they were typing out.

So. Enjoy this nonetheless.

"Mobius?" He looks up, pulled abruptly from the file he was reading, one of the few he gets assigned these days working as an analyst part-time.

Casey's standing awkwardly at Mobius's table when he looks up. "Hm?" He prompts.

"Who are you... talking to?" Casey asks, stilted, and Mobius pauses. Now that he registered it, he had been mumbling to himself while he worked, but that wasn't exactly unusual. He'd always grumbled about this and that while he did things. He liked to think it was part of his charm.

So, Mobius waves him off. "Ah, I was just talkin' to myself while I worked through this. Don't worry yourself about it, Case."

Casey's quiet for a moment. "For some reason I thought you were talking to..." Casey trails off, looking away sheepishly. "Nevermind."

They both know what the end of that sentence was going to be.

---

Mobius talks to him.

He talks to him a lot.

It's silly. Stupid, even. But he knows that Loki's out there, in the middle of everything, and he might just be listening.

The least he could do at the end of it all is keep him company.

So, Mobius talks.

Every night, he sits down at his dining table in a house that is more familiar than it has any right to be, and he talks. About small, meaningless things, just passing the time.

He talks to Loki about his visits back to the TVA to meet his quota and catch up with their friends, and how it's much more difficult than he thought it would be to raise his two strangely mischievous children. He found a timeline where these boys' Don had died, and while he might not be the father these boys once had, he and the boys know that, he likes to think he's doing well.

He talks to Loki about Casey's recent interest in writing, and how O.B. is helping him learn how to tell a compelling story. 

He tells Loki when he finally caves and gets his son a dog. (He couldn't quite handle the idea of keeping a snake around. For multiple reasons.) It's a midsized fluffy thing, and it makes both his sons laugh so happily that he gets misty-eyed at the sound.

He tells Loki about B-15, and her struggles to find a name that she likes better than her identification. He tells Loki when one day, Casey suggests they just call her Bea, and she decides she likes that. 

He tells Loki about what he ate for lunch that day. About his sons' escapades and how much it reminds him of Loki's memories of his and Thor's childhood.

He doesn't know if Loki's listening. But he allows himself to hope.

---

Loki listens. He doesn't have much else to do. Even if he did, Mobius's quiet conversation is something he wouldn't trade for anything. 

At first it's tinged with uncertainty, unused to the lack of a response, but Loki watches it become a routine. He sits at his old wooden table in quiet grief, tracing the dips and grooves of the wood as he recounts his day, despite the fact that Loki's seen all of it. He appreciates it anyways. He responds sometimes, despite knowing Mobius won't hear it.

He especially appreciates the recounting of how their shared friends are doing, as the TVA is the only place he can't lay his eyes upon. 

Mobius's sons are all too endearing, and Loki attaches himself to them like a leech, taking great excitement in watching them get into trouble. One memorable time, that excitement is abruptly replaced with panic when one of them accidentally sets fire to his brother's jacket. Luckily, they're a clever two, and the boy rushes to grab the hose laying a few meters away as the other strips his jacket off in panic. It's put out quickly, and the two of them exchange hushed whispers as they both agree to put the jacket in the dumpster and never tell their father about this. Loki has the strangest feeling that he'll find out anyway.

It's a strange notion, the concept of fate.

Loki tends to think he's spent his whole life going against it. After all, why else would every single one of his plans fail, every single one of his ideas lead to his own destruction, every one of his attempts to love become a mess of death, desperation, and sorrow?

Still yet, he thinks that in terms of fate, perhaps this is his. Sitting raw and broken and alone on a throne he'd tried so hard to obtain but never wanted.

He wonders what Mobius's opinions on fate are. He wonders if he'll ever be able to ask him.

He doubts it.

But, like fate, hope is a funny thing. It's hard to leave behind in the rush of everything. It's hard to let go of. 

And it's painful to watch Mobius be drained of it, it's painful to watch Mobius change and grow and become someone apart from Loki, because Loki should be there. And he isn't.

Perhaps it's like this: Two puzzle pieces are created for each other and then separated. They're put into different puzzles, and their shapes mold and bend to the new environment. By the time they make it back to one another, they cannot fit together anymore, too changed, too much time passed.

