A Do-Over
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader | Baldr & Sigyn (siblings) | Tom Hiddleston x reader
Summary: Tom tries to give you a do-over, but returning to the scene of the crime was probably not the greatest idea.
Word count: ~4.4k words
Warnings: PDA. Cheating (kinda? maybe?). Please don't hate me! For those that have been waiting for this moment, I hope it lives up to expectations 18+ fic minors DNI. See master list for overall story themes The Threads of Fate: Chapter 59 | Part 4 master list / two | Previous Chapter
Tom did not tell you where he was taking you. That should have been enough warning.
He turned up outside your house just before ten, hair still slightly damp from what you assumed had been a rushed shower. He had called earlier that morning asking if you were free, and now here he was wearing a dark coat and that pleased little smile of his, rocking back on his heels, trying very hard not to look nervous.
That somehow made you more suspicious.
“What’s with…” you said the moment you opened the door, gesturing at all of him.
Tom pressed a hand to his chest and pretended to look wounded. “Good morning to you too.”
“It was implied.”
“Was it?”
“You look pleased with yourself.”
“I’m taking you out.” Tom chuckled, stepping back slightly and gesturing with a flourish towards your steps.
You narrowed your eyes and stepped outside, softly closing the door behind you so you didn’t wake Baldr. “Where?”
“It’s a surprise.” He grinned.
“That is not comforting.” Raising an eyebrow you crossed your arms and leant back against the door.
Tom’s brow furrowed slightly. “You said I could take you out again.”
“I said maybe.”
Tom’s eyebrows furrowed further and he grabbed his phone, pulling up a message from the other day before showing it to you. “You said yes.”
You tutted at yourself. “I was tired.”
“It still counts. Plus you said you were free today,” he added hopefully.
You looked at him for a moment, weighing refusal against the quiet hope in his face. That was the problem, you thought. He made everything sound light, like it was only teasing, only another ridiculous little thing, but there was always something underneath it, something that made saying no feel far less simple than it should have.
“Aren’t you filming?” you said, hoping that might deter whatever plans he had.
“Not any of my scenes today.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“I’ll wait.”
With a sigh, you turned to open the door. “If this is dreadful, I’m blaming you.”
“Seems fair.” Tom gave a small shrug.
“And if there are crowds? I heard from Jaimie you’re in trouble over the markets.”
“I’ll make a scene and draw all attention away from you.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t that make it worse?”
“Worth it.” Tom smiled, and the sight of it did something annoying to your chest.
When you reopened the door, ready for the day, he offered to take your bag, then seemed to think better of it before his hand had fully lifted. You followed him down the steps, telling yourself as you did that this was just a morning out, just Tom being Tom. Still, as he opened the car door for you with an exaggerated little flourish, you could not help narrowing your eyes again.
“My lady, your carriage awaits.” He flashed you a boyish grin.
You rolled your eyes and got in before he could see the smile you failed to hide.
The drive through London was ordinary. Traffic crawled, cyclists appeared out of nowhere, and grey clouds gathered overhead as though the city had decided sunshine would be too generous a thing to offer. Tom talked through most of it, mostly nonsense, filling the space in a way that left you free not to answer when your mind drifted too far. He talked about work, about some actor who had apparently knocked something over on set and tried to claim it was part of the scene, while you watched London pass by through the window. He asked whether you thought historical dramas would improve if someone finally admitted no one looked that clean after three days on horseback. You answered when you needed to, letting him fill most of the silence. Every time you asked where you were going, he refused to answer.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you said after the fourth attempt.
“A little,” he admitted.
You looked back out the window, frowning when you noticed the streets had begun to look familiar. At first you told yourself you were imagining it. London had a way of repeating itself if you were not paying attention, the same stone buildings and narrow roads slipping into one another until memory did the rest. Then Tom turned down a familiar street, and all pretence began to crack. You thought you were mistaken, but then he slowed, indicator ticking softly in the quiet between you, and the museum came into view.
You let out a gasp before you could stop it.
Tom parked and for a moment neither of you moved.
