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Life Or Something Like It
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn Brown (Original Female Character)
Summary: London is full of bright lights, hopes, and dreams.
Evelyn Brown has just returned from Australia and unsure what to do with her life. A small job on a period-piece film set is supposed to be temporary while she decides who she wants to be.
Tom Hiddleston is still taking small roles and dreaming bigger, balancing ambition with the ache of wanting to be seen for more than potential.
Warnings: At this stage, no smut (sorry all) but there will be adult topics mentioned. Will put warnings on each slice of life. Creative liberties.
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader/OFC
Summary: Magic, monsters and gods didn't exist, they were the stuff of legends or so you thought but what if stories change based on who’s telling it? Sometimes myths are twisted to hide the truth.
When a freak accident sees you and your son being transported to their world, can you survive the ups and downs of palace life.
They say accidents happen for a reason.
Written from the main female character's point of view (with some Loki POV)
Warnings: 18+ themes. Minors DNI.
Reader is already a mother prior to the story starting. Angst, fluff and humor in hopefully equal measures. Bit of a slow burn timeline wise in the beginning. Mild sexual themes. References to/mention of smut, violence, torture, domestic violence, sexual assault, swearing, pregnancy (accidental and planned), child birth and child loss. Mentions of depression and suicide (mainly parts two/four. Referenced part three). Death of characters. Domestic fluff, Christmas fluff. References to Norse myth, and other myths (my interpretation).
Pregnancy and childbirth feature throughout due to Loki being a parent in Norse myth (and this is my take on it) if these themes are not for you please DNI
Part One: The Lady of Midgard
Summary: Dumped right into the middle of the drama that is the court of Asgard a 'little' accident brings feelings to a head; and not all within the palace walls wish you well.
Part Two: The Princess of Asgard
Summary: Fate may have blessed you both but is everything as it seems. What if the person responsible for it all sets in motion the one thing everyone tried to prevent.
Stories have meaning, take heed of their warning.
Part Three: The Goddess of Victory
Summary: As old sins come back to haunt him, the Children of Loki are not the ones Odin should be afraid of.
It's their mother.
Part Four: The Threads of Fate - One | Two
Summary: Threats long thought dead rear their ugly head. Home is where the heart is too bad your home can't remember you, where are those bloody ruby slippers when you need them.
Soulmates are meant to be regardless of time and place, can you both resist the Thread of Fate? Or will it burn you in the process?
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader | Baldr & Sigyn (siblings) | Tom Hiddleston x reader
Summary: You finally admit to Baldr that there may be no way home. In a moment of despair you call out to Loki even though you know it's futile.
Word count: ~4.5k words
Warnings: Angst. Refernces to grief, loss, death, emotional disteress. Physical altercations.
18+ fic minors DNI. See master list for overall story themes
The Threads of Fate: Chapter 61 | Part 4 master list / two | Previous Chapter
You stood at the sink wrapped in a loose jumper, a mug of coffee cradled in both hands, staring out into the garden as the rain struck the kitchen windows and Baldr talked behind you. Or rather, while Baldr argued and you pretended not to hear the parts that made too much sense. It had been storming all day and, for once, the weather had nothing to do with your mood. It was only the season turning ugly, as it always did at that time of year. Tom had not called or messaged since he had kissed you and then driven you home in silence. You’d been sorely tempted to reach out again, but with the last message you’d sent still sitting on read almost two weeks later, you tried to ignore the anger growing within you.
Your hands tightened around the mug.
“Look, I get your logic,” you said at last, watching the rain streak down the glass, “but we’ve been over this a thousand times. Loki won’t think to look for me. I’m dead, remember?”
The words left an ashen taste on your tongue. The dress was proof enough that Loki believed you gone and had by now surely moved on with his life. It wasn’t like you could just pop back and show him otherwise. You’d spent tens of thousands of years fixing threads, while your father tried to find a way, only to have to go back to one time or another and try to fix it again when things didn’t work out. You’d lived more lifetimes than you cared to remember and were probably older than Asgard itself by now. Maybe it was time to move on and accept your life was here.
With someone other than Loki, you thought angrily when Tom popped back into your head.
Baldr folded his arms across his chest. “Wouldn’t Narfi have told him you aren’t in Niflheim, though?”
You pursed your lips, looking down at the coffee swirling inside your mug. The steam had already started to fade, leaving the dark surface rippling slightly from the small tremor in your hands. Baldr was watching you with his head cocked slightly, the way he always did when he thought you were holding something back. Waiting with that infuriating patience he had developed over the centuries. Time had finally taught him that silence could be more useful than another argument when it came to you.
“You’re assuming Narfi can simply tell him,” you said at last.
“I’ve seen that boy’s seiðr, it’s on par with Loki’s. I’m sure he could walk into Asgard any time he pleased without Odin even having to invite him.”
You said nothing.
The rain struck harder against the window, running down the glass in crooked lines. For a moment you watched it instead of answering, following the water as it blurred the garden beyond. Everything outside was washed out — the trees, the stone path, the world you had been trapped in for so long that sometimes you forgot what it was meant to feel like to belong anywhere else.
“Sigyn,” Baldr said carefully.
You closed your eyes at the name. He always called you that when he wanted the truth. In that moment you wished you had never relented and allowed him to be the only other person apart from Loki to call you that.
“I’m changing my name,” you muttered quietly and took a sip of your coffee, turning your nose up when you realised it was cold. “He can’t,” you finally admitted.
Baldr’s shoulders stiffened. “What do you mean, ‘he can’t’?”
You turned, leaning back against the counter because you were not entirely sure your legs could be trusted. “I mean, he cannot stand in front of Loki and simply tell him I’m alive.”
“Why not?”
“When Narfi was conceived,” you said, trying to ignore the little twist in your chest that always came with saying your son’s name aloud, “the Norns set conditions upon his life thread. If you want the technical version.”
Baldr went very still. He knew very well that the Norns wove patterns only they knew the shape of. “What conditions?”
You swallowed back the lump forming in your throat. “Rules… things that keep the world in order.”
“That’s not an answer,” Baldr said, pushing away from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “No, that is the kind of answer you give when you are trying to make something sound less horrific than it is.”
Your phone buzzed on the counter.
“What would you like me to say?” you snapped, setting the mug down hard enough that coffee sloshed over the side. “That the father must not behold the son because the moment he does the cosmos begins to split? That Narfi has spent centuries with the knowledge that he is unable to stand before his own father again because Fate decided his face was another warning sign for the end of all things?”
Baldr stared at you.
Your chest rose and fell quickly as you tried to hold back tears, but once the words had started you could not seem to stop them. “And if he does, what then?” you demanded. “He tells Loki I am alive. Loki comes looking. Narfi follows. The threads die, Ragnarok stirs, and I am meant to try and fix it all again.”
Baldr tried to say your name but you cut him off.
“I can’t! I can’t fix it!” Your voice cracked. “I’ve tried! I’ve tried for millennia! And all they do is die and burn themselves into my flesh! I am so tired of everyone talking as though there is still a way to put this right. As if I can somehow stop this happening.”
Baldr’s expression changed. You saw it the moment he understood he had pushed too far, but it was too late. Your phone started vibrating against the counter as a call came through, but you ignored it, too focused on Baldr.
“We’ve been alive for more years than I can count!” you said, your hands trembling against the edge of the counter. “Father keeps promising. Emrys keeps hinting. Everyone keeps saying there has to be a way. That one day we will find the right door, the right bridge.”
“That still doesn’t mean there isn’t a—”
“We aren’t going home!” you yelled. “EVER!”
The kitchen went silent except for the rain against the windows. Baldr stood there, staring at you in shock. Your bottom lip trembled, and you hated that as much as you hated everything else.
“There isn’t a way home,” you said, trying without success to hold back a sob. “Not for you. Not for me.”
Baldr caught you before your knees could hit the tiles, wrapping his arms around you as the tears finally won. He did not say anything; he only held you there on the kitchen floor while the rain kept striking the windows and your coffee sat somewhere above you on the counter. You hated that you had broken like that. Hated that he had seen it. Hated even more that, when his hand came to rest carefully at the back of your head, you did not have the strength left to push him away. Eventually the tears slowed. Baldr helped you up without comment, then made fresh tea because centuries on Midgard had taught him that grief sometimes needed to be managed with a kettle and silence. Once you had drunk it, he tucked you into bed.
By late afternoon the storm had lightened into a steady drizzle though the sky remained grey and the garden slick with rain. The house had settled into the kind of quiet that came after too much had been said out loud. Baldr had retreated to the sitting room, pretending to read while keeping an ear out for any sign you might break again.
You lay in bed, face poking out from beneath your blankets, staring at the rain as it slowly ran down your bedroom window, trying not to think. Your phone sat face down on the bedside table, where it had been ignored for hours. That had not stopped it from buzzing every now and then as another message came through.
You must have dozed off at some point, because when your phone started buzzing longer as a call came in your eyes snapped open. For a moment you struggled to place your surroundings. Frowning slightly as you tried to remember what day it was, you decided it was probably Jaimie calling to ask why you had stood her up, not that you could recall making plans with her. With a sigh, you reached for the phone without bothering to look at the screen, then snuggled back into your cocoon of blankets.
“Sorry, Jaimie, not feeling the best right now,” you mumbled monotonously into the speaker.
“Vicky?” Tom said your name with concern. “Are you okay? Sick?”
Damn it. Should’ve checked the caller ID.
“You’ve got some nerve calling me,” you spat.
There was a pause on the other end, and you could almost picture him standing there, phone to his ear, brows drawn together in that infuriatingly earnest way of his.
“I’m sor—”
“No,” you snapped, cutting him off. “You do not get to disappear for two weeks and then act like saying sorry fixes it.”
“I didn’t disappear.”
You let out a laugh that had no humour in it. “My mistake. You just read my message and said nothing. Much better.”
“Vicky, please, let me explain.”
You closed your eyes, your grip tightening around the phone. You could still feel Baldr’s arms around you on the kitchen floor. Still hear your own voice yelling that you were never going home. Still feel the raw hollow place the words had left behind. And now Tom’s voice was in your ear, careful and guilty and far too capable of undoing you.
“I’m not in the mood for explanations.”
“Please don’t hang up!”
The plea in his voice caught at something you did not want touched, so you did the only sensible thing left. You pulled the phone away from your ear and ended the call before you could hear anything he tried to say, then threw it across the room. With a sigh, you rolled over and pulled the blankets over your head.
The phone rang a few more times before going still.
You dragged both hands over your face and tried to tell yourself you were relieved.
Closing your eyes, you felt a tear slip out. “Loki,” you pleaded in a whisper. “Please find me so I can go home.”
Tom stared at the phone in his hand. He deserved that. He really did. That still did not stop him from pocketing it and grabbing his wallet and keys on the way out of his front door. Ordinarily, he would have taken the hint and left her alone, but Vicky had sounded wrong. Flat and exhausted in a way that had made his stomach drop before she had even realised it was him. He told himself he only needed to make sure she was alright. It was not the entire truth. Something he could not name kept pulling him back towards her, no matter how often common sense told him to leave her alone.
Tom knew he should have stayed in the car. He knew it from the moment he pulled up outside Vicky’s house and sat there with the engine running, rain tapping against the windscreen and Luke’s warning sitting unpleasantly in the back of his mind. He had called. She had answered, then snapped at him and hung up before he could get half an explanation out. She had not answered again. So here he was, because apparently he was exactly as sensible as Luke thought he was. He turned off the engine and stared at the front door through the rain. He should leave. He really should.
He got out instead.
By the time he reached the step, his hair was damp and his coat had started to darken at the shoulders. He knocked once, then again when no one answered. Movement sounded inside, followed by a man’s voice.
“Did you order food?”
“Tell him to piss off!” he heard Vicky yell from somewhere inside.
The door opened and Tom came face to face with a broad-shouldered, solid man wearing the kind of expression that suggested Tom had already annoyed him simply by existing. He looked familiar in the way some people did when you had seen them briefly but never been introduced. The man from the gala, Tom realised, the one who had hovered over Vicky after she collapsed.
Something low and ugly twisted in his stomach.
“Can I help you?” the man asked. His tone made it very clear he would rather not.
Tom glanced past him into the hall. “I’m here to see Vicky.”
“Absolutely not,” he answered, clearly unimpressed.
“I just need to speak to her,” Tom said from the doorway.
“I don’t care,” the man growled. “You’re not coming in.”
That should have been enough to make Tom step back. Any reasonable person would have done exactly that. He was standing on someone else’s doorstep asking to see a woman who had hung up on him thirty minutes earlier, but something about the man scraped against him. The way he stood there like he had a right to decide who reached her. The way his hand rested against the doorframe, casual and immovable. The way he said no as though Tom were a problem to be managed rather than a man trying very hard not to panic.
“Who do you think you are?” Tom snapped, trying to brush past him, his voice echoing up the stairway. “Vicky!”
“Don’t you dare,” the man warned him, putting an arm out to stop Tom in his tracks.
