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And if I were the king of the world
Tell you what I'd do
I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars
Make sweet love to you
Joy to the world
All the boys and girls
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me
He’ll never forget this song, he suspects, the one being piped through the muffled, grainy McDonald’s speakers. The soundtrack to the moment when he doesn’t find her.
Her eyes are blank and sullen as she stares him down from behind the cash register. There’s no recognition whatsoever.
For a wild, hopeful heartbeat, he wonders if maybe it’s all an act. This is unquestionably her face and form, after all. Her name tag says “Sylvie,” as does her murderous expression. But…no, no, it’s not her; he’s more certain of it with every passing millisecond. She doesn’t know him, and her eyes, are…different. It’s indefinable.
No. We were wrong.
He turns back to Mobius, who’s sucking down the Diet Coke he ordered from the other cashier. Mobius shrugs, a this-was-the-best I-could-do shrug.
“Well, are you ordering or not?” she spits out. That voice. His heart thuds in his chest.
But again, no.
This voice is the same in register and tone, but her accent is a touch more refined. And it’s… haughtier. A fallen queen, rather than a stolen princess.
Loki opens his mouth, but his throat is dry and he gurgles unattractively for a few moments.
She rolls her eyes. “So you’re one of them. You recognized me, and you’ve come to ogle me. Let me save you some time: Yes, my name used to be Loki, and no, it’s not anymore; yes, I tried to conquer your stupid planet, and no I did not succeed; and yes, I was exiled from Asgard, and no, I haven’t ‘gotten down with something good’ lately.”
Loki’s mouth flutters open, then closes. He tries again, clearing his throat. “So you’re on some sort of…probation?”
Sylvie growls at him from the back of her throat. “Order something or leave.” She begins to tremble with rage, strands of green magic threading themselves out of her palms.
“Um…a Big Mac. Please. That’s all.”
Sylvie rolls her eyes as she stabs the keys on the register. Her fingertips are still glowing green. Loki’s mouth twitches upwards as he observes the telltale pattern of a (thwarted) familiar spell. “Are you really allowed to use the Ødger hex on customers? That seems like it might violate your probation.”
She looks up at him sharply; her eyes widen, then narrow. “How do you know what it’s called?”
“I’ve got a bit of experience with it.”
“Bullshit. Only Asgardians are equipped with the ability to perform that particular hex. Well…Asgardians or…fake Asgardians, I suppose.” She looks down at the cash register, and then flicks her eyes up at him without lifting her head. “So. Are you a real Asgardian or a fake Asgardian?”
“Well, it’s funny you should—” He stops himself. She wouldn’t believe him, no matter how much evidence he gave her.
Or…maybe she would. But there’s no need to disrupt her life by trying. “I’m…neither. Just an admirer of your planet and all its…specificities.”
She sniffs. “Okay. Weird. Sixty-five cents.” She holds out her hand. Loki realizes he has no money, so he magicks some into existence. Sylvie blinks, no doubt wondering if she really saw what she thought she just saw. Then she snatches the coins out of his hand and places them in the drawer. “Go on, then. Move along. It’ll be ready in a flash.” She gestures widely, dramatically, for him to move down the counter.
He lingers just a moment longer. There’s no one else in line.
“So you…you’re well? Safe, and everything? You have a place to stay? Friends, maybe?”
Her head rears back a few inches. “More friends than you, I’d wager, you creep. Anyway, why…” She swallows. “Why do you care?”
Loki can’t help smiling. This isn’t his Sylvie, it’s clear. There’s something in her tone of voice that says “the world owes me things.” And as familiar as this thought is to his own mind, it’s not something that would be characteristic of his Sylvie.
This person shouldn’t mean more to Loki than any other variant of him — of both of them — that he’s encountered.
But she does mean more.
How could she not?
It’s all he can do to resist telling her he just wants her to be okay, obviously.
In the end, he simply responds, “Just making conversation. Have a nice day. I…truly wish you well.” He moves away, picks up his Big Mac, and collects Mobius before heading out.
“So…not her, I take it,” Mobius remarks as they walk out the door and away from the building.
“No. She’s the closest we’ve come, of course. I’ve never seen another Loki who looked so much like her. But…no. Just another failed Midgardian conqueror, albeit a bit early in this timeline. Do you know what happened there? Why she invaded in the ‘70s?”
“Loki, are you kidding me? There are infiinite timelines now. I can’t keep track of all of them. I haven't the faintest idea about her history. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, right? It’s not her.”
Loki is quiet as they get back in their car. Mobius sits, eating his food. “Are you gonna eat that?” Mobius asks.
“Hm? Oh.” Loki looks down at the bag in his hand. “Maybe later.”
Mobius turns on the radio as he finishes eating. Loki half-listens as he stares out the front window, catching the occasional glimpse of a chipmunk running through the bushes.