The building stood ahead, pale stone and broad steps, looking far too much like it remembered the night you had last stood there. Daylight should have made it less terrible. There were tourists gathered near the doors, schoolchildren in little clusters, people with cameras and bags, all of them having no idea that the sight of those steps had just made your body forget how to breathe.
Your hands had tightened around the strap of your bag until your knuckles whitened. Your heart began to beat too fast.
Run.
The word filled your ears, dull and insistent, drowning out the faint tick of the cooling engine.
“Vicky.” Tom’s voice was quiet.
You dragged your eyes away from the building and found him watching you from the driver’s seat, his hands still resting loosely on the wheel. He took in your wide-eyed stare and seemed to realise he might be asking for too much.
“You brought me here,” you tried to accuse but it came out more panicked than you intended.
Tom nodded once. “I did.”
“Why?!”
His hand shifted against the wheel. “I thought,” he said at last, “we could try again.”
You blinked at him.
“That sounded more convincing in my head.” He gave a small, self-conscious sort of smile. “I thought maybe it might be easier in daylight. No champagne. No one staring at you. Just us.”
You only looked at him.
He seemed unsure now, which somehow made it worse. Tom was good at looking confident, at making things feel light even when they were not, but now his fingers tightened against the steering wheel and his smile started fading. You looked back at the building, your chest tightening as the memory of that night resurfaced. The music. The lights. The way the room had tilted before everything blurred. You could almost feel the cold floor beneath you, could almost hear Tom saying your name as if it belonged to someone else.
“I-I don’t like this place,” you stuttered.
“I know,” he answered softly.
You swallowed and looked down at your hands. “Then why bring me here?”
“Because I didn’t want it to be a place that frightened you.” Tom unbuckled his seatbelt but still did not get out. “But we can leave. I’ll take you for coffee instead and you can spend an hour insulting my taste in books.”
“I won’t need an hour.”
“No,” he chuckled. “You’re frighteningly efficient.”
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you and a grin spread effortlessly across your face. Outside the car, the clouds shifted, sunlight breaking through the grey for the first time that morning. Tom smiled, softer this time, his hand moving before either of you seemed to think better of it. His fingers came to rest beneath your chin, thumb almost brushing against your bottom lip. Your breath hitched as his eyes flashed green again. For a moment, he looked almost relieved.
“There you are,” he whispered.
The moment you stepped inside, every muscle in your body tensed. The entrance hall was quieter than it had been on the night of the gala. No string quartet. No clinking glasses. Only tourists murmuring to one another beneath the high ceiling, the faint squeak of shoes over polished stone, and the distant echo of a child asking too loudly if there were mummies.
The pull grew stronger the further you walked. At first it was easy enough to ignore. A strange feeling beneath your ribs, a tug you could pretend was only nerves left over from being back in the museum. Tom kept beside you, talking quietly about something written on one of the plaques, though you had stopped taking in most of the words. You nodded when you thought you were meant to. Smiled once when he looked over, but it felt wrong on your face.
“You alright?” Tom asked at one point, hand coming to rest against the small of your back.
You looked at him and nodded too quickly. “Fine.”
Tom gave you a look but didn’t argue.
You kept walking, the pull becoming stronger.
The next gallery was much quieter than the others, the noise from tourists and school groups fading into a low murmur behind you. The lights were softer in here, the cases spaced further apart, each item set out as though it was something sacred. Or something dead. You were not sure there was much difference when it came to museums. Seeing a display of items from Pompeii you slowed down, fingers brushing lightly against the glass.
Some things can’t be changed.
A child’s toy sat alone amongst some personal artefacts, similar to one Felix had dropped as you ran through the streets that fateful day. Another one made you stop with a frown as you read the tag.
Child’s doll
Cloth with wool stuffing. Pompeii, 1st century CE.
An uncommon surviving example of a soft toy, as organic materials rarely survive from this period.
That was Livia’s. And you knew that because you had sat one night by lamplight sewing it for her, weaving your magic through the cloth without thinking. She had grown into a wonderful woman. Ignoring the ache you continued forward. It was the fact of being immortal, you told yourself for what felt like the hundredth time. Then you turned the next corner and stopped, causing Tom to almost walk into you.