“Get out of my way,” Tom said. His temper flared again, but beneath it sat something else — jealousy, sudden and unreasonable and humiliating. Because this man knew her, knew how to stand in her doorway like he belonged there, knew to be angry on her behalf.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said, half laughing in disbelief.
Tom barely had time to react before the man caught him by the front of his coat and shoved him hard back into the wall beside the door. The impact knocked the breath from him.
“What the hell?” Tom snapped, trying to shove him off.
“I’ve been waiting years to do that,” he chuckled darkly.
Tom stared at him.
Years?
He did not know this man. He was almost certain he did not know this man. “What are you talking about?” Tom snapped. “I don’t even know you!”
The man grunted something in a language Tom did not recognise. The words sounded old and harsh, carrying enough contempt that their meaning hardly mattered.
A door opened upstairs, followed by quick, light footsteps crossing the landing. Tom looked towards the stairs just as Vicky appeared halfway down. She came to an abrupt stop at the sight of the man gripping him by the collar and pinning him against the wall. Her eyes widened.
“What the hell is going on!” she exclaimed.
Tom felt heat rise into his face. He had arrived intending to apologise, or at least explain himself properly. Instead she had found him dripping rain onto her floorboards while being held against the wall by a man he did not know. Not exactly the impression he had hoped to make.
“Baldr,” Vicky said sharply. “Let him go.”
Tom frowned and his eyes snapped back towards Baldr who gave Tom a crooked smirk, then released him with a final shove. Tom let out a grunt as his shoulders struck the wall again. He straightened and brushed one hand over the front of his coat while flashing Baldr a glare.
“Being named after a god doesn’t give you the right to act like a jerk.”
Vicky went very still. Her bottom lip disappeared briefly between her teeth, and she breathed out hard through her nose as though trying not to react. Tom frowned and Vicky opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Baldr answered for himself.
“And being an actor doesn’t give you the right to barge into people’s homes.”
“I wasn’t barging in.”
“You tried to push past me.”
“Because you wouldn’t let me speak to her.”
“This is my house.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “This has nothing to do with you.”
Baldr’s expression hardened. “Everything involving her has something to do with me.”
Vicky pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just one fucking thread,” she muttered, “these two have to get along.”
Tom’s brow furrowed. The phrase made no sense, but the way she said it suggested it was not merely an odd choice of words. Something unpleasant twisted low in Tom’s stomach again. He looked from Baldr to Vicky. She had come down another step, one hand still curled around the banister, her face pale and exhausted beneath the anger. The loose jumper she wore swallowed most of her frame. Her eyes looked swollen, as though she had been crying long before he arrived.
“What happened?” Tom asked, concern cutting through the jealousy.
Baldr laughed once, without humour. “You really are unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable?” His eyes flicked back to Baldr, giving him a once over. “Rich, coming from you.”
“Learn when to drop it, snake,” he warned.
“Drop it?” Then Tom opened his mouth and somehow made everything worse. “She’s my girlfriend, so no, I won’t.” The words escaped before he had fully formed the thought behind them.
The hallway went so silent Tom swore he could hear a pin drop.
Vicky’s hand dropped slowly from her face. “Excuse me?”
Tom replayed the sentence again in his own head and immediately wished he could drag it back. Baldr’s eyebrows rose with the slow delight of a man watching someone walk directly into a trap.
Vicky descended the last few stairs. She did not hurry and that somehow made it feel worse.
Tom tried to speak before she reached him. “Vicky, I—” The slap cracked through the hallway and his head turned with the force of it.
For one stunned second, no one moved.
Heat spread across his cheek while his mind struggled to catch up with what had happened. His hand lifted halfway towards his face before stopping.
“Ooo boy,” Baldr murmured.
Tom slowly looked back at Vicky. Her hand had fallen to her side, fingers curled against her palm. Her face had gone pale, but her eyes burned with an anger that made every defence he had prepared disappear.
“Two weeks,” she said. Her voice shook, and the tremor only seemed to make her angrier. “You kissed me, and then you ignored me for two weeks.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.” She stepped closer and jabbed a finger into his chest before he could try again. “You read my message and said nothing. You let me sit with that, with all of it, and now you barge into my house and call me your girlfriend like you have any right to decide what I am to you.”
Tom swallowed.
He wanted to tell her about Luke. About the photographs and the articles and the warning that every time he went near her, he only gave strangers more reasons to pull her life apart. He wanted to say he had been trying to protect her. Standing there beneath the weight of her anger, the excuse sounded pathetic even inside his own head.
“You have no right to call me that,” she said. “None.”
“You’re right.”
Vicky blinked, apparently thrown for half a second by his admission, but the anger returned almost immediately.
“I shouldn’t have said it,” Tom continued. “I know that.”
“You don’t know anything.”
Tom’s shoulders dropped. “No,” he admitted. “Apparently I don’t.”
Baldr’s amusement had faded and he watched them both now with his arms folded across his chest, no longer looking entertained by Tom’s humiliation.
Tom forced himself to keep his attention on Vicky. “I came because you sounded upset.”
“Don’t you dare.” Her voice rose again. “You kissed me like that and then drove me home without saying anything. I messaged you and you ignored me. Then, after two weeks, you decide to call and expect me to listen while you explain why your silence was somehow meant to make things better?”
Tom flinched. She had every right to be angry but that did not stop something inside him from rebelling against the idea of walking away from her again. The same pull that had dragged him out of his house and across London tightened beneath his ribs, urging him to stay, to make her listen, to refuse to let another door close between them. The strength of it frightened him.
“I should have called,” he said. “I should have answered your message.”
“Yes.”
Her answer silenced him. Tom looked at her properly then, at the faint shadows beneath her eyes, at the way she held herself, at the traces of tears she had not managed to hide. Tom glanced at Baldr, who smiled at him without warmth. Guilt settled heavily in his chest. He turned back to look at Vicky and found her pointing towards the still open front door.
“Get. Out.”
Tom stared at her. The words were clear and there was no space inside them for negotiation, no hidden invitation to try harder. For perhaps the first time since the call, the strange pull in his chest went quiet, leaving only shame in its place. He had turned up uninvited, tried to force his way inside and called her something she had never agreed to be. Whatever his intentions had been, they no longer mattered.
Tom nodded once. “Alright.”
Vicky’s expression flickered, surprise moving beneath the anger before her jaw set and something fiercer returned to her eyes.
He stepped towards the door, then stopped. “I am sorry,” he said again.
Tom looked at her for another second, trying to hold the sight of her there in the hallway, angry, exhausted, still herself despite everything, then he walked out into the rain. Baldr shut the door behind him with enough force to make the frame rattle. Tom stood on the step, the cold drizzle settling over his hair and face. The sting in his cheek had already started to fade, but the ache in his chest had not.
“Well. At least this one learns,” Baldr’s muffled voice carried through the door.
This one.
Tom turned and stared at the closed door. For one strange moment, he had the unmistakable feeling that Baldr had not been talking only about him.
Loki dreamed of rain.
Not Asgardian rain that fell in soft silver rivulets, but Midgardian rain. Cold and grey, it ran down in sheets against windows he did not recognise and turned streets he could not remember walking into blurred lines of light and shadow. This dream did not unfold like the others. It dragged him in without warning, and it offered no clear path he could follow.
Loki looked towards the window to find a pair of eyes full of sorrow staring back at him.
He walked towards them, only for his next step to bring him hard against something cold and solid. Loki staggered back, one hand lifting instinctively. His palm met a smooth surface where there should have been nothing but empty air.
Glass.
He looked to either side. It stretched away in both directions, light sliding across it in strange reflections. When he looked up, he found more above him. Behind him too.
It was not a wall.
It surrounded him.
Something gold lay at his feet, folded with the careful reverence of grave goods, though he could not remember whose grave it belonged to. It sat beneath a pool of soft light as though unseen hands had arranged it there and tried to make it beautiful.
His chest tightened as grief rose within him.
A woman’s hand came to rest gently on his chest and when he looked at her all he could see was tears shining in her eyes. Eyes he could not quite make out. His hands lifted before he decided to move them. They cupped her face with such desperate care that pain flared behind his eyes the moment he tried to focus on her. Her skin was warm beneath his palms. Too real for a dream and yet not real enough, because the edges of her kept shifting whenever he tried to hold her clearly in his mind.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he heard himself whisper, or perhaps someone else had said it.
Her mouth trembled. “You won’t understand.”
His mouth found hers. For one breath, the world became quiet and the pain lessened. Loki knew that kiss. His body knew it. His hands knew the angle of her jaw, the warmth of her mouth, the broken sound she made when she kissed him back as if she had been starving for him.
Home.
Mine.
His fingers slid to the back of her neck, holding her closer, and she came to him as though she had always known where she belonged. A sob caught between them. He felt it against his mouth and his heart broke so cleanly he almost woke from it. Instead he pressed her closer. The need in him was not new, that was what terrified him. It was ancient and moved through him like a man reaching for air after centuries beneath water.
She was crying. He could taste salt on his lips and all he wanted to do was lick the tears away.
“I found—” he tried to say, but the words would not come.
Her lips moved, though no sound left them. Then two words rang through the glass.
“Get out.”
Loki froze.
The command struck him like a hand closing around his throat. The pain flared and the woman’s face blurred further.
“No,” he cried, gripping her harder. “No.”
For one terrible moment her eyes cleared, and he knew that if he could only hold the shape of them, if he could only remember the colour, the world would right itself. Something cold dragged through his body, sharp as needles. The woman vanished and the glass around him shattered soundlessly.
Loki woke with a gasp, one hand already around his wrist where the cuff burned cold against his skin. The room around him was dark. He sat upright, breathing hard, the taste of salt still lingering on his tongue. His hand shook as he pressed it against his chest, over the place where the ache sat deep and nameless. He could not remember her face or her name, only the feeling of unbearable certainty that he had found someone and lost her before he’d known what to call her.
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: Tom wanted a quiet birthday. Instead, he and Evie got takeaway, tension, and front row seats to James and Clara’s drama.
Word count: ~3.2k words
Warnings: Angst? Mentions of drinking and alcohol. Relationship drama.
Life Or Something Like It Master List | Master list
Chelsea, February 2007
Tom had expected a quiet birthday. Maybe dinner somewhere nice, a drink or two, Evie beside him, no one making a fuss, no surprise plans, and absolutely no one singing at him in public. That had been the plan anyway, and he had said this very clearly several times. Evie, though, had apparently taken “no fuss” to mean “just us and the two people who have recently been caught necking each other”. Which was how Tom found himself sitting on his living room floor, surrounded by takeaway containers, naan bread, and enough unresolved tension that Tom was half expecting Evie to offer it a plate.
The television was on mute in the corner, playing a rerun of EastEnders no one was actually watching, and the flat smelled faintly of the burnt naans Tom had insisted he could warm up after the food turned up late. Evie sat beside him, one leg tucked beneath herself, her eyes flicking between Clara and James with the kind of focus that usually meant trouble.
Tom nudged her ankle lightly with his foot.
Evie nudged him back.
He only gave her a look in return.
“This is nice,” Clara said, reaching for one of the containers.
“It is,” Evie agreed with a nod.
James glanced between all three of them, wisely keeping his mouth shut. He caught the look Tom gave him and suddenly became very interested in spooning rice onto his plate.
Clara, meanwhile, was eating very carefully, like someone determined to make the evening normal through sheer force of will, and not someone who knew she had been caught with James’ tongue down her throat six weeks earlier.
Evie lasted two minutes.
Tom only knew because he had been counting. He sighed and took a sip of his drink, wondering whether he should have accepted his mother’s offer of a roast dinner instead.
“How long?” Evie asked, turning to Clara.
“The sex or the dating?” Clara responded, raising an eyebrow.
Tom’s eyes went wide and he inhaled his beer, coughing hard enough that Evie immediately patted his back, though she did not take her eyes off Clara.
James froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Clara,” he hissed.
“What?” she said, picking up her wine. “She asked.”
“Maybe start with something gentler,” Tom wheezed.
Evie glanced at him. “That was gentle.”
Clara took a sip and shrugged. “Depends on your definition.”
James slowly lowered the fork. “Can we maybe not do this on Tom’s birthday?”
“You both agreed to come,” Tom replied, voice still rough from choking. He picked up a napkin, wiped his mouth, and glanced at Evie. “That said, can we not interrogate our friends tonight?”
Evie turned to him, affronted. “You want to know as much as I do!”
“That’s not the point.” Tom gave her an exasperated look.
James tried for a laugh. “Depends on the interrogation?”
Tom pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Brilliant. Wonderful. Lovely birthday.”
Evie leaned into his side. “Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“No,” she admitted. “But I do love you.”
He looked at her despite himself. That was the problem with Evie. She could be nosy and exasperating, and still look at him like that, like he was the safest place in the room. His irritation deflated before he could stop it.
“I love you too,” he said, then glanced at Clara and James. “But if either of you makes this worse, I am eating all the onion bhajis myself.”
James looked alarmed. “That seems extreme.”
“It’s my birthday.”
