Chapter Text
The sound of the fan that’s spreading mist over the delicate flowers sitting on the rickety plyboard shelves to his right is preventing Loki from overhearing the conversation happening on the other side of the greenhouse.
The woman who owns this place, Terra (what a daft name), keeps leaning into Mobius’s personal space, and even though Loki can’t hear what’s being said from where he’s standing, he can see Terra’s eyes crinkle with mirth as she smiles at whatever inane comment Mobius has undoubtedly made.
Loki rolls his eyes.
From his position by the hydrangeas, he watches them in mild annoyance until he sees Terra lay a friendly hand on Mobius’s forearm as she laughs, actually laughs, at something Mobius says. His mild annoyance then shifts into something more like genuine displeasure, and he begins to glare. He didn’t even want to come to this stupid plant nursery in the first place, and now he’s mad at his friend for convincing him to be here, with sweat dripping down his back and cool mist landing on the right side of his body and an ugly, bitter thing building up in the pit of his stomach.
His glare lands on Terra. She’s perfectly average as far as physical appearances go, with wavy chestnut hair and fair skin and hazel eyes. That’s not what bothers Loki. It’s that she’s clearly lighthearted and easygoing and happy, and that she doesn’t have to speak in tongues or in riddles to say exactly what she means to say. She’s been having this overly-friendly conversation with Mobius for what feels like an age now, and she just seems so genuine and nice in the way that she enjoys his company.
Loki’s fingers begin to tingle, and he curls them up against his palm.
Then, seemingly out of the blue, Terra grabs a small terracotta pot filled with purple flowers from the shelf behind her and hands it to Mobius, whose eyes light up with excitement and appreciation. Loki actually hears the wow from where he’s standing, and just when it looks like Mobius is about to actually hug this woman, the thing building inside of him reaches its tipping point.
The miscellaneous buckets sitting on the broad, wooden beam above their heads suddenly fill with frigid water, and equally as suddenly tip over. His mouth tastes briney and salty when it's done, but the feminine squeal and drenched clothes make him smirk. No hug.
Except the bitter joy doesn’t last. As soon as the water came down, Mobius began turning his head this way and that, looking for Loki. In an instant, they’re making eye contact, and Mobius looks at him with frustration and confusion furrowing his brow. He shakes his head in that way of his that’s mad but also fond, and Loki aches. (He knows he shouldn’t want to test Mobius’s seemingly infinite patience and acceptance, but the part of him that’s waiting for the inevitable rejection and hatred just wants to expedite the process. He’s overwhelmed when it never comes.)
Eventually, after some awkward laughs and an exchange of money (presumably for the flowers), Mobius leaves Terra with a nod and approaches Loki with the small pot in his hand.
Loki tries to remain visibly unbothered as he braces himself for a reprimand.
“These are for you,” Mobius says, gently holding the flowers out in front him.
Loki should really learn to accept that Mobius defies expectation. He raises one of his eyebrows inquisitively.
“What do you expect me to do with them?”
“I don’t know, Loki. You can keep them in your bedroom or in your Loki cave or in the kitchen. You can plant them or even give them away. They’re just flowers.”
“But why did you get these for me?”
“They made me think of you.” Mobius casually shrugs with a twinkle in his eye. “I thought you might like them.”
Loki’s fingers once again begin to tingle, and he feels a warmth take root in the space at the base of his spine. His mouth tastes like the sharp tang and familiar sweetness of a ripe orange.
With shaky hands, he reaches for the flowers and brushes Mobius’s fingers with his own. They linger.
“You have horrible taste,” Loki says, abruptly pulling his hands back. This earns him an exasperated look from Mobius, so he adds, “But I’m sure I can find something to do with them.”
With an exaggerated grin and an official nod, Loki turns to finally take his leave of this gods forsaken greenhouse when Mobius calls his name. (And he really should have just sprinted out of there, because he knows that tone. He hates it.) Hesitantly, he turns back around.
Mobius levels him with a serious look. “You know you can’t pull this sort of stunt every time you’re bored or want attention.”
“I didn’t want attention!”
“Then why did you soak that perfectly nice lady in freezing water? Which, I might add, also landed on me.”
Loki takes a second to look him over and sees that the left side of Mobius’s button-up shirt and khaki shorts are clearly soaked. He wants to feel bad, but he likes seeing the clothes pressed against his skin, and it’s clear that Mobius isn’t all that upset about it.
He clenches his jaw and clears his throat, holding his head up righteously. “She seemed annoying.”
Mobius gives him an incredulous look and sighs. “Why do I even bother?”
“I don’t see why you’re upset. She didn’t even mind. She laughed!”
Loki doesn’t realize that he’s pouting about that little fact until Mobius starts laughing himself.
“And clearly that upsets you! Gosh, you really are just like a little boy sometimes.” He shakes his head but chuckles, not truly angry. “She helped me find these flowers specifically for you, you know. She had to call a friend in Vancouver to get them.”
Loki frowns. “So?”
“So, she’s nice! She helped me do something nice for you. Think about that the next time you want to douse someone in cold water.”
Loki rolls his eyes and turns to continue his dramatic exit. As he walks towards their beat-up, forest-green SUV, his mind churns. (Suddenly, Mobius’s vaguely mysterious insistence that Loki join him on this dull trip makes perfect sense.)
He looks down at his flowers as he climbs into the passenger seat.
He supposes they’re not all that ugly. They might, in fact, be unassumingly charming. (The fact that Mobius placed some sort of special order for them plays no part in his fascination.) The taste of ripe oranges returns to his tongue as he considers the plant sitting in his lap. Looking towards the man mouthing along to the insipid song playing on the radio while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he feels the warmth return to the base of his spine.
“I suppose they’re alright,” Loki says.
It comes much too late, and it’s not quite what he means to say, but that’s classic Loki stuff. Internally, he sighs at himself.
But then. Then. His shortcomings in expression don’t matter at all, because Mobius smiles at him anyway, twinkly eyes and dimpled cheek.
“Okay. Good.”
A few minutes later, Loki sees Mobius tug at his still-wet clothes, trying to unstick them from his skin. He only hesitates for a split second before flicking his wrist, drying them with his magic.
Loki swears that he hears Mobius say something startlingly close to “mischievous scamp” under his breath.