“Everything alright?”
You did not answer because, at the front of the room, beneath a warm pool of light, was a case. For a moment you could only stare at it, your body gone still. Your hands curled at your sides. Your breath caught halfway in your chest.
A circlet sat on a small stand inside the case, delicate enough that it almost looked like it had been made from sunlight as it shone under the artificial light. Gold branches twisted together to form the shape, thin and careful, with tiny forget-me-nots scattered through it, each flower holding a small emerald at the centre.
You could feel the memory of it on your head, another memory layering over the top. Silver branches in Loki’s hands, his brow furrowed in concentration as green light slipped between his fingers and turned the metal to gold. You had laughed quietly, one hand resting over the swell of your stomach as Narfi shifted beneath your palm.
“It was fine as it was,” you told him.
You could still remember the way he had stood behind you after, careful as he set it into your hair, his fingers lingering near your temples far longer than necessary. Odin had invited you both to a ball neither of you wanted to attend, and yet Loki had looked at you in the mirror as if the whole court could burn and he would not notice. Now it sat behind glass, labelled by strangers who had no idea his hands had once held it.
“Vicky?” Tom said your name, quieter this time.
You stepped closer. The plaque beside the case had words on it. You saw them without really reading them.
Unidentified noblewoman.
Ceremonial circlet.
Possible religious significance.
A strange laugh almost climbed up your throat. Your fingers twitched as your seiðr started flowing stronger under your skin.
That’s mine!
“It’s funny,” Tom said, moving beside you. “I was standing here when I got the call about Loki. Well, not this exact spot, but close enough.”
Tom looked at you, but you could not look back at him. If you did, you were afraid whatever was left holding you together would give way.
“At the time,” he continued, “the papers acted as if they’d found Persephone’s grave beneath Stonehenge.”
“Grave?” You looked at him then, the words taking a second too long to make sense.
He nodded towards the case in the centre of the room and your eyes shifted towards it.
An ornate dress lay beneath glass.
For one terrible moment you could not move at all. It was the exact style and weave Loki had always preferred for your ceremonial dresses. This one was heavy gold silk, though the museum lights made it look almost like sunlight trapped inside the case. Beneath it lay an emerald green cloak of the same silk weave catching the light in darker folds. The fabric had been arranged carefully, as if someone had tried to make it look beautiful without understanding it had once been worn by someone for their final journey to Valhalla.
The thought struck hard enough that your knees nearly buckled.
Your eyes found the edge before you meant them to. Fine black thread ran along the border. Intertwined stag antlers with snakes twisted through them in a running pattern. The family crest. Your family’s crest.
Your hand lifted before you realised you had moved. You stopped yourself just short of touching the glass. Tom said something beside you, but the words blurred. The last time you had worn that dress, you had not been standing. You had not been breathing.
The last time Loki had seen you.
A memory came in pieces. His hands shaking. His face white with grief. The green cloak beneath you. His colours wrapped around you like a final claim because he had not known what else to do with all that love once you were gone.
You covered your mouth with a hand to hide the trembling. The reflection staring back at you did not look like yours. It looked pale. Hollow. A woman standing over her own grave and being asked to behave as though she had only found an interesting historical item.
“Vicky,” Tom said, and this time there was real worry in his voice. “Talk to me.”
You forced yourself to breathe.
In.
Out.
You moved before he could say anything else, turning away from the dress because you could not look at it another second without breaking down.
Then you saw your bow.
It was mounted in the case opposite the dress on the far side of the room, pale against the dark backing, the long curve of it almost too familiar to look at. White wood. Smooth even now. Elegant in a way that made your fingers ache with the memory of holding it. Twisting stag antlers had been carved along the length of it, curling into one another like branches, and between them sat runes so fine most people would likely mistake them for decoration. You knew them before you read them. Knew the shape of Loki’s magic hidden in the carvings, the quiet arrogance of a man who had decided no weapon of yours would ever fail again if he had any say in the matter. The absurd, practical tenderness of it, Loki deciding that of course you needed a bow that could not break, that it had to find you if you were lost, that it could not be too heavy because you would never admit if it hurt your shoulder after a long day. For one terrible second you could hear Loki saying your name with the faintest edge of irritation because you had wandered too far again and frightened him half to death, though he would rather throw himself from the observatory than admit it.