No one said anything after that. For a while, the flat filled only with the clink of forks against plates, the quiet rustle of takeaway containers, and the low murmur of traffic from outside. Every now and then someone would reach for a drink, or pass a container without quite looking at anyone else. After a while James glanced at Clara. Clara glanced back. It was small, barely anything really, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of James’ mouth, and Clara had to look down at her plate like she was trying very hard not to mirror it. Evie’s eyes narrowed as she looked between them. Tom saw the moment she noticed and could see the pieces arranging themselves in her head with alarming speed and almost groaned.
“Oh my God,” Evie said. “You’ve been like this for ages.”
“No we haven’t,” Clara answered way too quickly.
“You have.” Evie sat back. “You absolutely have. This isn’t new.”
Tom frowned and looked from Clara to James, then back again. “Hang on.”
James scratched the back of his neck and suddenly found the label on his beer bottle very interesting. Clara glanced at James.
“It’s longer than we thought,” Evie whispered, leaning closer to Tom. “Look at them.”
“I am looking at them,” he deadpanned. “I wish I wasn’t.”
Clara picked up her wine and glanced around the room, refusing to look at her friends. “September,” she mumbled.
“Late June,” James said at the exact same time. Clara elbowed him. “Ow!”
Clara shot him a warning look. “September.”
James made a face in response.
Evie’s eyes narrowed further. “Why did he make that face?” she asked Clara.
“He didn’t make a face.”
“He absolutely did.”
“I’m sitting right here,” James said dryly, then looked at Tom. “We got together around late June,” he told him.
Clara turned her head towards him slowly. “You weren’t supposed to say that.”
“I’m sorry,” he snapped, “was I meant to lie?”
“You could have supported the agreed version.”
“We had an agreed-upon version?”
“Yes, and it was September.”
The room shifted and Tom felt it before he understood it. The joke was still there, somewhere, maybe, but something had slid underneath it. Evie’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
“Right.” Tom leaned back against the sofa, beginning to feel a headache settling over him. He gestured between Clara and James. “So this has been secretly going on since summer?”
“Give or take,” James said, still looking at Clara.
“Well, not ‘going on’ exactly,” Clara said quickly.
James shot her a look. It was small, but Tom noticed the tiny drop in James’ expression, and the way Clara looked down at her glass a fraction too late, as if she had heard herself and wished she could pull the words back.
Evie noticed it too. “What do you mean, ‘not going on’?” she asked.
Clara waved a hand. “It wasn’t like that at the beginning.”
“Like what?”
“Serious.”
James put his plate down with more care than necessary, but it still clattered loudly in the quietness of the flat. “No. Apparently not.”
The warmth in the room altered and Tom sat up a little straighter.
Clara’s jaw tightened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I was the only one pretending.”
James let out a short laugh with no humour in it. “Who said I was pretending?”
Clara looked at him sharply. “You were happy to agree whenever I said it didn’t mean anything.”
James stared at her. “Because that was easier than admitting it did and having you bolt!”
The room went quiet. Tom felt Evie’s hand find his under the edge of the coffee table and he took it automatically, thumb brushing over her knuckles. The night had tipped, very suddenly, from awkward into something else entirely.
Clara swallowed, jaw tight. “That’s not fair.”
“You were the one who wanted rules.”
“You agreed to them.”
“Because that was what you wanted.”
“It was what I wanted.”
“At first,” James said.
Evie looked between them, the nosiness fading from her face. “Clara…”
“I’m fine,” Clara said quickly, blinking back tears.
James gave a short laugh and sat back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “And there it is.”
Clara’s eyes snapped to his. “Don’t.”
“What? I’m not allowed to notice?”
“Can we not do this in front of them?”
“You brought them into it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You sat here and said September like anything prior didn’t count.”
“Because it didn’t!” Clara snapped. “It was supposed to be fun. No strings.”
The words landed too hard. Clara seemed to realise it the moment they left her mouth, but she did not take them back. James went still. Tom looked down at the takeaway containers between them, the food mostly untouched now. It felt suddenly ridiculous, sitting there with burnt naan and onion bhajis between them while something private came apart on his living room floor.
James nodded once. “Right.”
“James—” Clara started.
“No, it’s fine,” James cut her off.
“I meant—” she tried again.
“I know what you meant!” he snapped.
“No, you don’t!” Clara’s face flushed. “You never let me finish!”
“You never finish!” he said. “You get close, then you make a joke, or you say it wasn’t serious, or you decide we need rules again!”
Tom winced internally. Clara looked as though James had slapped her. Evie shifted beside Tom, and he held her hand a little tighter.
“This is why we needed rules.” Clara put her glass down with too much care. “Because this was always going to get messy.”
“It got messy because you kept pretending it wasn’t!”
“And what were we supposed to do?” she asked, voice rising now. “Tell everyone? Make it a thing? Sit through exactly this?”
“This is not happening because we told them,” James said, his voice rising with hers. “This is happening because you still can’t say what it is.”
“And you can?” she yelled back.
James looked at her, and for a moment Tom thought he might say yes. He thought James might simply say it, but then James looked away and let out another humourless laugh. Tom suddenly wished he had overruled Evie and accepted his mother’s offer of dinner. Evie’s thumb pressed against his hand. She was looking at Clara now, all the teasing gone.
Clara’s mouth parted slightly. “Fine.”
“Clara—” James started
“Message received,” Clara cut him off and pushed herself up from the floor, grabbing her cardigan from the back of the sofa.
James stood too. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Walk out before anyone can actually talk to you.”
“I’m not walking out. I’m getting air.”
Tom watched her step around the coffee table, narrowly avoiding a container of rice. The front door opened, letting in a brief slice of cold February air, then shut behind her.
No one spoke.
James only stared at the door.
Evie shifted closer to Tom, her expression small and worried. “Should I go after her?” she whispered in his ear.
James rubbed both hands over his face and let out a noise of frustration.
Somehow, that sounded worse than anger. Tom looked up at James, then at Evie. The evening had shifted so far from the quiet birthday he had asked for that it almost felt funny. Almost.
James picked up his jacket. “I should go.” He looked at Tom, guilt cutting through the frustration. “Sorry for all… that. Happy birthday.”
“It’s fine,” Tom said, trying to reassure him. “Pub tomorrow?”
James gave a weak nod and pulled his jacket on, then paused with his hand on the door handle, looking as if he might say something else. In the end, he only shook his head and followed Clara out into the rain.
The front door closed for the second time that night.
Tom looked towards the door, then at the cold takeaway containers, the abandoned drinks, and Evie’s worried face beside him. He had a feeling this was not really over for them. Not properly. It felt like the sort of thing that would keep breaking and fixing itself until Clara and James either learnt how to say what they meant or wore themselves out avoiding it. Evie must have thought something similar, because she threaded her fingers through his and held on a little tighter. For all their own mess, all their impulsive choices and sideways tumbles into the future, Tom was suddenly very grateful that when he and Evie had fallen, they had at least fallen in the same direction.
“Well,” he said eventually, picking up one of the onion bhajis. “I did say if anyone made it worse, I was eating all of them.”
Evie looked at him for a second, then let out a tiny laugh despite herself. It was shaky, but it was there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. This is a terrible birthday.”
He pressed a kiss to her hand. “It’s memorable, I’ll give you that.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” he said, reaching for the last onion bhaji. “But it comes with snacks.”
The pub was warm in the way London pubs always were in February, all low yellow light, old wood and the faint smell of spilled beer. The heat felt almost stifling after the winter chill outside. Somewhere near the bar, a group of men were laughing too loudly over a game playing on the television above them. James was already there when Tom arrived, sitting at a small booth near the back of the pub with his head in his hands. A pint sat untouched in front of him, along with two empty glasses and a packet of crisps that had been opened but not eaten. That, more than anything, told Tom the night had gone badly.
Tom stood there for a second, pint in hand, suddenly unsure whether this was a normal drink between mates or the aftermath of something he was not equipped to fix. In the end, he sat down opposite.
“You look awful,” Tom said.
James lifted his head just enough to look at him. “Nice to see you too.”
“I considered lying.” Tom shrugged and set his pint down. “But after last night that feels sort of dangerous.”
James huffed something that might have been a laugh if it had made it all the way out. It didn’t. Tom took a sip of his pint and let the silence sit for a moment. He had learned, mostly from Evie, that people sometimes needed the quiet before they could say anything true, though he was less good at knowing what to do with the quiet once it arrived. James stared at his untouched pint. Tom stared at the water ring spreading slowly beneath his own glass.
“So,” Tom said eventually, “are you and Clara…?”
James looked down. “No.”
Tom tilted his head slightly. “No as in not talking, or no as in no?”
“No, as in she said we should stop before we make it worse.” James let out a short laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Which is impressive, considering I thought last night was already us making it worse.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Tom winced.
James dragged a hand over his face. He looked tired, Tom thought, not hungover or under-slept, just worn thin in a way that made him look older than he usually did. James was normally the sort of person who could make a room feel easier just by being there. Tonight, he looked like even sitting upright was taking effort.
“She keeps saying September,” James said after a moment. “Like it can erase everything before it.”
Tom turned his pint slowly between both hands. “It doesn’t have to?”
James sighed and gave him a look through his brows.
“Right,” Tom said. “Stupid question.”
“It was never stupid to her,” James muttered. “The rules. The dates. What counted and what didn’t.” He shook his head. “Late June was fine when it was just fun. Apparently it only became real when she decided it was allowed to be.”
Tom said nothing. He thought of Evie sitting on the rug beside him the night before, her hand finding his under the coffee table when the argument turned ugly. He thought of their own beginning — the months of almosts, near misses, and awkward silences where they couldn’t tell the other how they felt; the way everything had tipped once they finally stopped pretending. They had been impulsive and messy and probably not sensible at all, considering how quickly they’d become serious, but at least they were moving in the same direction. James and Clara seemed to have fallen, then spent the next six months arguing over whether either of them had hit the ground.
James finally picked up his pint, then put it back down without drinking. “Sorry. I know it was your birthday.”
“Eh.” Tom shrugged. “I’ve had quieter ones.”
“That bad?”
“I inhaled beer and watched two of my friends break up over cold naans.” Tom took a sip. “It’s up there.”
James’ mouth twitched, though it faded quickly, and another silence settled between them. This one felt no easier. Tom leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the back of the bench, and took another sip of his drink. He glanced towards the bar before looking at James again.
“So if we have something on…”
“Like what?” James scoffed. “Like there’d be any more joint events after last night.”
“Weddings, babies,” Tom suggested. “Say Evie invites Clara, and I invite you…”
James looked up and shot him a glare.
Tom winced again. “Look, I’m just trying to work out if I should be warning people.”
“Probably.”
“That’s going to get annoying, isn’t it?”
James gave a tired laugh. “For you or for us?”
“Both, I suspect.”
James looked back down at his pint. “Well, we’re not together if that’s an answer.”
Tom nodded slowly. “But you want to be?”
James was quiet for long enough that Tom wondered if he had pushed too far, then he sighed. “That’s the problem.”
Tom looked at him properly then, all the easy jokes fading for a second. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she meant to hurt you.”
“Yeah, right.” James rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t feel like it. You heard her. It was just fun with no strings.”
“At some point it stopped being that. But that doesn’t make what she said any less shit.”
“Nope.” James finally took a sip of his drink, then stared at the glass. “No, it doesn’t.”
Tom nodded and lifted his pint. “To terrible birthdays.”
James huffed a laugh and clinked his glass against Tom’s. “To terrible women.”
Tom gave him a look. Clara might have hurt his friend, but he’d worked with her, and she was Evie’s best friend.
“Fine,” James sighed. “To terrible beer and complicated women.”
“Better.”
James took another drink, and fell quiet. Tom let him have the silence this time. The noise from the bar rose and fell around them. After a while, James glanced over.
“Weddings, aye?” James said.
Tom felt his ears heat. “Maybe.” He tried not to let a smile show.
James raised his brows in question. “You really gonna ask before every event now?”
“After last night?” Tom took a sip of his pint. “Absolutely.”
James almost smiled.
“Are you and Clara together right now?” Tom asked, testing it.
“No.”
Tom nodded solemnly. “See? Useful question.”
James groaned and dropped his head into one hand. Tom smiled into his beer, but let the subject go.
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: New Year’s Eve starts with a sparkly dress and too much alcohol, leaving Tom and Evie waking up with a hangover and something they really should have seen coming
Word count: ~2.8k words
Warnings: References to smut. Drinking. Alcohol
Life Or Something Like It Master List | Master list
Evie’s flat / Clara’s flat, December 2006 / January 2007
“Which ones?” Evie asked from the kitchen doorway, holding up a pair of heels in each hand.
“Mm?” Tom answered from the stove, where he was trying to throw together a quick tea before they left.
“Heels, Tom.” Evie lifted both pairs again and raised her eyebrows. “I can’t decide.”
“The black ones,” he said automatically, turning to look at her. “They’re more practical for—”
Unfortunately, his eyes got as far as her dress before his brain stopped working altogether. For several seconds, Tom could only stand there, mouth slightly open, while every sensible thought he’d ever had abandoned him at once. Tom always thought Evie looked good in anything she wore, but this was the sparkly dress. The one that rode a little too high on her thighs, dipped low enough to make him forget how breathing worked, and scattered tiny flecks of light across her skin whenever she moved.