Maybe it's foolish to think they might ever find their way back to each other.

Maybe it's foolish to compare people to puzzle pieces.

When Phileas returns to his house, at the end of it all, it’s empty.  

It’s not actually empty, of course, the fire is lit, and there’s a stack of papers on his armchair, and Grayson’s there somewhere. But so are his maps, and his books, and everything he’d used to fill the hole Estella left when she went to travel the world. The house is empty, and also full of painful ghosts. 

Grayson is already asleep, so he undresses himself for bed, having long learned how to do so. (The buttons still give him trouble, and his fingers shake while he undoes the tedious things.) 

He doesn’t sleep much that night, the bed far too soft and the covers far too plush compared to what he’d been sleeping on the past eighty days. It’s so difficult to get comfortable that he considers sleeping on the floor. He doesn’t. 

Abigail and Passepartout come to his home early the next morning, and every morning after it. He’s embarrassingly relieved that they do. He no longer knows how to be alone. 

He passes the time by studying the two of them. Nothing has changed between Jean and Abigail, and at the same time everything has. It’s not true love, he doesn’t think, but it’s certainly first love. They clash, but not in the way that hues do. They clash like twin waves, balancing each other out and leaving still waters in their wake. The sad smile they share when they kiss is not the same one he and Estella shared. They won’t last, he can tell. But they’re beautiful all the same. 

It’s about a week later, when everyone is sufficiently settled back into London, that his friends discover the piano in one of the rooms off of the foyer. 

They are helping sort through some of Phileas’s old maps and papers when Passepartout pulls the sheet off the piano, revealing its dark wood. Abigail looks over curiously from where she is rooting through one of Phileas’s many bookshelves, her eyes lighting up at the instrument.  

“A piano!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I do love the instrument- Phileas, do you play? Or perhaps this is Grayson’s, if he’s still around?”  

Phileas adjusted his sleeves awkwardly, chuckling a bit. “While yes, Grayson is still alive, just not in service anymore- I would not know if he plays the piano. And... Yes, I do play some.” 

Abigail clapped her hands together quickly, looking ecstatic. Even Jean’s eyes twinkled with interest. “You simply must play something for us, Phileas! Augh, it’s been ages since I heard piano.” 

Phileas smiled nervously, waving the suggestion off. “Oh, I-” 

“If you would be... willing, Phileas,” Passepartout began, a small smile playing on his lips. “It would be nice to hear you play. I am sure you’re lovely.” 

And well, how could he say no to that? 

Phileas huffed out a large breath, his lips curling up slightly even as anxiety pooled in his stomach. “If you insist.” He sat down on the piano’s bench, brushing his fingers across the fall board before bringing it up to reveal the keys. His friends dutifully dragged chairs over to sit. (Well, Abigail did. Passepartout opted to simply perch on the arm of the chair Abigail was sitting on.) 

He cleared his throat, refreshing his memory on one of the simpler melodies he learned and glancing over to see the two of them waiting attentively. He rifled through the papers on the music rack for a moment until he found the sheet he was searching for. It had been a while since he’d played this piece, but he knew it well. 

He positioned his fingers over the keys, taking a deep breath in preparation. He began the song, his gaze trained on reading the sheet music in front of him, occasionally flickering down to his fingertips, which were gliding over the piano keys. The cacophony of sound filled the remarkably hollow sounding room, bouncing from walls into ears. It wasn’t perfect, not like his playing used to be, but it was still decent, he mused. He continued to play through the song, careful not to miss notes. It had been a while. 

After the last notes rang out in the room, Abigail and Passepartout sat stunned into silence, until Passepartout broke it with a simple "Wow." 

Phileas seemed to wilt slightly, misinterpreting their lack of words and rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not terribly impressive, I know, but I haven't had much practice in the past few years, with the club and the journey and all." 

Jean was quick to wave his hands in front of him, shaking his head. "No, no, Phileas- I am not saying I didn't like it. Quite the opposite, really." Abigail was quick to nod her head rapidly in agreement. 

"I mean-" Abigail starts, looking positively awed. "I took lessons when I was younger, but I couldn't possibly play something like that that fluently!" 

