Work Text:
To be Moebius, N finds, is to be cold. The living human body produces its own warmth, a self-sustaining system. Moebius, like a parasite, must steal it from others instead. A small price, he tells himself. Insignificant by comparison.
Even M's presence can't seem to chase the biting chill away.
It is only after he wipes out the City that Z leads him to the Flame Clock embedded in the back of the theatre room, from where the projection springs. There, he drinks his fill of life, blood red motes draining from the clock into his new body. Their searing heat envelops him, unbearable in its intensity. He is left shuddering and gasping even as the brief moment of warmth already fades away. The bitter cold feels all the worse for the contrast.
He will grow used to it, Z tells him. He has all of eternity now, after all.