“You’re wearing it again,” he managed to croak out.
“Yeah.” Evie glanced down at herself. “I know I wore it last year, but—”
“You can’t wear that.” He gestured vaguely at the dress.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Okay. You’re bossy tonight.”
He dragged a hand through his hair and let out an awkward laugh. “Evie, if you’re going to wear that dress, we are not leaving this flat.”
Evie bit her bottom lip and tried to put a hand on her hip. The heels she was holding clacked together slightly. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“It is,” Tom said, very seriously. He turned back to the hob and switched it off with slightly more force than necessary.
“Didn’t that need longer?”
“I feel like eating something else.” He walked towards Evie, took both pairs of shoes from her, and tossed them aside.
“Tom,” Evie said, half laughing. “What are you—”
He cut her off with a kiss. Evie made a small surprised sound against his mouth, then laughed, her hands catching in the front of his shirt as he backed her carefully against the wall. The wallpaper was cool through the thin fabric of her dress, the forgotten smell of dinner still hanging in the kitchen behind them.
“I’m making it everyone’s problem,” he said between kisses.
“We’re going to be late.”
“Clara will survive,” he murmured before kissing her deeply again.
Clara’s flat was already too warm by the time Tom and Evie arrived. Music thumped down into the stairwell long before Clara opened the door. The noise of laughter from far too many people crammed into one flat, along with the smell of body spray, alcohol, and something vaguely burnt hit them immediately.
“You’re late,” Clara announced, pointing accusingly with her cup the second she opened the door. She frowned when she spotted Evie’s fitted purple dress. “I thought you said you were wearing the silver sequin one tonight?”
Evie shrugged with a little coy smile. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Clara raised an eyebrow and looked at Tom, who tried to appear innocent. Clara hummed, clearly not believing either of them, and stepped aside to let them into the flat.
The living room looked almost identical to the year before. Fairy lights strung around the windows, half-drunk cups cluttered every available surface, and someone had already claimed the floor beside the sofa with a bowl of crisps balanced precariously on their knee.
Rebecca spotted them first. “Finally!” she cried from near the stereo. “Thought you two had bailed.”
“Who wants shots?” James’ voice came from somewhere near the kitchen.
Tom turned toward it in surprise. “Oi, I didn’t know you were coming.”
James lifted the bottle he was holding in greeting. “Last minute addition.”
“Very last minute,” Clara said quickly beside them.
Evie glanced briefly between them, faintly distracted by Rebecca, who was already pulling her towards the sofa. Tom, meanwhile, was already being dragged towards the kitchen by James before his brain had properly registered anything unusual.
“Still can’t believe you’re here,” Tom said, accepting the drink James shoved into his hand.
“Nice to see you too,” James replied far too casually.
“I mean it. I didn’t even know Clara had your number.” Tom narrowed his eyes. “Wait. When did she get your number?”
“It was… the, um…” James trailed off, as he poured a few shot glasses. “Shot?” He held a glass towards Tom.
“No thanks.” Tom glanced at the glass. “Since when do you and Clara text?”
“Since phones were invented,” James said, before downing one of the shot glasses.
“James.”
“What?” James asked, all innocence. “She invited people. I am people.” He gestured at himself.
Tom stared at him. “You’re being weird,” he said eventually.
“You’re one to talk. You turned up late with your shirt inside out.”
Tom’s hand went straight to his collar. “It is not.”
He grinned. “Yes it is.”
James walked back out to the living room before Tom could respond. Tom glanced down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and noticed the stitching sitting on the outside.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
He set his drink down, ducked slightly behind the kitchen door, and fixed it as quickly as possible before rejoining the party.
By ten someone had put ABBA on. Harry and Rebecca were singing the song lyrics, very off key, near the middle of the room, while Tom found himself in a debate with one of Clara and Evie’s BBC friends, Emily, about whether Die Hard counted as a Christmas film.
“It absolutely does,” Tom insisted.
“It’s an action film.”
“It occurs at Christmas.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It literally has ho-ho-ho written on someone’s shirt.”
Evie laughed into her drink beside him. “You’ve become weirdly passionate about this.”
“Because I’m right.”
“Mmm.” She nudged his side lightly. “That’s usually how you describe yourself right before saying something embarrassing.”
Tom opened his mouth to reply before pausing, glancing around the room. “Where’s James gone?”
“No idea.” Evie frowned faintly, looking towards the kitchen. “Actually, where’s Clara—”
She stopped when Clara appeared at the end of the hallway, smoothing down the side of her dress and looking far too pleased with herself.
“There she is,” Evie said, immediately forgetting the question. “Clara!” she squealed far louder than necessary, making Tom wince.
He shook his head with a smile as they walked off arm in arm towards the kitchen, then turned back to the conversation with Emily. He lifted his bottle to take a drink and almost spilled it when James came up behind him and clapped him on the back.
“So, what’re we talking about?” James asked.
“Trying to explain to Tom that Die Hard isn’t a Christmas film,” Emily told him.
James let out a loud laugh and grabbed Tom by both shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Tommy, we’ve been over this. You lost this argument last year.”
Tom turned to glare at him, only to spot a faint smudge near his jaw. “Uh, mate, you’ve got something…”
James quickly lifted a hand and wiped at the spot, then turned to face Tom. “Drink?”
“I’m good.” Tom lifted his beer bottle with a slight frown.
Clara tipped the vodka into two mismatched shot glasses and slid one towards Evie. They clinked them together and downed them.
“So how was it?” Clara asked, already topping the glasses back up.
She and Evie leant against the kitchen counter, where Clara had claimed what was left of someone’s bottle of vodka. Evie was already warm-cheeked and looser than usual, which was probably why Clara was getting the uncensored version of Christmas.
Evie rolled her eyes and knocked back the next one, pulling a face as it went down. “Awful,” she said. “And awkward. And I swear my aunt purposely let those geese out.”
Clara’s eyebrows lifted. “Which one do you want to start with?”
“Dad didn’t even say ‘hi’ to Tom when they met. I should have expected it, but yeah.” Evie groaned and covered her face with both hands. “Then Mum walked in on us.”
Clara froze mid-pour. “Walked in on you what?”
“Clara.”
“Oh my God.”
“Not properly!” Evie said quickly, going bright red. “But enough. She was asking where the spare towels were, forgot this wasn’t back home, and just opened the door. Tom nearly died of embarrassment.”
Clara dissolved into laughter, the glass she was holding spilling slightly. “I can imagine.”
“Yeah, but the lecture she gave the next morning about ‘being safe’ and all that made it worse. I’ve never seen Tom go that red!”
“Isn’t your brother a year older than you?” Clara asked, filling Evie’s glass back up.
“Mm.” Evie nodded, then downed the drink. “Fourteen months. So I did feel like saying, ‘You’re one to talk, Mum’.”
“Bet that would’ve gone down well,” Clara commented, handing Evie the bottle.
“Which is why I kept my mouth shut.” Evie tipped her glass slightly towards Clara before filling it. “Tom did not need to see me argue with my parents.”
“Did your dad behave, at least?”
“Nope! Dad started his ‘you need a better job’ speech on Christmas Day,” Evie said, sipping the shot this time.
“Oh no.” Clara winced as she filled her glass back up. “Not the history degree again?”
“The history degree, the television job, the whole thing.” Evie clapped her hand down on the counter, narrowly missing the vodka bottle. “Honestly, I should’ve just got a HECS loan. He’s still on about paying for it like that means he got final say in what I studied.”
Tom walked into the kitchen to grab another drink, only to stop when he saw the nearly empty bottle of vodka on the counter.
He looked at the bottle, then at Evie. “Should I ask?”
Evie grinned and held up both hands, fingers spread. “This many.”
Tom groaned, already picturing the next morning. “Can you have a glass of water, please?”
“Yes, sir.” Evie saluted.
Tom stared at the salute for half a second. “Oh no. We’ve reached saluting.”
Clara immediately lost it, and Evie followed, both of them dissolving into giggles against the counter.
The party had steadily dissolved into chaos sometime around eleven thirty. Someone had opened a window despite the freezing sleet now falling outside, half the fairy lights had started blinking out of rhythm, and the coffee table had become a graveyard of empty cups, bottles, crisp crumbs, and abandoned party poppers. Heels had been abandoned by the sofa, and everyone had begun swaying with that particular kind of concentration people got when they had drunk too much but not quite enough to forget how to stand.
Tom leant against the kitchen doorway nursing a drink, arm looped around Evie’s waist as she leant back into him, warm and giggly and slightly unsteady. Across the room, Emily was halfway through a story that involved a broken photocopier, a missing prop and far too many hand gestures. Evie laughed into her cup, her shoulders shaking against his chest.
“Have you seen Clara recently?” she asked after a moment. “It’s almost midnight.”
Tom frowned slightly, glancing over the tops of people’s heads. “Actually, no.”
“She’s vanished again.” Evie rolled her eyes and giggled.
Tom looked around the room properly this time, his hand still resting at her hip. “So has James.”
Evie stared at him. Tom stared back.
“Our friends are weird,” Evie said, shrugging as though this explained everything. Then she frowned, very slowly, like the thought had to travel quite a long way. “You know what’s strange?”
Tom looked down at her. “Most things, tonight.”
“James is here,” she said, pointing vaguely across the room, despite James not being there. “But you didn’t invite him.”
“No, I didn’t,” Tom agreed.
Evie took a sip of her drink. “And I didn’t invite him.”
“No.”
“And Clara said last minute.”
Tom’s frown deepened. “She did.”
They stared at each other for a moment, both of them clearly trying to make the same set of facts arrange themselves into something that made sense. They both shrugged.
“Tomorrow’s problem,” Tom said.
Evie nodded as she took another sip of her drink, swaying again to the music.
“How did James get here?” Evie asked at last.
Before Tom could answer, laughter echoed from somewhere down the hallway near the bedrooms. Evie turned toward the sound, already abandoning her cup on the nearest surface.
“That sounded like Clara.”
“Oh… no…” he said slowly.
Curiosity, and possibly alcohol on Evie’s part, got the better of them. Tom followed her down the hallway, trying to look as though this was a perfectly reasonable thing for two adults to be doing at a New Year’s Eve party and not the beginning of a deeply undignified investigation. Evie led the way barefoot, one hand brushing the wall for balance as she stepped over abandoned coats, loose shoes and someone’s handbag lying open in the middle of the floor.
“Careful,” Tom said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re using the wall.”
“The wall is helping.”
Somewhere near Clara’s bedroom, laughter drifted out again, lower this time and unmistakably familiar. Evie stopped so suddenly that Tom, who had been concentrating far too hard on making sure Evie didn’t hurt herself, nearly walked straight into the back of her.
“What are you—” Then he looked up.
Clara had James backed against the wall, fingers tangled in his shirt while he kissed her like oxygen was becoming a limited resource. Evie stood frozen in the doorway. Tom stopped beside her, and for several seconds they both stared with identical expressions of horror.
“Tom.”
“Evie.”
“Thomas.”
“Evelyn.”
Neither of them seemed capable of saying anything else for several seconds as Clara and James continued aggressively ignoring the concept of personal space.
“Did you—”
“No!”
James finally pulled away long enough to notice them standing there.
“…Hi,” he said.
Clara looked over her shoulder. Instead of embarrassment, her expression immediately turned smug. “Took you two long enough,” she said.
Tom looked at them, then back at Evie. “I feel as though we should have noticed something earlier,” he told her.
The clock on the bedside table read 12.18pm when Evie woke with a whine and tried to bury her head beneath the pillows. Tom stirred beside her and pulled the quilt higher, trying to block out the light. He could already feel the headache throbbing behind his eyes.
“I need Panadol,” Evie croaked. “Or Nurofen.”
“And a coffee,” Tom replied, voice still heavy with sleep.
“Maybe a priest.”
“That too.” Tom nodded and immediately regretted it.
“I’m never drinking again.”
“You say that every time.”
“This time I mean it.” Evie went still beneath the pillow. “Tom.”
“Mm?”
“This isn’t our bed.”
Tom opened one eye, took in the unfamiliar curtains, the pile of coats on the chair and the faint thump of someone moving around beyond the door.
“No,” he said slowly. “No, it is not.”
Evie pressed her face into the pillow, as if that would stop the drum solo currently banging in her head. “Happy anniversary to us.”
Tom let out a rough laugh. “Very romantic.” Then his expression softened despite the headache. “Happy anniversary.”
They both winced as someone dropped something loudly in the hallway.
Evie groaned again. “Why are we at Clara’s?”
“Probably drank too much.”
“I don’t remember going to bed.”
“Me either,” Tom said, rolling onto his back.
He stared at the ceiling as the previous night returned to him in pieces. Vodka. ABBA. Clara’s hallway. James saying “hi” as though he hadn’t just been caught against a wall. Evie lowered the pillow just enough to look at him. For a moment, Evie’s expression remained blank, then horror spread across her face with painful slowness.