Phileas looks almost misty-eyed at the praise. "Truly?" 

"I believe you may have missed your calling as a pianist, monsieur." Passepartout jokes. The other man laughs softly, fiddling with the edge of his waistcoat. 

Not for the first time, Phileas wonders what he’s done to deserve friends like this. He’s reminded of an instance a few too many years ago now for him to remember perfectly, with very different and much less admirable friends. 

“Really, Foggy, you’d think you’d have given up this sort of thing by now.” Nyle, Phileas, and Bernard were sitting in the corridor of one of their houses as young men, Phileas having just finished playing his most recent piece for them. 

“Whatever do you mean, Bellamy?” Bernard inquired, carefully defensive. 

Nyle snorted, as though the question itself was ridiculous. “Well, Foggy isn’t exactly attempting to become a famed musician, and to keep up something frivolous like piano without an end goal of fame or fortune… it’s a bit queer, isn’t it?” Phileas startles at the word, turning his head sharply back towards the piano to avoid eye contact. “Almost thought all that junk got beat out of you back at Eton.” 

Phileas doesn’t remember what he said in response. Likely something assuaging and agreeable, attempting to soften any blows that might come his way. Phileas was a very different man than he’d been when he was young. Turning back to see his friends smiling warmly at him, he made a resolution to play the instrument more, if only to make up for the shame he’d felt as a young man. 

Mobius is one of the strangest mortals Loki has ever met. He's simultaneously the most snarky individual he's had the pleasure of meeting (barring, perhaps, Tony Stark) and also somehow the most patient anyone has ever been with Loki. He smells faintly of saltwater and cigarette smoke, despite having never smoked a day in his life. He knows far too many things about Loki for comfort, and yet Loki finds that he's more comfortable around the man than he has any right to be. Mobius puts him at ease, and the feeling of his hand on Loki's shoulder tugs far too many heartstrings. Shortly after he'd told the man that he'd never had candy before, (a small and unintentional lie, as Alfheim had various confectionary treats he had enjoyed as a child, none of them resembling Kablooie in the slightest) he'd bought Loki a pack of M&Ms out of a vending machine stationed outside the courtroom. He'd shoved the bag in his pocket at the time, and Mobius had warned him, "Those'll melt if you leave 'em in there too long." (They didn't. His Jotunn nature is good for something, at least.) He's infatuated with jet skis, a Midgardian invention which Loki can now recite a number of facts about due to Mobius's ramblings about them. He can be cruel when he needs to, but he is an exceedingly emotional man. He's not built for the power he has. He works hard to hide it. And Loki, despite himself, is hopelessly in love with him. He isn't sure what to do with the feeling, at first. It scares him, to be in love. It's a weakness, a vulnerability. And while it seems like those are popping up a dime a dozen these days, being in love is a new one. He thought he'd experienced it in the past, short-lived dalliances with boys in Asgard (Fandral being a memorable example), but nothing had been like this. And the worst part? Loki caught a glimpse of tousled grey hair around the corner, rushing towards it. When he rounds the corner he drinks in the sight of Mobius's face, missing the lack of recognition in his eyes in his relief.

"We made a terrible mistake." He didn't realize it until he'd lost him. B-15's eyes flicked between the two of them when the elevator doors opened. "Mobius. Loki." She greeted both of them, as she did often now. It was odd to find one without the other these days.

Mobius gave her a mock salute. She didn't react, and he sighed, dropping his hand. "Alright, lay it on me, what's going on?"

She adjusted her tie, putting a hand on her hip where her pruning stick used to be. She looked overworked, but everyone did nowadays. You don't rebuild an institution from the ground up easily. "Casey requested your help. Both of you. Apparently he's been trying to repair a Tempad and something's been messing him up." She turned away from the elevator and began to walk away. The two of them rushed out of the elevator to catch up. "I would've just sent him to Ouroboros, but he's busy."