Something in you cracked open.
Both your palms settled against the case, the glass cold beneath your hands. For one strange heartbeat you almost expected it to open. Expected the bow to lift, to answer, to come home to your grip as though all the years between then and now had been nothing more than a badly told story. Your fingers spread over the glass, trying to line up with where the carved grip sat on the other side.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The ache in your chest widened until it hurt to breathe.
Inside the case, the bow shifted slightly and behind you, Tom went very still.
A tremor no more than a breath through leaves. The pale wood gave the faintest quiver, so small that anyone passing by would have missed it entirely. The shadows beneath it moved, then settled. The museum lights caught one carved rune and made it flash for half a second before it dulled again. You saw none of it.
Tom did.
His gaze snapped from the bow to your face. “Vicky?” he said in confusion.
“I’m fine.”
No. You were not. You shook your head and took a step back.
“I can’t.”
Tom’s face changed. “Can’t what?”
You did not know. Explain? Breathe? Stand here with the pieces of your life laid out while strangers walked past and saw nothing but old things with neat little labels.
A couple moved behind you, reading softly from the display. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the woman said.
You almost hated her for it.
Beautiful
They were looking at the dress you had been buried in. They were looking at the proof that you had lived, loved, died, and been hidden so thoroughly that even your name had been stripped from the plaques.
Unidentified noblewoman
Your chest heaved as your breathing grew too fast, eyes darting around the room.
Circlet. Bow. Sword.
Sword?
You turned and stared at the weapon mounted on the wall. You had not seen it at first, had not expected it to be there at all.
Ritual
You were going to be sick.
You wavered slightly on the spot and Tom reached for you then, not touching at first, his hand hovering near your arm.
“Do you need to sit down?”
You shook your head again.
Your eyes went back to the dress. To the black thread. To the antlers and snakes curling together over silk.
You felt your knees start to give way.
“Vicky?”
Tom’s voice sounded very far away and for one second you thought you were going to faint again.
No.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
Not in front of strangers.
The room tilted.
You were in Asgard. In halls of gold. In a room filled with candlelight and the smell of smoke. Loki was behind you, his mouth near your ear, telling you that you looked like a queen and then making some dry remark because sincerity had always frightened him when it came too easily.
Then the vision was gone.
The tears came before you realised they had started. One moment you were blinking too fast, jaw clenched, telling yourself you were fine and that this was absurd and that you had survived much worse than a few ghosts trapped behind glass. The next, your vision blurred so completely you could no longer see at all.
“Oh, Vicky.” Tom’s voice broke something in you.
You turned away, pressing the heel of your hand to your eyes, but it was pointless. Once the first tear had escaped the rest followed too quickly to stop. Your breath hitched in your chest. You hated that he was seeing this. Hated that you were still standing in the middle of the gallery while everyone stared.
“Don’t,” you said, though whether you meant don’t look at me, don’t ask, or don’t be kind, even you did not know.
Tom closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, before he cupped your face with such careful gentleness that it made your throat close altogether. His thumbs brushed helplessly at your tears, trying and failing to keep pace with them as they slipped free.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he whispered.
You let out a shaking laugh that was almost a sob. “You won’t understand.”
Tom’s brow drew tight. “Then make me understand.”
You looked at him through blurred vision, and for one awful second all you could see layered over his face was another one. Another pair of eyes, another life. The weight of centuries crashed into the narrow little space between heartbeats and left you standing there with grief and memory and longing tearing at you from every side.
“I—” you started before stopping yourself. What could you possibly say?
That you had looked upon the dress Loki buried you in and the bow you once carried and felt something inside you crack so loudly you were amazed the whole city had not heard it?