“Clara and James,” they said in unison.
By the time they made it into the living room, Clara’s flat looked like the aftermath of a very small, very festive disaster. Someone had fallen asleep sideways on the sofa, one of Rebecca’s shoes sat abandoned beside an empty crisp bowl, and the coffee table was sticky enough that Tom decided not to ask questions. Clara was in the kitchen wearing her pjs and an expression of someone who had absolutely no intention of apologising for anything.
“Morning,” she said brightly.
Evie squinted at her. “It is nearly half twelve.”
“Afternoon, then.”
James appeared behind Clara, hair sticking up at the back and a mug of tea in his hand, planting a kiss on her temple. Tom and Evie stood just inside the kitchen doorway, too hungover to properly process what they were witnessing.
James looked at them both. “What?”
Evie pointed between him and Clara, then seemed to regret the movement immediately. “No. I’m too hungover for this.”
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: Tom meets Evie’s parents for the first time and rethinks every decision he’s made up to this point.
Word count: ~2.4k words
Warnings: Geese. Parents 🙄
Life Or Something Like It Master List | Master list
Chelsea, December 2006
Tom braced one hand against the counter as he stirred sugar into one of the mugs, listening to the conversation drifting in from the living room. This had to happen at some point. He knew that. It would have happened sooner had they lived just down the road.
Evie’s comment from that morning should have been warning enough.
“My dad’s… particular,” Evie had said earlier that morning while smoothing down his shirt collar for the fifth time. “Not mean. Just very… ‘English dad’. You’ll be fine.”
Evie had flashed him that smile that always undid him, so Tom had nodded, trying to look far more confident than he felt. Then she’d taken his car to pick them up from the airport.
Now they were back, her parents were in the living room, and Tom was trying not to panic. Almost a year into dating Evie and he had never been this nervous. Not even during his RADA auditions. This was a mistake. He should have made an excuse, gone to his mum’s, done literally anything other than stand in Evie’s kitchen making coffee for the man who already looked at him as though he’d decided Tom wasn’t good enough for his daughter.
“Tom? Everything alright?” Evie called out as she walked towards the kitchen.
Tom startled and knocked the mug over, spilling its contents across the counter.
“Shit!” he swore, grabbing the tea towel to try and mop it up.
“Tom?” Evie stepped into the kitchen and took one look at him, then the counter, then the mug lying on its side.
“It’s fine,” he answered too quickly, wiping at the coffee as it spread towards the edge of the counter. “Completely fine. I’ve got it.”
“You’re overthinking.”
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, dragging the tea towel across the spill again, only succeeding in spreading it further. “Your father hates me.”
“He doesn’t.”
Tom only gave her a look.
Evie sighed, grabbed some paper towel, and helped him clean up. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“Evie, his first words to me were, ‘so this is the actor’.”
Evie sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and placed the mug in the sink, busying herself with making a new one while Tom rambled.
“He and Dad would get along,” he muttered, taking the mug off Evie and filling it up with the remaining water in the kettle. “Oh God, that’s not an image I need. Both of them telling me to find ‘more honest work’.”
Evie giggled softly, remembering the lecture Tom had received the last time they saw his dad, and rubbed his forearm. “Then maybe it’s a good thing they’re meeting your mum first.”
“Do you two need help in there?” Evie’s mum, Alison, called out.
“No, Mum, it’s fine,” Evie said back. Picking up two of the mugs, she smiled up at Tom. “It’s going to be alright, hun.”
Tom tucked a packet of biscuits under his arm, picked up the remaining mugs, and looked towards the living room, where Russell’s voice drifted through again. Four days. He just had to survive four days.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Tom lay in bed, arms by his side, staring up at the ceiling. The flat was quiet, only the faintest noise drifting in from outside. Most of Chelsea was still tucked up in bed on this cold Christmas morning, but he’d been awake since five, worrying.
He just had to get through today, then his mother’s tomorrow, then Hampshire with Evie’s aunt. After that, Evie’s parents would be staying there for a week before heading home, and he could stop feeling judged every time he so much as reached for the kettle.
Evie stirred beside him and shifted closer, tucking herself against his side.
Going to bed last night had been awkward. Nothing had been said, which somehow made it worse, but the look Russell had given him as he followed Evie down the hall had burned itself into memory. Evie had kissed him after that, trying to take his mind off everything, before her mother interrupted to ask where the spare towels were at precisely the wrong moment. There had been apologies, but after that, they both lay there in silence, fully clothed, listening to her parents potter about in the flat.
Carefully getting up so he didn’t wake Evie, he sat on the edge of the bed and drew in a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. He might as well get a start on the day. Coffee, then shower, then maybe a run. No. He’d only get that look from Russell again. Sighing, he got up and padded into the kitchen.
The tiles were freezing under his bare feet, and the kettle sat untouched beside him, which rather defeated the purpose of getting up. In the living room, the Christmas tree lights blinked slowly by the television, catching on the tinsel along the doorframe. He had no idea how long he’d been standing there, empty mug in front of him on the counter, staring off into space, when Evie walked in behind him and slipped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his back.
“You okay?”
“We need a dog.”
Evie frowned and lifted her head up slightly. “A dog?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Tom turned around, leant back against the counter, and wrapped his arms around her.
“We live in a small flat in the middle of Chelsea. I don’t think we have room for a dog,” Evie teased lightly.
“But if we did, I’d have an excuse to go for a run without your dad questioning it.”
Evie snorted a laugh and shook her head. “Tom, he's not going to question it.”
“You didn’t see the look he gave me when we went to bed!”
“I did and chose to ignore it.” She leant up on her toes and gave him a peck on the lips. “You look exhausted, why don’t you come back to bed for a bit?”
Tom took her hand and let himself be dragged back towards their room.
By late morning, after they exchanged gifts and showered, the flat had warmed with the smell of roasting vegetables, coffee and whatever Alison had decided needed “just five more minutes”. Tom had offered to help, but Alison had sent him back out of the kitchen for the third time that morning, so he now found himself sitting awkwardly on the sofa in the living room with Russell.
The TV was playing some Christmas film the BBC had put on, and Tom tried to focus on it as he picked up his tea, put it down, picked it up again, crossed his legs, then thought better of it and sat up straight, back rigid, unsure if he should even be there.
“So,” Russell said, setting his mug down. “How exactly did you and my daughter meet again?”
Tom took a shaky breath in and rubbed his palm against his jeans. “On a produc—” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “A production. Shakespeare?” Mentally banging his head against the wall when the last word came out as a question instead.
“So it was through that job Lucy got her?”
“No. Uh, I mean, yes. Yes, it was… sir.”
Russell grunted. “Shame Lucy couldn’t have got her a temp job in the finance department like I’d asked.”
Tom took a sip of his tea and decided, wisely, not to comment.
“You two started dating straight off?”
“We were friends for a while.”
He braced himself for the next question, only for Evie to walk in and look between him and her dad with a raised eyebrow.
“Lunch,” she said.
Tom practically leapt to his feet and took the tray from her before she could protest, grateful for an escape disguised as roasted carrots.
Lunch began much the same as any other Christmas Day. Plates were passed around, glasses were topped up, and for a while Tom let himself believe they might survive lunch without incident. Conversation drifted around Evie’s brother first, which, to Tom’s annoyance, involved something in Russell’s line of work. He could feel the comparison coming before anyone said it, especially after their previous conversation. Russell frowned slightly over the top of his wine glass when Evie made an offhand comment about work being hectic before the Christmas break. It came right after he had suggested, again, that she should have gone into the same field as her brother.
“So what exactly is it you’re doing now, Eve?”
Evie sighed into her potatoes. “Dad—”
“I’m only wondering because you said you were writing.” He gestured vaguely with his fork. “Now apparently you’re… following actors around with paperwork?”
“It’s not paperwork,” Evie muttered. “It’s scripts. And I wasn't writing. I was editing.”
“It’s more to do with continuity during filming,” Tom answered automatically.
Two heads turned toward him and Tom blinked once in panic. He should have kept his mouth shut.
“You know what continuity is?” Russell raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were mostly theatre. Didn’t realise that qualified you on television production.”
“Dad!” Evie hissed.
“No, it doesn’t,” Tom said carefully, shifting slightly in his seat, and clearing his throat. He gripped his knife tighter to stop his hand from shaking. “But I’ve done some film and television work as well. It’s people like Evie who stop actors like me from looking like idiots.”
Russell still looked unconvinced and looked back at his daughter. “I thought with your degree you’d be aiming for something a bit higher than television admin.”
The table went quiet in that particular way family tables did when everyone knew they had reached familiar ground. Tom looked between all three of them, suddenly feeling like he only had half the details.
“Can we not do this today?” Evie whined, dropping her cutlery and covering her face with her hands.
“You got high distinctions in every subject,” Russell continued. “I paid for your education, and when you said double degree, I thought you meant something useful alongside English. Finance, or business. Something with options. But history?”
Tom bristled.
“Dad—”
“You could have done your masters and gone into teaching like your mother.”
“I didn’t want to do teaching!”
“You’re smart, Eve. I don’t like seeing you let it go to waste.”
Evie’s shoulders tightened, but before she could answer, Tom spoke again.
“She’s not doing admin,” he stated firmly.
Russell looked at him.
“They wouldn’t trust her with on-set continuity if she wasn’t good at it.” Tom shrugged, the words coming out more earnestly than he intended. “Half the time productions make mistakes because nobody notices the details until post-production. She’s brilliant at it.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Tom realised, too late, that he had spoken more firmly than he meant to. His hand was still tight around his knife, but he didn’t look away this time.
“That sounds chaotic,” Alison remarked lightly, trying to defuse the situation.
“It is,” Evie replied immediately, having found her voice. “You should’ve seen the disaster on A Waste of Shame when somebody changed the prop books halfway through a scene.”
Tom laughed softly. “You complained about that for three weeks.”
“Because it was wrong.”
Russell studied them both for a moment. “You really enjoy it, then?”
Evie hesitated. “…Yeah,” she admitted. “I actually do.”
“But what if it doesn’t work out?” Russell pressed.
Alison sighed quietly, already looking as though she’d heard this argument too many times before.
“You’ve got nothing to fall back on. If you’d done the finance degree like I wanted, you would never have to worry.”
“But I like history,” Evie said. “It’s full of stories from our past, and now I get to watch those stories come alive. I love being part of that.”
Tom glanced sideways at her, smiling faintly. The title suddenly seemed less important than the fact she kept saying it like she meant it.
“And when work dries up?” Russell asked. “Television, acting, all of it. It’s hardly stable, is it? Love’s all well and good, Eve, but it doesn’t keep the lights on or pay the mortgage.”
“Russell,” Alison warned, her cutlery catching against the plate.
“I’m not saying he’s not a nice lad,” Russell said, glancing briefly at Tom.
Tom’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Thank you?” he said quietly.
“But you’re both in uncertain work. That’s not something to build a future on lightly.”
“Don’t talk about him like he isn’t sitting here,” Evie snapped.
“Look, I understand the concern,” Tom said carefully, unsure if he should step in. “I’ve had the same conversation with my own parents. My father worried about acting in exactly the same way, and I know why. But Evie isn’t drifting into this because she couldn’t do anything else. She’s choosing it because she’s good at it.”
Russell looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Tom could feel his own pulse in his throat, but he didn’t take it back.
Then Alison cleared her throat and reached for the potatoes. “Well. Since we’re all apparently very passionate about continuity, someone pass me the gravy before it goes cold.”
Evie let out a breath beside him, quiet enough that only Tom heard it. He reached under the table for her hand and gave it a squeeze.
Two days. Just two more days of parents, family, and lunches.
If Tom had thought Christmas Day was the disaster portion of the festive period, arriving at Evie’s aunt’s place in Hampshire proved him wrong almost immediately.
It was an old country house, set back from one of the narrow lanes behind a low stone wall, not unlike the cottage down in Milford-on-Sea, only larger. The thatched roof dipped softly over whitewashed walls, smoke curled from the chimney, and bare winter rose bushes clung around the windows. It wasn’t grand in the way manor houses were grand, but it had that settled, comfortable sort of permanence Tom associated with families who owned proper wellies and knew what to do with chutney.
They hadn’t even made it two steps through the front gate before Evie let out a scream and bolted backwards as three geese came charging across the lawn.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she yelped. “They still hate me!”
“Cheryl!” Russell called from behind them. “The geese are out!”
Tom stopped dead on the path, still holding Evie’s overnight bag, and realised she hadn’t been joking when she said she hated geese. He wondered, not for the first time that week, whether his mother’s house had perhaps been the safer option.
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader | Baldr & Sigyn (siblings) | Tom Hiddleston x reader
Summary: Turns out kissing someone in public rewrites the story. Unfortunately, some names are harder to ignore than others.
Word count: ~3.2k words
Warnings:
18+ fic minors DNI. See master list for overall story themes
The Threads of Fate: Chapter 60 | Part 4 master list / two | Previous Chapter
Tom had barely slept.