"That's all? Easy." Mobius murmured, a smile playing on his lips. He bumped shoulders with Loki as they walked behind B-15, and Loki grinned back. Loki isn't scared that Mobius won't like him back. "You're the god of mischief, right?" Mobius asks him rhetorically, and Loki tilts his head, smiling at him over the pie that he was pretending to enjoy for Mobius's sake. (Well, maybe he is. Just a little bit.) "You're the problem." X-5 tells him, and he can see Mobius shift on his feet in his peripheral, clearly wanting to deny, wanting to comfort - but not wanting to interrupt whatever fragile machinations he's sure Loki's attempting. Loki is scared that Mobius will never like him back, but he's far more scared that one day, he will.

Drew and Zoey didn't get along.

Well, it wasn't like they knew each other well enough to know that. They both had assumed it based on the few brief interactions they'd had at school.

Drew, for one, found Zoey obnoxious. She always had something to say, and she didn't say it so much as she whined it. Her tone of voice always managed to come off as patronizing, no matter what she was saying. 

And, she and Jake didn't get along, which was an automatic point off.

Zoey, on the other hand, is and always will be under the impression that Drew is full of himself. He's always talking about the money he has, the things he owns. He's already obsessed with what college he's going to go to and is taking all honors classes, like a tryhard. Personally, she thinks he's overcompensating for his lack of a personality.

So imagine their surprise when they find themselves standing on either side of Drew's front door.

"Zoey?"

It's a Thursday night of their Sophomore year, and there is no logical explanation Drew can come up with for why Zoey is at his house.

On either side of the blonde teen are two very different-looking adults. On her right is a woman who Drew assumes is her mother, based solely on hair color. She's dressed expensively, and her hair is combed so thoroughly that it shines in the sun. On Zoey's left side is a brown-haired man (possibly Zoey's father? They don't look much alike.) wearing cargo shorts, a button-up, and an unzipped jacket. The only sign of wealth in his appearance is the ostentatious watch on his wrist and the brand of his jacket.

Neither of them looks as though they want to be here, but then again, neither does Zoey.

"Ah! Mr. and Mrs. Jensen!" Drew was startled out of his thoughts by a loud voice behind him and a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Please, come in!"

Zoey's mother smiled politely. "Thank you, Mr. Velasco, for inviting us." She stepped into the house, Zoey and her father following close behind.

His father stepped sideways to let them in, bringing Drew with him. Quietly he says to Drew, "I've invited them for dinner." Before Drew can ask why, he adds, "The Jensens are a very respectable family, yes? Lest we forget our manners." The hand on his shoulder tightens for a moment before Drew shrugs it off, nodding to signal he understands. He's not sure why his parents didn't tell him this was happening, but that's irrelevant.

As the family enters the foyer, Drew approaches Zoey's father. "May I take your coat, Mr. Jensen?" He forces through his teeth. It must be convincing enough, because Zoey raises an incredulous eyebrow at him from across the small space.

The man politely declines, and Drew's father invites them into the dining room. On their way down the hall, he overhears Zoey's mother whisper to her; "Please don't be difficult."

Dinner is quite possibly one of the weirdest meals Drew has ever had. It's clear that neither Drew's parents nor Zoey's want to interact with each other, but they're all being carefully polite, as if they're building some sort of fragile alliance. Zoey says a total of 5 words during the entire meal, which Drew didn't think was possible. She always has something to say.

Strangely enough, the adults seemed to be attempting to get Zoey and Drew to engage in conversation with each other. ...Drew had a feeling he knew what this was.

Even after dinner, the family didn't seem like they were leaving just yet. After various rounds of loaded eye contact between the adults that Drew couldn't hope to decipher, they finally addressed the two silent teens in the room.

"Why don't the two of you go up to Drew's room to hang out, get to know each other a bit? I'm certain you'll get along wonderfully." Zoey's mother said, a large smile plastered on her face. Drew and Zoey exchanged doubtful looks at that.

"Uh, sure." Drew stood up from the table, pushing in his chair and waiting for Zoey to follow. She didn't look very happy to do so, but she stood up as well.

The walk down the long hallway to Drew's bedroom is quiet and awkward. The settling into the room even more so. They sat on beanbag chairs opposite each other, avoiding eye contact. Drew initiated conversation first.

"Your parents seem... nice."

Zoey smiled tightly. "Sure."

