Chapter Text
Mobius doesn’t know how long he stands there for. That’s the point, after all.
He tracks the movement of his shadow on the ground. He follows a few stray leaves as they are ripped from their trees by the wind. He feels the temperature drop as clouds creep across the horizon.
He watches the sun dip behind a house he has lived in for years, but that he has never stepped foot inside.
When the sky is painted in an orange glow, he turns his back on his life and walks away.
Time is a strange thing.
Mobius knows a lot about time in theory. He has spent countless centuries studying both time and people’s perceptions of it—those who make the most of it, and those that let it slip by. He has studied entire lives that people have lived, and entire lives that people could live, and entire lives that people will never live. To the untrained eye, Mobius is an expert in time.
Ironic, then, that he doesn’t know what to do with it now that he finally has some time of his own.
He moves north, away from the beach and toward the mountains and the forest. He rents an apartment in a decently sized city, which B-15 has assured him is paid for by the TVA for as long as he would like it. He knows she is hoping it will just end up being an extended holiday, centuries worth of vacation days to spend, and maybe it will be. He’s been planning things for his whole life, and he’s good at it, but this time he thinks he might be better off winging it.
He tries to ignore the nagging sensation that he is not real, and that the real Mobius is raising two boys on a jet ski salesman’s salary.
He shaves when his stubble grows in, leaving his mustache neatly trimmed. He wipes his coffee table when dust accumulates. He cuts his fingernails when they become too long. He notices a hundred different ways that time barrels its way through his new life, and he thinks of what it cost. How high the price of this freedom was.
When his alarm clock goes off each morning, Mobius wonders to himself how he will spend his time today.
Sundays are his favourite, he’s decided. The days of the week as a concept are somewhat novel to Mobius, but he has a favourite now, and a small routine that he takes pride in.
He wakes up early and heads to what must be the last remaining newspaper stand in the city, buying a newspaper and whatever magazine happens to catch his eye that week.
Sometimes his hands will hover over a jet ski magazine, fingers itching to grab it. He feels the pull like it’s ingrained in him, down to the very strands of his DNA. He thinks of a modest yard and a garage with two jet skis—one well loved, and one abandoned. Then he remembers shiny shoes resting on his desk, a magazine rolled up in one hand, and a mischievous grin bright enough to blind him.
He never picks one up.
Mobius will then take his papers, sometimes using them as an umbrella if it’s raining (it usually is), and head to the coffee shop across the street, where he will be early enough to get a seat by the window before the place fills up.
He will say hi to Cheryl, the barista who always has a second-hand story about what crazy thing her sister has done this time, while she makes his coffee. He will say hi to Jared in the back as he puts the last round of pastries in the oven, and who will tell him what the best thing is this week to order for breakfast. He will sometimes be shown to his seat by Freddy, an older gentleman who owns the place, and who will always be happy to see him, but will mostly be relieved to see business in his café.
Mobius feels real on Sunday mornings. He feels seen here, recognized by these people week after week. He sits at his table and reads his paper and sips his coffee and watches people walk past the café along the sidewalk, and it’s the closest he feels to being part of the world, instead of looking at it from the outside.
This Sunday morning, Jared calls out to him as soon as he walks in the door.
“Moby, you’re in luck!” he says, the flour on his cheek doing nothing to mask his grin. “I made the best key lime pie of my entire life last night and there’s one last slice left before it’s gone. I’m never gonna able to make anything this good ever again so get it while you can.”
“Key lime?” Mobius asks quietly. He can’t remember them ever serving key lime pie here before.
“What, you don’t like key lime?” Cheryl replies with a teasing grin.
“Like it? It’s my favourite.”
“Then why the long face?” She says warily. There is genuine concern in her eyes, and Mobius feels bad for worrying her.
“Nah, it’s nothing. It looks great, thanks Jared!” Mobius shouts to the kitchen.
He pays for the pie and the coffee and stands by the bar while Cheryl makes his drink and warms up his slice. His eyes flit idly around the café while he waits, and eventually land on a girl sitting alone at a table in the corner.
Her eyes are red and puffy, like she’s been crying for a long time, and her gaze is glassy and empty. She wears a hoody and her hair up in a haphazard bun, and her hands shake slightly around her coffee cup.
“Her and her boyfriend just split,” Cheryl whispers, noticing him staring.
“Gosh, that’s terrible,” Mobius replies, not questioning how she would know this.
“He’s on his way to Europe or something—father got sick, so he had to move back to take care of him and take over the family business,” she says, sliding his coffee and pie across the bar to him, “broke it off so she didn’t have to sacrifice her life here to follow him.”
“It’s always harder when it’s kind,” Mobius replies bitterly, “you can’t even get angry at them for it.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Cheryl says with a laugh, “seems like I only date assholes.”
Mobius smiles and tips his coffee cup slightly in response, before turning to head to his table. The sight of the girl at the table stops him in his tracks. Her head rests in her hands now, coffee forgotten, and he can almost feel the despair radiating off her in waves.
He’s always had a soft spot for broken things. He walks up to her table.
“Hey, uh…” he starts gently, trying not to spook her. It doesn’t work—she jumps slightly when he speaks, but she raises her head from her hands to look at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he says with a wince, “but I was wondering if you’d be able to take this off my hands.”
He holds the pie out to her.
“What?” Her voice sounds raw, like she screamed for a long time and then didn’t speak for even longer time after that.
“Jared peer-pressured me into getting the pie and I was too embarrassed to tell him I’m more of a cake guy. I’m told its excellent, if you’re into that kind of thing, and I’ll feel better knowing someone enjoyed it rather than forcing it down myself.”
“Oh, um, thanks,” she says slightly dreamily, so he places the pie down in front of her. The sound of the plate seems to shake her from her reverie a little though, and she goes to pull her wallet out of her purse.
“Oh, no, please,” Mobius says, taking a step back so she can’t offer him anything, “it’s a gift. Really, you’re the one doing me a favour.”
He is not lying. Mobius isn’t sure he truly would’ve been able to stomach it, would’ve been able to withstand the flood of memories without drowning in them.
Her eyes are wide, and he can see them start to fill with unshed tears. She looks tired, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe she can see that same exhaustion reflected in his own eyes. That same pain—the feeling of losing someone who didn’t want to leave, but had to.
“Thank you,” she says, voice thick with emotion, “really.”
He gives her a nod, and heads to his own table. He stays for a long time, fingers ghosting over his newspaper, and tries to convince himself that the emptiness he feels is hunger.