That, he decided somewhere around six in the morning, was becoming an annoying habit.
Between early call times, late finishes, and trying very hard not to think about Vicky, he had spent most of the last few nights coming home from set too tired to think properly, only to lie awake staring at his bedroom ceiling and replaying the day at the museum over and over until it no longer made sense. Vicky’s face when she saw the dress. The way her hand had lifted towards the glass before she stopped herself. The tears she had tried so hard to swallow down. The feel of her mouth under his. The way she had kissed him back like her life depended on it. He should have regretted kissing her like that while she was visibly upset. Instead all he could think of was that he wanted to do it again.
His phone started ringing just before seven. Tom looked at the screen and closed his eyes, unsure if he wanted to deal with whatever Luke was calling about. Tossing it back on the bedside table, he ignored it and rolled back over to try and get some sleep. By the fourth call, he sighed and picked his phone up. It must be important if Luke was being this persistent.
“Morning,” he answered, voice rough with exhaustion.
“Oh good,” Luke said. “You’re alive.”
“Barely.” Tom rubbed a hand over his face and sat up slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s not a promising start to a phone call.”
“Well,” Luke said, with the sort of calm that immediately made Tom’s stomach sink, “I was hoping you might explain why I woke up to five missed calls, three urgent emails, and two newspapers asking why you lied about not knowing the woman from the gala.”
Tom went still. The room, which had felt too quiet a moment ago, suddenly seemed very loud.
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t seen it?” Luke asked.
“Seen what?” Tom pushed the quilt back and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“You haven’t been online? Haven’t seen the chatter under your name?”
“I’ve barely touched my phone in the last week unless work required it.” Tom rubbed his eyes. “What am I meant to have seen?”
“Check your messages.”
Tom pulled the phone away from his ear and opened Luke’s text. Several images loaded at once.
The first was from the café after Vicky had spilt coffee down the front of him.
He could see the dark brown stain on his jumper, and he was reaching across the table while she looked at him like they were old friends. The angle was enough that anyone could make their own assumptions, but it didn’t seem like anything to warrant Luke’s call.
A memory from that day tried to surface, but he shoved it away, too busy swiping to the next one.
The second one was them sitting together at a theatre. Her face said this was just after she’d told him off for repeating the lines of the actors on stage. He smirked slightly at the memory of how little she had seemed to care that she was scolding someone most people would have been trying very hard to impress. There was nothing damning about that one, so he rolled his eyes and swiped to the next.
The next one was from the day they were at the markets.
Tom breathed in deeply as he studied the photo. It wasn’t clear enough to be intrusive, but it did show Vicky standing beside him near one of the stalls, her head turned slightly as she smiled up at him, while he looked at her with an expression that, frankly, did him no favours.
The fourth one made his chest tighten. The museum.
It was partly obscured by someone’s shoulder, but it was obvious what was happening. His hands cupping Vicky’s face, her back against the wall, his mouth on hers.
Tom stared at it, forgetting for a moment that Luke was still on the phone.
“Tom.” Luke’s voice came through the speaker.
He almost dropped his phone in shock. “Where did these come from?”
“It started online four days ago and the papers picked it up last night.”
Tom stood and paced a few steps before stopping, the phone tight in his hand. “What are they saying?”
Luke made a sound that was not quite a sigh. “Which version would you like? The short one or the one that makes me want to wring your neck?”
“Uh… both?”
“They have connected her to the gala.”
Tom shut his eyes.
“And she is the ‘mystery woman’ who collapsed that night. At the time, the line given was that you didn’t know her, you were only helping because you happened to be nearby.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” Luke said. “But it was allowed to stand.”
Tom opened his eyes. He knew what Luke meant. The statement had not come directly from him, but he had not corrected it either. At the time it had seemed the simplest way after she had disappeared to stop people digging, to stop anyone linking her to him any further than they already had. Now it looked like something else entirely.
Luke continued. “So not only do they have these early photos and gala photos of you two—”
“Gala photos?!” Tom interrupted.
“Oh, there’s more surfacing from that night,” Luke said in irritation. “Which is not helping the fact they now have photos from the same museum where you are kissing her in public!”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “Luke.”
“And they have the previous report saying you didn’t know her,” Luke finished. “Which makes the obvious question: how long have you known her, and why did you say otherwise?”
Tom said nothing. The silence was answer enough, because honestly what could he say?
Luke’s voice lost some of the irritation, though not by much. “I’m not having a go at you because you kissed someone.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I’m having a go because you kissed her in a public place after she was seen crying in front of a display, and after a previous very public incident at the same museum involving the same woman, and after everyone was told there was nothing to see.”
“She wasn’t crying,” he lied.
“I have photos that say otherwise.”
Tom sighed and looked towards the window where the morning light crept through the curtains. “Okay, fine. She was upset about… history is dif—” He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, still unsure why that exhibit made Vicky start crying. “She was just upset.”
“I gathered,” Luke said dryly.
“I wasn’t thinking about cameras, or where exactly I was at that moment.”
“That,” Luke said, “is exactly the problem.”
Tom dragged a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath. “She’s not a story.”
“She is now.”
The words landed harder than Tom wanted them to. He looked down at the photo again. Vicky’s face was mostly hidden by the angle, but he remembered exactly what she had looked like. The tears. The panic. The way she had tried to hold herself together because there were people around. Guilt pulled tight under his ribs.
“I didn’t mean to make things worse for her.”
“Really?!”
“Yes!”
“Intention is not the issue here. Optics are,” Luke said, and for once there was no sarcasm in it.
Tom hated that word. He always had. It made real things sound like pieces on a board, moved and managed until no one remembered they had once had a pulse.
“She’s been through enough,” he said quietly.
“That may be true,” Luke answered. “But I need to ask you something, and I need you not to get defensive.”
“Promising start.”
“Tom.”
He closed his eyes briefly before sighing. “Fine.”
“Is she alright?”
Tom opened his eyes. The question annoyed him because it was reasonable, and he still did not know how to answer. He paced again, crossing the room and back.
“She’s not unstable, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking,” Luke’s voice sharpened slightly, “because in most of the photos of her, she either looks terrified or distressed, and you are always beside her looking like you’re either trying to save her or about to do something very stupid in the attempt.”
Tom stopped pacing.
He thought of Vicky in the car, her hands gripping her bag, the way her breath had changed when the museum came into view, the way she had looked at the dress behind the glass as if someone had opened a grave in front of her.
“It’s probably because she doesn’t like attention,” he said. “And saw the cameras.” It was a lame excuse and he knew it.
“Then maybe you should stop giving people reasons to look at her.”
Tom looked down at his bare feet, suddenly feeling far too awake considering the amount of sleep he’d had.
Luke sighed. “I’m not telling you not to see her—”
“That would be a first.” Tom rolled his eyes.
“I’m telling you that if you are going to see her, stop doing it in places full of people with phones.”
Tom almost laughed. “I didn’t plan the kiss if you must know.”
“I figured the museum gallery wall was not part of some grand seduction plan. Unless this is some new technique?” Luke clicked his mouse. “The display was a possible Priestess of Loki, wasn’t it?”
“Christ,” Tom swore as he felt heat climb the back of his neck. “Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can. One corner of your fandom is saying—”
“I’m not having this conversation,” Tom snapped.
“Honestly, I would very much like to not be having this conversation either. Unfortunately, several newspapers seem determined that we must.”
Tom sank onto the edge of the bed again, rubbing at his temple. “What do they want?”
“A comment. An explanation as to why you lied about her.”
“Tell them I don’t comment on private matters.”
Luke let out a humourless laugh. “That’s not gonna work this time.”
Tom looked up at the ceiling. “I’m going to Iceland soon.”
“Then I suggest you keep it in your pants. Don’t give them new photos. Don’t be seen leaving her house at three in the morning.”
Tom opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Tom,” Luke said again, more carefully, “what is this?”
Tom stared down at the photo still open on his phone. His hands on her cheeks. The shape of the kiss frozen and flattened into something strangers could pull apart.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t know what it is. I just know I can’t seem to leave it alone.”
“That,” Luke said, “is not as reassuring as you might think. Tell me honestly, did you know her before the gala?”
Tom hesitated. The answer was simple, no, not really. They’d crossed paths a couple times prior. Once when she had spilt coffee down him, and once when he had caught her before she could face-plant a train platform. He had met her properly at the gala, and had started trying to get to know her there. But there was the strange feeling from when they met that it felt like he had met her before, and it certainly did not fit any timeline he could explain. There was also the way she had said Lo like it belonged to him.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” he said.
“That is also not reassuring. Can you explain the first photo to me? When. Where.”
“It was a few months before the gala,” he admitted. “We bumped into each other and she spilt her coffee down me. I offered to buy her a new one.”
“Oh, for the love of,” Luke groaned and Tom could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose.
Tom huffed a tired laugh and dropped his head into one hand. “You asked.”
“I did. Regretting it now.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
“They’re going to dig,” Luke said eventually.
“I know.”
“No, Tom. I mean properly dig. They know there was a lie after the gala, they will want to know why. If they think you have been secretly seeing her for months, they’ll look for proof. Her name. Her work. Her address. Anything.”
Tom’s grip tightened around the phone. “Don’t let them near her.”
“That protective streak of yours is going to get you into trouble one day.”
Tom thought of Vicky’s mouth against his, of the way it had felt like something inside him had found its way home. “It already has.”
Luke sighed. “Put a pin in whatever this is until you’re back from Iceland.”
Tom’s jaw clenched.
“Tom.”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.”
Luke muttered something under his breath that sounded unflattering and hung up. After the call ended, Tom sat there for a long time with the phone still in his hand, replaying it all again. The museum. The kiss. The way his hands had found her face as if they had done it a hundred times before. He hated that he had not thought. Hated that one moment of losing control was now being turned into headlines and speculation.
Put a pin in it, Luke had said.
Tom stared at the screen for another minute, then got up to get ready.
By the time Tom arrived on set and finished with hair and makeup, he had already read five articles, scrolled social media, ignored two more calls from Luke, and decided that the best thing to do was pretend nothing had happened. He couldn’t change the fact the kiss happened, but he could act like it didn’t bother him in the slightest.
That lasted approximately four minutes.
Chris was sitting in one of the folding chairs near the trailers, coffee in hand, script balanced across one knee. He looked up as Tom approached and immediately grinned in a way that made him consider turning around, walking straight back to his car, and going home.
“No,” Tom said before Chris had even opened his mouth.
Chris blinked innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was merely going to say good morning.”
“You were not.”
“Alright, I wasn’t.” Chris’s grin widened. “Museum, was it?”
Tom closed his eyes briefly. “Please don’t.”
Chris took a sip of coffee, clearly enjoying himself. “Most people do dinner. Maybe flowers. You apparently take women to museums and recreate one of your own dramatic art gallery scenes.”
Tom gave him a flat look.
“Though with more romance and less impressionism.”
“That is not what happened,” Tom snapped, jaw tightening.
For a moment neither of them said anything. Tom looked past him towards the trailers, towards the set, towards anything else. Crew moved around them with cables and clipboards. Someone called for an assistant. Somewhere nearby a laugh broke out, too bright and ordinary for how he felt.
“I saw the photos,” Chris tried again as he stood. “Wasn’t she the chick who spilled coffee on you?”
“Uh…” He glanced at him. “Yeah.”
Chris laughed harder, clapping a hand on Tom’s shoulder, making him wince. “That’s one way to meet somebody.” The humour on his face faded a fraction. “She alright?”
Tom groaned and ran his hands down his face. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”
Chris held up one hand in surrender. “I only asked ‘cause in the photos she looked upset.”
“She was.” Tom sighed and fell silent for a moment. “I stupidly took her there because of the gala,” he said eventually. “I thought if she saw it again, in daylight, without all the noise, it might…” he trailed off, feeling foolish now that the words were out. “I don’t know. Help.”
Chris’s face softened. “That wasn’t a bad thought.”
“It was, actually. Haven’t you seen?” he added sarcastically.
“Alright, maybe the execution needed work.”
Tom huffed a laugh despite himself.
“There he is,” Chris said lightly, then nudged him with his shoulder. “Look, I’m not Luke. I’m not going to give you a lecture about cameras or headlines or whatever terrifying PR words he uses.”
“Optics,” Tom said grimly.
Chris pulled a face. “Horrible word.”
“Deeply.”
“But,” Chris continued, a little more carefully, “you are walking around looking like someone took the ground out from under you. So I’m asking as a friend. What happened?”
Tom swallowed. The sensible answer sat ready on his tongue. She was upset. I kissed her. Someone saw. It got out of hand. All true. None of it true enough. He thought of Vicky standing in front of the display, one hand nearly touching the glass. The way all colour had drained from her face. The way she had looked at the dress as if it had been pulled out of a grave. The bow. The impossible little shiver it gave beneath the museum lights.
“I don’t know,” he said again.
Chris studied him for a moment. “That bad?”
“That strange.”
Chris’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t push. He took another sip of coffee, then nodded towards the main set. “For what it’s worth, I’m not actually judging you.”