He shifted awkwardly. "So, what classes do we actually have together?"

"Biology and AP Lang. French too, but I'm taking the first semester online."

"Okay." This felt exceedingly pointless. "That's. Cool."

Zoey sighed. "Listen, I don't mean to burst your bubble here. But I'm really not interested."

Drew spluttered for a moment. "Neither am I! I'm just trying to make small talk."

Zoey hummed. It was a high-pitched noise, almost like a bird's chirp. "Kay. I just, y'know, already have a partner, so..." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

"That's fine."

"Good."

"Fine."

They sat in silence for a few moments before Drew broke it with a sigh. "My dad's gonna be furious." He muttered.

Zoey exhaled through her nose, trying very hard to sound like she didn't care. "My parents too. This is the fifth guy they've tried to set me up with yet. I don't know why they're still trying." She glowered and crossed her arms tightly against her chest.

Drew raised an eyebrow. That, combined with the use of the word 'partner...'  "Are you not interested in guys?"

Drew watched as Zoey's entire posture shifted and she narrowed her eyes. "I don't see how that's any of your business, Drewy-bear." The nickname was said with a sickly sweetness.

"The fuck is a 'Drewy-bear?'" When her hostile posture didn't let up at the jab, he held up his hands placatingly. "Jeez, fine. It's not my business. I was just curious."

"Well don't be." She snapped, leaning back in the bean bag.

"...

..Y'know, it's fine if you aren't."

"I know it is!"

"Okay."

Zoey groaned, letting her head fall back to stare at the ceiling. "Just- shut up!"

Drew did just that, turning away as he fiddled with the seam of his hoodie pocket. Eventually, he broke the silence.

"...Do you wanna play Mario Kart?"

"...Sure."

---

After 10 solid rounds of Zoey solidly beating his ass in Mario Kart, Drew felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Gladly taking the distraction from Zoey's gloating, he opened a text from his mother.

How is it going up there with Miss Jensen? Drew frowned. Right, he was supposed to be interested in her romantically. Glancing over at Zoey, who was currently changing her character to Toadette, he shook his head slightly.

'Good.' he messaged back neutrally, not sure what kind of response she was looking for.

He put the phone down, huffing and picking the controller back up. Zoey glanced over. She raised an eyebrow in question, and he ignored it. "I'll beat you this time." He said instead. 

She grinned cruelly in response. "You can try."

---

"HAHA!"

"DAMNIT!" Zoey threw the controller to the floor.

---

This time, it's Zoey that gets a text.

Drew watches as Zoey scowls furiously at her phone, typing out a hasty reply. She doesn't relay what the message says, but Drew can guess it's similar to the one he received.

She clearly channels that anger into the next rounds, because she destroys Drew in the next four.

Eventually, he decides to address it while they're in the middle of rainbow road. "Okay, so we can both agree this isn't going to happen, right?"

"No fucking duh." Zoey uses a blue shell on one of the NPCs in front of her.

"I have a stupid idea."

"Aren't all your ideas stupid?"

He ignores her. "There's a way we could make our parents trying to set us up with people not a problem anymore." Drew is still multiple places behind Zoey, but he's slowly gaining on her.

She doesn't answer, preoccupied with bumping cars with the driver in first place. She does make a vague "Hm" noise to indicate that she's listening.

Drew gets hit by a red shell, knocking him back multiple places. He groans in frustration and says "I'm saying we could fake date."

That gets her attention. She doesn't respond for a minute, but even as she wins the round, her eyebrows are furrowed like she's thinking about it.

Drew shrugged. "Just an idea. It would make both our parents happy. And I'd rather it be someone sorta-tolerable."

"Awe, you think so highly of me," Zoey said wryly.

"I still think you're a bitch, actually," Drew admitted readily, crossing his arms.

"Y'know what? I think that might just work." Zoey said lightly. "You're not too indecent." Drew huffed. "And as your fake girlfriend, you'd buy me gifts, right?"

Drew shrugged a shoulder. "Duh. I've got an image to maintain."

She rolled her eyes, but a small, clearly pleased smile played on her features. "Then I accept."

Drew leaned back in his bean bag chair. "Cool. That makes things easier." He paused. "...Should we shake on it?"