Hoverin' by my suitcase
Tryin' to find a warm place to spend the night
Heavy rain's fallin'
Seems I hear your voice callin' "it's all right"
He’d gotten his hopes up this time. He shouldn’t have.
But what does he have, if not hope?
He takes a tiny bite of the Big Mac, grimaces, and puts it back in the bag.
There’s an impatient knock at his window. His stomach lurches as he turns and realizes who it is. She gestures to him, wondering why he hasn’t exited the car yet, jumping at her command.
“Um…pardon me, Mobius,” Loki mutters. He opens the door as Sylvie steps back, away from the car. He exits the car with far more of a flutter in his heart than is warranted by the situation (a flutter that he’s now starting to feel guilty about, actually, as though he’s wasting his fond thoughts on an unworthy variant).
She stands with her hands on her hips. Her stance is different; his Sylvie would be leaning forward, nose scrunched; this Sylvie’s shoulders are set back, and her nose is in the air.
But her mouth and her eyes and her essential Sylvie-ness… That’s all the same.
Loki moistens his lips, unwillingly feeling the phantom kiss from the Citadel. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, stifling the memory. “Yes?”
She gives him a piercing stare, and then: “Seriously, why do you care? Tell me the truth or I’ll magick it out of you.” Her seiðr is pulsing; he feels the air rippling between them. It doesn’t feel like enchantment magic; it feels like whatever she has planned would be far more bludgeon-like than enchantment.
“You really want me to tell the truth?”
“Yes. Humor me.”
“All right. I’m a space-time traveler from another universe. In that universe I used to fill the role of Loki, but not anymore. I may have been replaced, or the entire timeline may have been deleted; that guy in there, he used to work for the overlords who controlled everything, and he’s never given me a straight answer on that. I’m looking for another version of us — of Loki — who looks exactly like you, and who also goes by the name of Sylvie.”
She gives him a withering look. “You used to ‘fill the role’ of Loki? There’s no ‘role’ of Loki. I simply am, and I make my own choices. I’m no role-filler.”
Loki shrugged. “And yet, that is the truth. I heartily invite you to knock me about for a bit as you determine that I am telling the truth.” He ignores a stirring in his gut that tells him he would not mind at all if she knocked him about for a bit.
Instead, Sylvie folds her arms, shielding her seiðr. “I have a place to stay. I’m safe. But I don’t have…friends. Or anyone, really. Everyone here is afraid of me.”
Loki’s heart aches for her. It’s a strange sensation: her experiences have been more like his own, but she resembles Sylvie in so many other ways; he’s caught between empathy and adoration, and he doesn’t know which way to pull his brain.
She continues. “Look, I don’t believe you, but you’re the first person who’s seemed to have any genuine concern for me in years, and I just wanted to…” She looks suddenly quite confused, as though she has absolutely no idea what to say next.
Loki’s mouth twitches; he could supply her those elusive words — thank you — but he refrains.
He doesn’t realize what he’s saying until he says it. “Are you homesick, Sylvie?”
She looks up at him. Her chin stiffens as though she’s forcing it not to quiver. “I don’t know. Maybe.” She wipes the corner of her eye impatiently. “Anyway, I have to get back inside.”
“Sylvie…wait.” Loki reaches out his hand and, with a gentle flourish, conjures her a snow globe. Inside is a depiction of his favorite garden on the grounds of the Palace of Valaskjalf, the one he always used to play in with Thor as a child. Asgardian birds swoop about inside; the hanging ox-willow branches sway in a light breeze.
She reaches for it, inspecting it. “Why is it snowing when it’s quite evidently springtime?
He laughs. “A nod to your…original heritage, I suppose.” His stomach drops for a moment; what if she doesn't know about being of the Jötnar?
But she clearly does, and it’s her turn to snort out a rueful laugh. She shakes the trinket and watches the little flakes fall onto her memories. “You know I could have just done this myself if I wanted one.”
Loki smiles with deep respect. “I don’t doubt it.” She smiles back at him, tucking the little globe under her arm as she refolds her arms. She won’t express gratitude. But that little grin will feed his soul for a long, long while.
“Take care, Sylvie. Sylvie,” he lets her name linger on his tongue, drinking in her features, allowing himself to be amazed and enthralled that he is saying her name and looking into her eyes. Almost.
Almost.
He climbs back into the car and tries not to look back at her as Mobius drives them away. But of course he does. She’s turning the snow globe over and gazing into it...before she realizes he’s watching and stuffs it away in her bag.
“Hey,” Mobius says, tentatively. “You okay?”
Loki swipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “I don’t know.”
They drive in silence for a while, listening to whatever the radio bestows upon them.
I’ll never, ever stop searching. I swear to you, Sylvie. I will find you.
Three things I pray
To see thee more clearly
Love thee more dearly
Follow thee more nearly
Day by day
Day by day by day by day by day…