“Really?” Tom responded, falling into step beside him.
“I’m judging the location. Bit public. Very dramatic.”
Tom groaned.
“But,” Chris said, smiling faintly now, “if she was upset and you care about her, I understand why you weren’t thinking about who had a phone out.”
A call went out somewhere behind them, making them stop. Chris glanced towards the sound before looking back at Tom.
Chris clapped him once on the shoulder. “Come on, Loki. Let’s go before they send someone to find us.”
The name hit oddly. It should not have. Chris called him that all the time on set, usually with some ridiculous grin or terrible impression attached to it. It was a joke. A role. A name that belonged to costumes and scripts and long hours under studio lights, but this time Tom felt it catch somewhere in his brain and knock something loose.
Lo.
Lo…ki?
A feeling of dread settled low in his stomach.
No. They weren’t related. They couldn’t be. It was just a sound. A coincidence. Except Vicky had looked at him the day they met as though she had seen a ghost.
You look like my friend.
She had been about to say something else, he swore it. No. He was imagining things. He had to be. People made mistakes. People saw resemblance where they wanted to. Vicky had been embarrassed that day, flustered. Maybe she had known the films after all and had only pretended not to.
Films aren’t really my thing.
Tom swallowed hard.
That did not fit either. He remembered Jaimie previously talking about movies she’d seen with her. Nor did the way Vicky had watched Avengers with the look of someone recognising something she wished she didn’t.
Chris called his name again from across the set.
Tom blinked, the noise of the morning rushing back all at once. The crew moving around him. Someone laughing near the trailers. Chris watching him now with a faint frown, the teasing gone from his face.
“You coming?”
Tom forced his hand to relax at his side.
“Yes,” he said, though his voice sounded too flat even to his own ears. “Sorry.”
He followed Chris towards the set, telling himself with every step that he was being ridiculous.
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: Rain dampens a weekend away, and Tom accidentally speaks a little too far into the future.
Word count: ~940k words
Life Or Something Like It Master List | Master list
Bath, November 2006
Evie stepped out of the car and stared up at the building, eyes following the ivy that snaked its way over the hotel's Georgian exterior. Even a year later it still looked magnificent. The low evening light reflected off the windows, making them almost glow, and for a moment it felt like she had stepped into another time. It was one of the reasons why she loved it here. She also couldn’t wait to check in, have a hot shower and crawl into bed. It was great to be back on set and not drowning under mountains of paperwork, but she’d forgotten how much time she spent on her feet.
“I’m surprised you booked this place after last time,” she said once Tom locked the car.
“Everything else was booked,” he replied, reaching for her bag.
“You think they’ll give us two rooms by mistake this time?”
“One can hope,” he chuckled.
The receptionist smiled politely as Tom checked them in, completely unaware she was handing over the exact same room key that had nearly caused both of them heart palpitations the year before.
Evie noticed first. “Oh my God!”
Tom glanced down at the brass number hanging from the keyring and burst out laughing. “You’re joking!”
“She remembers us,” Evie whispered as they crossed the lobby. “I swear she remembers us.”
“She absolutely does not.”
“She looked directly at me.”
“She was doing her job.”
“She looked smug about it.”
Tom laughed again, steering her toward the stairs before she could spiral any further into the theory. The room looked almost identical to how they remembered it. Same curtains. Same crack in the ceiling above the bed. Same bedside table shoved awkwardly beside the window. Only this time neither of them stopped dead at the sight of the bed. Evie kicked off her boots near the radiator while Tom dropped their bags beside the wardrobe.
“Well,” he said lightly, looking around. “At least we know the mattress is decent.”
Evie turned bright red immediately. “Thomas!”
“What?” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I got a great night’s sleep last time.”
She tried to hide her smile as she wandered toward the window. “Who says you’re sleeping?”
Tom watched her for a moment longer than he meant to as she pottered about. A year ago, standing in this room with her had felt unbearable in the best way possible; every glance had meant too much, every accidental touch had tied his stomach in knots. Now she was wearing his hoodie and unpacking her toiletries beside his like she belonged there.
Which she did.
Evie sat on the end of the bed, then flopped back with a tired sigh and closed her eyes, tempted to fall asleep. Tom noticed, checked his watch, then walked over and leant above her, hands braced beside her head.
“You hungry?” he asked.
Evie opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Starving. But I’m so exhausted.”
Tom gave her a sympathetic smile. “Pub then bed?”
“You mean the one you definitely remember how to get to?” she asked, taking his hand as he pulled her upright.
Tom grabbed his coat pretending to be offended. “I remember perfectly.”
“Mm. That’s reassuring.”
By Sunday, the fireworks had given way to rain. Somehow, Bath looked considerably less magical.
Tom stood beneath the awning, holding two paper cups of coffee while Evie attempted to wrestle her umbrella back into shape after a gust of wind had turned it inside out halfway down the street.
“I think it’s dead,” she announced mournfully, staring at the twisted spokes.
“You’ve killed an umbrella before ten in the morning. That must be some kind of record.”
“It attacked me first.”
Tom laughed, taking the umbrella from her before she could inflict further damage on it. Around them the streets were crowded with people drifting between market stalls and cafés, scarves pulled tight against the cold. A year ago, he thought, he would’ve been painfully aware of every word out of his mouth. Now Evie was stealing his coffee without asking while complaining about the weather. Oddly enough, he liked this version better.
“You know,” she said as they started walking again, “this city was much more romantic last time.”
“That’s because last time you weren’t hungover.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“You made a face at orange juice this morning.”
“That proves nothing.”
He grinned and reached for her hand automatically as they crossed the road. She threaded her fingers through his without even looking.
Evie was halfway through explaining why the Roman baths were technically an engineering marvel — again — having most likely forgotten she had told him the exact same fact last year as they stood in the same spot inside the museum, when Tom started laughing.
Evie glanced up from the guidebook. “What?”
“You realise,” he said, “that one day you’re going to be the parent dragging small children through museums explaining medieval sewage systems.”
She gasped in mock offence. “Roman sewage systems.”
“Same, same.” He grinned.
She bumped his shoulder lightly as they walked. “Lke you won’t encourage it.”
“Oh, I absolutely will.” Tom smiled faintly. “We’ll be unbearable and you’ll just roll your eyes at us.”
The words left his mouth easily enough. Too easily. Evie looked up at him briefly and Tom felt it about half a second later.
We. Us.
It wasn’t an if. Not even a maybe. It had come out like a when. The realisation caught him off guard, and before he could examine it too closely, he looked away, clearing his throat.
“Anyway,” he said lightly, gesturing ahead, “wasn’t there meant to be a fountain somewhere near here?”
Evie’s smile lingered for a moment before she followed him down the walkway.
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.
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.
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader | Baldr & Sigyn (siblings) | Tom Hiddleston x reader
Summary: Tom is left alone with his thoughts, while Adam discovers far too late that everyone has their own agenda.
Word count: ~2.8k words
Warnings: Dont think there is anything major? See master list for overall warnings
18+ fic minors DNI. See master list for overall story themes
The Threads of Fate: Chapter 58 | Part 4 master list / two | Previous Chapter
Tom did not sleep straight away.
He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his stomach while the rain tapped restlessly against the windows. The house had fallen quiet hours ago, and it honestly felt too quiet now that she had gone. Even the rooms felt different, as though something of her still lingered there in the blanket folded over the arm of the sofa, in the half-finished glass left by the sink, in the faint impression her head had left against the cushion. It was ridiculous. He hardly knew her, and yet the silence she left behind somehow felt wrong.
He should have made her stay. Stay where she belonged, the thought invaded his mind.
She didn’t belong to him any more than Chris did.
Tom let out a slow breath and scrubbed a hand over his face, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again to the same dark ceiling.
It had meant to have been a simple evening. Takeaway. A film. Something easy. Something that he had hoped would make her open up more. Instead he had spent the better part of the evening trying not to look too closely at all the moments that made no sense.
The choice of food still bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He had said it so naturally, as though it were a fact he had every right to know. I know it’s your favourite. The words had left his mouth before he had even thought about them, and the look she had given him in return had unsettled him enough that he could still picture it clearly even now.
He turned onto his side with a sigh, staring now at the dim outline of the wardrobe.
Why had he known that? How had he known that?
His brow furrowed.
It was not even the first time. There had been too many odd moments over the last few months now to dismiss them entirely, but each one on its own was just small enough to explain away if he did not look at it too closely. A strange look she gave here. A phrase she said there. Dreams that felt too vivid and too detailed to be just dreams, yet disappeared like mist the moment he tried to hold onto them properly.
Tom shut his eyes.
Five more minutes, Lo.
Said like habit. Said with longing. Not a slip of the tongue in the usual sense, she had not said it awkwardly or clumsily or embarrassedly. It had come from somewhere deeper than that.
He rolled onto his back again and stared upward.
Lo.
He had heard her say it before at the gala, half-lost in whatever memory had consumed her while she lay on the floor. She had looked at him as though she were seeing someone else and said the name. At the time he had let it go. Strange night. Strange woman. Strange everything. He had told himself it was coincidence, or some private nickname for someone he had never met, or perhaps nothing at all. Twice though was harder to dismiss, and harder still because of the way she had looked at him after, as though waking had reminded her exactly where she was and who he was and neither of those things had been what she wanted.
I want her to want me like that.
Tom pressed his lips together and turned his head toward the window, listening to the rain.
He should let it go, let her go, any sensible person would. Vicky was clearly not the sort of woman who welcomed being cornered for answers or even attention. Every time he edged too close to something real between them she retreated so quickly it left him feeling like a fool for trying. Whatever the name meant, whatever sat behind those moments where she seemed to slip sideways out of the present and into something he could not see, it was not his place to demand it from her. And yet…
His mind snagged again, unhelpfully, on the way she had looked while watching Avengers. Not during his scenes, if it had been discomfort at seeing him be someone he wasn't, that would have been easier to understand, but it was not those moments, the tears had come when ‘Tony’ appeared, later too, when the others were on screen. She had tried to hide it, but he had noticed the way her face had gone still, the way she curled into herself as though bracing against something that had already hit. The way grief had moved across her features, and tears that came too quickly for her to cover. It had not looked like someone watching actors in a film, it had looked like loss. Real loss.
Tom frowned into the dark.
Stupidly he had nearly asked as she had grown quieter and quieter beside him what hurt so much, what she had seen that left her looking as though she were trying very hard not to fall apart in his living room. He only had not because some instinct had stopped him. That same instinct had stopped him asking who Lo was, had made him keep his voice gentle when he woke her and pretend not to notice the way she had leant into his hand before realising who was touching her and retreating again.
Tom exhaled slowly through his nose.
He did not understand her in the slightest and that fact annoyed him. He understood pieces. He understood that she read too much and said too little. He understood that she looked at markets as though she was listening to something beneath the noise. He understood that she lived in a townhouse as if time moved differently there. He understood that when she smiled properly it felt like being engulfed in sunshine, and he understood, with a certainty that irritated him, that he did not like seeing her cry.
Tom turned onto his back again.
He should sleep. He had work in the morning, and if Chris found him half-dead on set because of one woman and one very confusing evening he would never hear the end of it. Still, his mind drifted back to the sofa, to the soft weight of her sleeping there, to the way the blanket had looked around her shoulders, to the little crease that had formed between her brows even in sleep as though some part of her never truly rested, and then, annoyingly, back to that one half-whispered name.
Lo.
Coincidence, he told himself. A strange repetition. Some old habit that had nothing whatsoever to do with him.
Tom lay there in the dark, listening to the rain and thinking of the way she had looked at him at the gala before it all went wrong. A do-over. He needed a do-over to prove he was safe enough to let in.
With a sigh he turned over, dragged the quilt higher, and forced his eyes closed.
He would not think about it any more tonight.
Adam stood across the road, watching. Rain silvered the pavements around him, turning the streetlights into blurred halos. It was not enough to call it a storm yet, but it was steady enough that it soaked everything in sight and made London look miserable. It was a nice touch, he had to admit, the way the weather had begun reflecting your mood.
Who knew you were capable of all this? He certainly had not. Then again, perhaps that was the problem. He had underestimated you. Looking down at his feet he ran a thumb across his bottom lip in thought.
Fool.
A door opened, spilling light across the pavement. Adam stilled, his eyes lifting towards it.
You stepped out, coat pulled tight around you, head bowed slightly against the rain, but even from here he knew the line of your shoulders, the way your body held tension when you were trying very hard to appear untouched by something that had in fact carved straight through you. And he knew that more intimately than most, having been the cause of you learning that. A low twist of guilt tightened in his gut. For one brief moment, he wondered whether had he done things differently you might never have taken Áedán and run at all. Rolling his shoulders, he shoved the thought away as he watched you descend the steps and walk away before his gaze shifted to the figure standing in the doorway. He never hated another mortal more than he did in that moment.
Before the door even clicked shut, he had turned and vanished.
The front door of Emrys’s townhouse slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.