"Why would we do that?"

"I dunno. To make it official. ...Never mind, now that just sounds stupid."

"You're so weird."

---

Eventually, they did leave. (Thank god.)

"Farewell Mr. and Mrs. Jensen, I hope you enjoyed your dinner." Drew said formally, knowing his parents were standing behind him. "I'll see you at school tomorrow, Zoey."

"Bye, Drewy-bear!" Zoey called out on her way down the porch stairs. The nickname was said with humor in comparison to the malice from earlier. Zoey's parents, especially her mother, looked overjoyed at the nickname, probably glad one of their attempts at setups had worked out.

He closed the door behind them.

"I take it your time with her went well, then?" His mother asked as she took her hair down. She looked pleased with herself.

He nodded. They probably had different definitions of 'went well.'

On his way back down the hall, he adds a new contact to his phone. 

Zoey After a moment's hesitation, he decides to add a heart emoji to it, in the case that someone sees his contacts and is confused as to why there wasn't one.

Zoey ❤️ He pockets his phone.

Across town, Zoey also adds a new contact to her phone.

drewy-bear 💖 After a moment's hesitation, she decides to delete the heart. She doesn't want anyone thinking she's sappy. The nickname is more than enough.

On a moonless night in Loki’s chambers, Loki and Fandral sat alongside one another. These kinds of nights were often the only time they could carve out for each other, with Fandral’s duties and Loki’s current impersonation of the king keeping them apart. As such, the late hour tended to loosen their lips, and some of their most meaningful conversations happened on these nights. Tonight is a good example of this. 

Some nights, Loki read, carding through Fandral’s golden hair where he rested his head upon the other’s legs. Some nights, they shared anecdotes, making up for lost years. On those nights, the air seemed to move around them, carrying their voices like wind, lifting the sounds out the window to shield them from prying ears. Other nights, nights like these, they couldn’t bother with any of that. On nights like these, the air seems still. 

“You... know of my true heritage.” 

“I do.” Fandral said without hesitation. Loki, posing as Odin, had been slowly twisting the narrative the Aesir had on Jotunheim as a whole. Within the past few years, the public’s view on the Jotnar had shifted from ‘savages and horrible monsters’ into ‘a people in need of Asgard’s help after being released from centuries of tyranny.’ It wasn’t exactly a favorable view, but you cannot un-instill the millennias of elitism taught to the Aesir people. Pity, he supposed, was better than malice. Only a few months ago, he had revealed to the public Loki’s true heritage, in hopes that any love they still held for their dishonored prince would be the tipping point to change the people’s views. It had worked for the most part, as before Loki’s reported death, he’d had equally as many allies as he did enemies. 

“Did you know before I told the public?” Loki asked quietly. He was genuinely curious if Thor had immediately told his companions of Loki’s true parentage, when the King and Queen no doubt told him after Loki’s assumed death. 

“No.” Fandral answered truthfully. “I... didn’t. Have you always known, or is it something you learned recently?” Of course, by recently, he could mean in the last century, or the last year. Time references like that get complicated when you live to the ages that the Aesir (and the Jotnar, he supposed) do. 

It takes a bit for Loki to find the words. “Thor’s banishment. That’s around the time I discovered it. Right before Odin fell into the Odinsleep.” 

Fandral’s eyebrows furrowed, not that Loki could see it happen, the way they were faced away from each other. “That’s... less than a decade ago.” Loki nodded in response, which Fandral did see happen, because he had turned his head in surprise. He shifted his body to face the other man, which after a moment, Loki mirrored. Facing each other now, they still could see very little of each other’s expressions in the low light. 

“Well, I’d say,” Fandral started slowly, “That for someone who recently found out they’d been lied to their entire life, you’re coping quite well, all things considered.” 

At this, Loki scoffed. “I’d hardly call attempting genocide and subsequently throwing myself off the Bifrost when I failed ‘coping well.’” He’d been a fool, to think he could gain Odin’s worthless approval at that point. He’d thought that maybe, if he levelled a strike against the Jotnar that was truly devastating, he could prove he wasn’t one of them. (To whom he wanted to prove that, he isn’t sure.) Or, if it went differently, and he successfully ran the Jotnar extinct, then he’d be the only one left. If there were no Jotnar left, then him being one wouldn’t mean anything anymore. It was a foolish hope, and one made of rash desperation. He knew the exact death toll that came of it, now that he was king. He won’t soon forget it. 