That his face was wrong and familiar all at once, and every time he looked at you with that quiet warmth some part of you ached to lean into it while another recoiled because it was not fair, none of it was fair.
That you did not know how to survive wanting what stood in front of you and mourning what was already lost?
Something in Tom’s expression changed then. His mouth found yours before another word could leave you. For one startled heartbeat you forgot how to breathe. Then your eyes closed and the whole world seemed to fade.
The kiss was not careful in the way you had expected from him. It was careful for only a heartbeat, perhaps two, long enough for him to give you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his mouth was warm against yours and his hands were still cradling your face as if you were something precious he had no right to touch and no strength left to let go of. Then something shifted. You felt it in him. Felt it in the way his breath caught, in the way his fingers tightened just slightly against your cheeks, in the way the restraint in him seemed to break under the weight of something neither of you understood. The kiss deepened, and all at once it was not Tom standing before you in the middle of a museum gallery.
It was Loki.
It was Loki’s mouth against yours, Loki’s hand sliding to the back of your neck, Loki holding you like he had spent too long being denied this and had finally lost patience with the distance between you. Your mind knew better. Somewhere, beneath the rush of grief and memory and longing, some small sensible part of you knew this was not him, not really, not in the way you had known him, but your heart did not care. Your body knew him. Your soul knew him.
A broken sound escaped you, lost against his mouth, and your hands lifted of their own accord to his shoulders before sliding around his neck as though they had always belonged there. Somewhere behind you the wall met your back, though you barely remembered moving. Tom followed, one hand leaving your face to brace beside your head while the other stayed at the nape of your neck, holding you there as if the world might try to take you from him again. And there it was, that terrible, impossible sense of home. Loki’s kisses had always felt like that. Like warmth after winter. Like being found after you had long since stopped believing anyone would come looking.
Your fingers curled into the back of Tom’s coat. He made a low groan against your mouth, and it went straight through you. It was not quite Tom. Not fully. There was too much hunger in it, too much ache, too much certainty. He kissed you like he knew you, like he had always known you, like some part of him had decided you were his before his mind had been given the chance to argue. The thought should have frightened you; instead it made your knees weaken.
For a moment there were no glass cases. No dress laid out like a corpse. No bow, no circlet, no strangers moving somewhere beyond the edge of your awareness. There was only his mouth, his hand at your neck, his body close enough that you could feel the unsteady rise and fall of his breathing. You weren’t in London. You were beneath the stars again, water cool around your waist, Loki’s hands firm at your hips as he looked at you like restraint had become a cruelty neither of you wished to survive. Tom kissed you deeper, as though he had seen it too. A fresh sob caught in your throat and softened into the kiss instead. His thumb moved once against the side of your neck, soothing, possessive, and you held him tighter because for one reckless, aching second you did not want to know the difference. You wanted him. You wanted Loki. You wanted the life that had been taken and the man standing in front of you and the impossible thing that seemed to exist somewhere between them. His hand slid to your hip and pulled you closer, pressing you harder against the wall as your fingers tightened at the back of his neck.
Nearby, someone cleared their throat.
The sound cut through the moment like cold water. Tom stilled first. He did not pull away, only stayed there against you, his mouth still close enough to yours that every breath was shared. Your eyes opened slowly and found his, and for one suspended heartbeat green eyes stared back at you. Then he blinked and it was gone.
The museum came back in pieces. The wall at your back. The glass case beside you. The muffled footsteps. The low murmur of voices. The realisation that you were still in public, still standing in the middle of a gallery, still close enough to Tom that anyone looking would have no trouble understanding exactly what they had interrupted. Heat rushed into your face. Tom’s hand dropped from your waist, though the other remained lightly at your neck for half a second longer, as if letting go required effort.
“Sorry,” he breathed, though the word came out too rough to sound like regret.
You should have stepped away. You should have said something that would put the world back where it belonged. Instead you stared at him, chest rising too quickly, lips still tingling, and wondered with a sick little twist of fear how much of you had just answered him because he was Tom.
And how much had answered because, for one terrible moment, he had not been.
