Sir Saladvocate - Lokius

🥑 I prefer men to cauliflowers.

Out of all the pulled strings in this entire plan of B-15's, the most of them are pulled on this day. Mobius (who is feeling, as usual, rather forgiving) and Loki (who is feeling, as always, rather forgivable) meet incidentally in the lounge again on the next day, Loki armed with fresh ranch dressing provided by B-15's gas station run and entirely taken aback as he sees Mobius, who freezes in place with his arms gripping a bowl of cauliflower and broccoli.

"Loki," Mobius says. "I didn't know you'd be up yet."

"Are you... making a salad?" Loki challenges in disbelief. Mobius almost denies it before understanding that there's not much else he'd like to use as an excuse for sneaking a bowl of vegetables into the break room. Knowing this, he sighs and admits his defeat.

"I was thinking of making you one. As a sort of... exchange," he says, setting the bowl on the table. "Unfortunately, Cassandra said she doesn't want to go get lettuce ever again, and I don't feel like going out just for a bag of leaves, so I grabbed the only somewhat-edible vegetables left that hadn't been doused in expired dressing."

"Well, that's rather convenient of you to bring the vegetables," Loki replies, "because I brought the knives."

He produces two blades from inside his coat, which he sets confidently on the table as Mobius stares down at them in unsurprised surprise.

"You aren't supposed to have those," he points out. "I hid them."

"And I found them," Loki says, and this really isn't worth getting into—not yet—so Mobius makes a bargain with his brain and puts it off for the time being. It is too early in the morning to be dealing with mischievous gods with knives and attachment to timeline agents.

"Well, Loki, I mean, you could help if you wanted," he offers. "It looks like we came in here to do the same exact thing, anyway. Might as well, you know..." He waves his hand in a small circle as he looks for a word. "...cooperate."

Loki tears off the seal of the dressing like it's the last thing he'll ever do. Discarding it violently to the side, he makes intense haste in pouring it over the broccoli and cauliflower mix until Mobius forces him away and tells him there's already too much and he doesn't want him making soup again.

"We could add more vegetables," Loki suggests. There are no more vegetables.

So they sit down, both with new clean forks that they agree to wash responsibly this time, and take a small piece of whatever in the name of the Time Lords they have created.

They stay there silently, both holding a fork and staring off into the distance to derealize in peace. When Loki speaks, it is hesitant, as if he is putting it as delicately as possible.

"This is absolutely terrible," he says. "Just bloody horrendous."

Mobius is relieved by this; it is most certainly a mutual response. "Yeah, I think we should just stop attempting salads," he replies. "I've never been an expert on making them, either. Although perhaps if I had poured the dressing...?"

"I don't think we should try to perfect them anymore. Not at all. Not ever," Loki counters. "It's like watering a leg of turkey in hopes that it'll grow into a cow."

"Look, you need to stop it with the metaphors," says Mobius. "But, yeah, if you're so interested in salad, maybe we should grab some real ones. You know, in the real world."

It is presented so casually that Loki nearly misses it. But once it hits him, he sees in Mobius' expression that he is entirely serious about this all. Not an ounce of a lie or a joke under his gaze in the least.

"Oh," Loki realizes. "Not even in an apocalypse?"

"No." Mobius shakes his head. "Not for the variants, not for the TVA. For... for fun. For us." He nonchalantly takes another bite and regrets it before the fork has left his lips. Loki sends his internal condolences as he watches.

"Is that allowed?" he asks. Mobius smiles and stands up, pushing his chair in behind him.

"No. It doesn't have to be," he argues. "Out of anyone, I'd imagine you to be the least concerned about those sorts of things."

Loki takes a breath, still pondering over this all. "People make salads? People in... the world?"

Mobius nods, his hands in the pockets of his coat. "I know a spot on the outskirts of Vancouver. Ran for a solid eleven years in town. A nice stopping spot in Canada while it lasted." Helping Loki up out of his chair with a tight grip of his hand, he takes out his TemPad, selecting a few screens and twisting a knob on the top. "How do you feel about the August of 1976?"

Loki hesitates. "Was that rhetorical?"

Mobius considers this. "Would you like it to be?" he asks rhetorically, and the portal opens, leaving them both to stare at it and Loki to remember yet another surprise item in his pockets.

"Oh, before we depart," he interrupts, "I, uh, pulled some strings, as I do." Which is a slight bending of the truth. B-15 pulled the strings; he just identified what was to be pulled.

Mobius looks only slightly exasperated. "You even managed to pull strings here?"

"I've got knots everywhere, Mobius," Loki replies. "This place isn't as structured as you might think." Because of B-15, of course. Not him. Although he does like sounding suave when he says this.

He pulls a small object out of his coat and presses it into Mobius' open palm, leaving him to look at it with a complete absence of understanding.

"What's this?"

Loki clears his throat. "Ah, a... gift."

And so it is. Upon closer inspection, Mobius recognizes the item as a small enamel pin, rectangular and simple, with the design of a sticker-style name tag. On the red-and-white surface, just as Loki suggested mere days ago, it reads the following:

HELLO
MY NAME IS
SIR SALADVOCATE

Mobius is touched. Of course, he does not express this, because he is even more impressed.

"Nice wordplay for someone who's only had a week or so to get it to me," he praises. "Yeah. Wow. Really cool, Loki. Really nice."

Loki is touched. Of course, he does not express this, because he is busy watching as Mobius takes the back of the pin off and prepares the needle to stick through his clothes.

He pins it to the inside of his vest pocket. It never leaves.

---

FOR CLAIRE

claireonthemantle

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~END~