Fandral expertly avoided that topic of conversation, likely not wanting to think about the devastation caused by his lover’s hand. “Have you ever seen it?” 

“Seen what?” 

“Your Jotun form.” Fandral replied easily, and Loki took a sharp breath. 

He held the breath, letting it out a few moments later, when he had gathered his thoughts. “No. I haven’t, not fully. What I have seen of it is... horrible. I wanted to tear the skin off when I saw it, down to the bone if I needed to in order to see something other than blue.” He admitted. 

Fandral frowned at the description. “Do you really think it looks that horrifying?” 

Loki nodded. “I’ve tried to look at it before, in a mirror. I could never manage to open my eyes to see it. I was too afraid of what would be staring back at me.” 

“Okay, show me.” 

Loki’s gaze snapped up to his face, only to find him looking earnestly back.  

Fandral reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Let me be the judge. You’re scared of seeing yourself like that, but I know you, and I know you’re curious. You don’t even have to open your eyes while it happens. But if you wanted someone to see it, you could show me.” 

Loki swallowed thickly and messed with the hem of his shirt, the silk starting to thin where he fiddled with it so much. “It’s not pretty.” He warned, trying to dissuade him. 

“I would most likely disagree.” Fandral said, letting a small smile grace his features. “I find it hard to believe that any part of you could be anything less than stunning.” And wasn’t that a wonder. Here in front of him sat a man who spent his entire life fed nothing but stories of how the Jotnar ate their young and killed his people, and yet he looked into the eyes of one with nothing but adoration (and a barely noticeable hint of sorrow). 

Because of this, or maybe in spite of it, (would he rather see disgust in his lover’s eyes, if it validated his own?) he closed his eyes and removed the glamour. It felt like peeling off a fake skin, and in a way, he supposed, it was. He didn’t open his eyes again until the whole dreadful process was over, and when he did, he had trouble suppressing the shudder that overcame him when he saw the cobalt hue of his hands. He had only ever seen them twice before now, when he used the casket, before his fall off the Bifrost. The markings that were etched into his hands were morbidly familiar, despite knowing that he had no reason to recognize them. 

He risked a glance upwards at Fandral’s face, only to see that nothing had changed in the way he was gazing at him. It almost angered him. How is it, that his own hands are trembling as he can barely stand to look at them, but the man that only a number of years ago would have drawn his sword at the sight of his skin could look at him with such reverence? 

Fandral gently took Loki’s hands into his own. Loki immediately wants to jerk them away for fear his skin would burn him. It doesn’t. Fandral tenderly traced the ridges on his hands, trailing up to where they disappeared beneath his long sleeves. It’s a blessing, Loki thought privately, that he wears such concealing clothing. He didn’t think he could bear to see much more of this skin. Fandral moved a hand to his face, now, and Loki let his eyes flutter closed as he began to trace the markings on his cheeks. He traced the lines along his jaw, drawing a crude map of the face for him. If he couldn’t bear to look at it, he at least deserved to have an idea. The touch was fleeting, unbearably light as it travelled up to trace the circular ridges along his forehead. 

"...with your Asperger's?"

Without looking up from his phone, Sherlock replied, "Hans Asperger was a Nazi sympathizer and human experimenter who categorized autistic people by their 'usefulness' and brutally killed the ones he decided were not." John's eyebrows furrowed and he blinked rapidly. Sherlock continued, "Additionally, it hasn't been an official diagnosis for a year or so now. I believe the more acceptable term for my condition is high-functioning autism."

John paused, opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. He shook his head briefly and took a sip of his coffee. "Right. Okay. Someone been on the internet recently?"

"Yes," Sherlock drawled, his eyes still on his phone, "Mrs. Hudson told me to go on a journey of self-discovery and I didn't feel like leaving the house."

John snorted quietly into his mug. "High-functioning in all your aspects, are you?"