The hall beyond was all shadows, old wood, and the faint smell of smoke from the sitting room fire, but the warmth of it did nothing to soften the force of Adam’s arrival. Rainwater gleamed darkly across his shoulders, dripping onto the floorboards with each step. Adam stopped in the middle of the room. Emrys was sitting in one of the armchairs, drinking a cup of tea and staring into the flames. Morgana was standing by the mantel, one hand resting against the stonework as though she had been deep in thought. Victor lounged nearby with the ease of a man who rarely bothered to look concerned. All three ignored his presence.
“Why is he here?” Adam snapped.
Emrys took another slow sip from his cup, eyes narrowed in confusion. “He?”
“Don’t play coy,” Adam said. “The actor. The mortal. The face that should not exist.”
For one brief heartbeat, Morgana only frowned at him, clearly trying to work out which mortal Adam was foolish enough to be snarling over this time. She glanced at Emrys, who answered with nothing more than a slight shrug, as if to say your guess is as good as mine. Her eyes drifted to the fire as she thought, and then the meaning hit. Her composure slipped. Morgana let out an annoyed huff, flicked her hair over her shoulder, and crossed her arms before fixing Adam with a scathing look.
“He doesn't exist,” she told him.
Adam matched her glare with dangerous precision. “Oh really? Then tell me why I have just watched him put his hands on her.”
Morgana’s shoulders stiffened as she breathed in deeply through her nose. “Are you sure it wasn’t one of your shadows?” she asked sarcastically.
“No.”
A log snapped in the grate.
Victor, still half-sprawled in his chair, tilted his head slightly in interest, while Emrys straightened and went very still. Adam caught the flicker that passed between them behind Morgana’s back — recognition. Victor gave the smallest nod, his gaze moving between Morgana and Adam as though quietly measuring how badly this was about to go.
Adam’s smile was all teeth now as he focused back on Morgana. “You said Loki’s thread was gone. That you cut it clean.”
“I. Did.” she gritted out.
“Then why,” Adam asked, “does this mortal have Loki’s face?”
“You are making assumptions based on very little,” Victor said.
“Am I?” Adam’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Morgana. “I know what I saw.”
Victor folded one ankle over the other. “You saw a mortal man,” he said mildly.
“I. Saw. Loki.”
Emrys surged to his feet so abruptly the chair legs grated over the floorboards. “Damn it,” he hissed, one hand dragging through his hair as he paced. “He was never meant to find her again.”
Something in the room shifted. Morgana’s hands dropped to her sides. Victor sat forward by an inch. Emrys, too late, realised what he had given away.
“It’s impossible,” Morgana said. “I cut it myself.”
Victor let out the faintest breath of amusement. “Impossible things,” he murmured, “do have a habit of happening.”
Morgana shot him a cutting look.
“You told me she was free of him.” Adam stalked closer to her.
Emrys’s eyes flicked toward him again. Victor’s fingers stilled against the arm of the chair, and suddenly the room altered around Adam in a way he knew all too well. They had discussed him. Decided things for him. Hidden things from him.
“You told me,” he said again, quieter now, and somehow that was worse, “that whatever bound her to him had been severed. That she was finally free.”
“To keep you both in check,” Emrys snapped, slamming one hand down on the table so hard the glasses rattled. “Must everything be dragged out word by word? You are dangerous. She is dangerous. The only way to keep either of you from tearing the whole thing apart was to make sure certain lines could not be crossed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Victor rose at last, the movement unhurried, and crossed the room. He laid a light hand against Emrys’ shoulder and bent his head just enough to murmur something low in his ear.
Emrys cleared his throat and smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, gathering himself before he spoke again. “She believed what we wanted her to believe. Someone has to hold the fracture shut.”
Adam did not move. For one long moment he simply stood there, face gone unreadably still, while the meaning of it all rearranged itself inside him. Not only had they hidden the truth from him, they had hidden it from you. His jaw flexed.
“If he has found her,” Victor said quietly, as if continuing a much calmer conversation than the one the rest of them were trapped inside, “then the pattern is shifting. The threads are already fraying.”
“Let them,” Adam said with a grin. “Let it all unravel. She’ll come to me when it does.”
Victor’s eyes lifted fully to his then, the lazy calm in them darkening by degrees. “Careful, boy. Wolves bite when cornered.”
Adam’s grin softened into something almost dangerous in its charm. “You forget, old man, who taught her to bite in the first place.”
Morgana turned away from Adam and fixed her eyes instead upon Emrys. Anger warred with fear within her gaze as she stared him down. “What of Loki?”
Emrys exhaled through his nose. He hated the answer. Hated that he was having to say it aloud. Hated what it implied about everything he had spent so long trying to hold in place. “Stirring,” he said at last.
Morgana closed her eyes. “How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes opened again. “That is not good enough.”
“No,” Emrys snapped, frustration breaking through at last. “It is not. But neither was your insistence that the thread could be cut clean. I told you burying something was not the same as killing it.”
Victor looked between them with the air of a man watching two storms decide which one would strike first.
Adam smiled. Even here, the truths had not all been evenly shared. This could be useful.
“Then we move now. Before he remembers everything.” Morgana’s gaze slid back to Adam, and whatever else she might have been feeling was gone now. “Do not go near her again.” She stepped closer, each word honed sharp with decision.
Adam met her stare and, for a heartbeat, the charm dropped and something older and darker flickered behind his eyes. Then the smirk returned, effortless and bright. “Of course, darling,” he said, voice smooth as sin. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he agreed before vanishing.
Morgana exhaled slowly, her hand shakily running through her hair. “He will not obey,” she said, more to herself than to the others.
“No,” Victor said mildly, resettling himself in the chair as though they had not all just watched centuries of careful work begin to come apart in front of them. “But then, that was always what made him useful.”
“How long have you known he was here?” she demanded, stomping towards him.
“Decades.” Victor grinned. He saw no point hiding it now.
“Everything I have done has now been for nothing!” She jabbed a finger into his chest. Victor glanced down and raised an eyebrow, brushing her hand away.
Emrys remained standing where he was, one hand braced against the table, his face shadowed and set hard. For the first time in a very long while, he had the distinct and unpleasant sensation that he had not only lost control of the board, but perhaps never truly held it in the first place.
“And if Loki finds his way here?” he finally asked.
Victor’s gaze drifted upward, as though he could already see through ceiling and cloud and city stone to the shape of the future bearing down above them. “Then we begin again,” he said, his mouth curving slightly. “And this time we chain them both.”
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: Apparently "staying over a lot" and "basically living together" are, in fact, the same thing.
Word count: ~3.1k words
Life Or Something Like It Master List | Master list
Chelsea, Autumn 2006
Tom crossed the street with two takeaway coffees in hand, the drinks wobbling dangerously as he dodged a cyclist. He could see the entrance of the flat, technically Evie’s, though he’d spent most nights there since returning from Italy. The spare key hung from his keyring, his toothbrush had found a permanent home in her bathroom, his clothes had taken over one drawer and his books half a shelf. Once inside, he found Evie sitting on the floor, where she had been since about six that morning, still in her pyjamas, hair piled messily on top of her head, and script papers spread around her. She looked up when she heard the front door open, her smile instantly lighting up her tired face.
“Morning. How was your run?”
“What happened to your lie-in?”
“Simon called,” she stated flatly.
“When?”
“Just after you left.”
“Ugh, good thing I brought coffee then,” he said, holding out one to her.
“You’re my favourite person right now.” She took it gratefully, sighing after taking a long sip. “Just what I needed.”
“I live in hope that one day you’ll switch your order up,” he teased, toeing off his trainers.
“Not a chance,” she said, looking back down at one page.
He set his drink down, leaning over the back of the sofa to glance at her notes. “Didn’t you just do these script revisions?”
“Mmhmm.” She rubbed at her temple. “But now they want to move scenes around and bring one filming schedule forward, which means twice the workload.”
Tom sat behind her, rubbing her shoulder. Evie groaned, leaning back into his touch. “Take a break.”
“I can’t, I’ve got till...” She looked up at the clock and squinted. “...twelve to get my revisions in. Honestly, I don’t know why I said yes to Casualty.”
He smiled faintly. “Because it pays the bills.”
“Ugh, don’t use my own reasoning against me,” she groaned. “I just thought I’d be helping streamline scripts, not rearranging entire storylines about people being hit by buses.”
He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’ll manage it. You always do.”
“Only because caffeine exists,” she muttered.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she replied, papers fluttering as she moved them aside.
Tom gave her a look. “Want me to make some toast?”
“Please, only if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Never.” He kissed her temple before making his way to the kitchen.
He came back with two plates, setting one carefully in front of her before sitting down on one end of the sofa. For a few minutes, they ate in companionable silence, the TV murmuring some pop song in the background. Tom watched her out of the corner of his eye as she tried to butter right to the edges before spreading jam over the top.
Tom finished his and placed the plate on the coffee table and leant back, stretching. “We should do something this weekend.”
Evie looked up from her paperwork. “Something meaning what?”
“Something not involving work,” he said, gesturing at the chaos around her. “Or laundry. Or takeaway menus.”
“Ambitious.” Evie pushed a stack of papers aside with her foot. “I wish I could go back to the days when I had time to do things.”
“I'm serious,” he said. “We could do something simple and go to the park.” His grin turned mischievous as he stole the last corner of toast from her plate. “Or I could cook for you.”
“Oi!” Evie laughed, and smacked his hand away. "After last time? When you set the smoke alarm off?”
“That was an exceptional circumstance.”
“You were making pasta.”
“I had to go buy a test!”
“And forgot to turn the stove off.” She shook her head with a smile. “Tell you what, I’ll cook. You can provide the entertainment.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Interpretive dance?”
“You're an idiot,” Evie laughed.
“Part of my charm,” he said. “Alright, I’ll pick the movie. And… if you finish that, we’ll go to that exhibition at the V&A you’ve been bugging me about.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Maybe.” He smirked. “Unless you're going with Clara?”
“No, she’s been busy recently.” Evie frowned, like the thought of Clara being busy didn't quite sit right, before smiling at him.
“I thought Clara would’ve jumped at the chance? Isn't fashion her thing?”
“Yeah, but I’d rather go with you.”
Later that night Evie was half asleep on the sofa when Tom came in from tidying the kitchen. Her head lolled against the cushion, hair falling loose over her face, a rerun of Fawlty Towers on the TV quietly playing in the background. He crouched beside her, brushing a thumb gently along her cheek.
She stirred slightly, mumbling, “You smell like soap.”
“’Cause I washed up,” he murmured.
“You didn’t have to.”
“One less thing for you to deal with in the morning.”
Evie smiled in thanks and tugged at his sleeve. “Come sit,” she said sleepily.
He chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Come on, love, bed. You’ll crick your neck sleeping here.”
She made a soft sound of protest. “Too far.”
“It’s three steps.”
“Feels like twelve.”
He smiled, standing and coaxing her upright. “Up you get.”
She blinked at him sleepily, hair a tangle, t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, lips forming into a pout. “You’re bossy.”
“Comes with the title of concerned boyfriend,” he replied, turning the TV off and guiding her toward the bedroom.
Once inside, she crawled into bed face-first. Tom pulled the quilt up, already thinking about the drive back to his mum’s for Sunday lunch, but her hand found his wrist.
“Stay,” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “You’re warm.”
“Evie…” he hesitated, half-smiling. “It’s Sunday tomorrow. You know what Mum’s like.”
“Tom,” she said, voice muffled by the pillow, “it’s one week. I’m sure she won’t mind.”
He laughed quietly, surrendering. “Alright, alright.”
Tom got undressed for bed and slid in beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. Evie shifted closer automatically, tucking herself against his chest as he wrapped an arm around her waist.
Tom stood at the kitchen counter staring out the window as he stirred his tea, long enough for the spoon to cool in his hand, the washing machine whirring steadily in the background.
“I was beginning to think you'd forgotten where the house was,” Sarah said lightly, appearing in the doorway.
“Ha ha,” he replied without turning around.
She crossed the kitchen, opened a cupboard, then frowned. There had been more mugs in there yesterday. “Why are half your mugs missing?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “They aren’t missing.”
"No, they are,” she said, counting slightly. “There’s only two.”
Tom clinked the spoon loudly against the edge of the mug before throwing it into the sink.
“Three.” She turned around to look at her brother. “You aware most of your clothes have vanished, and that cookbook Mum gave you? Also, I’m fairly certain your toothbrush hasn’t been here in months.”
He winced. “Why are you taking inventory?”
“I live here,” she remarked. “It’s hard not to notice when your belongings start migrating. At least there’s enough hot water now.” Sarah leant against the counter, arms folded, watching him with far too much glee as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Not to mention you’ve only been home twice this week.”
“Been busy,” he said. “Auditions and whatnot.”
“Mmm.” She raised her eyebrows. “And I suppose it’s convenient that Evie’s place is closer.”
Tom finally turned, mug in hand. “I don’t live there, if that’s what you're insinuating.”
Sarah smiled knowingly. “No. You just keep clothes there, eat there, sleep there, and come home occasionally to steal the HobNobs, and remind us you still exist.”
He took a sip of tea, trying to buy some time. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I don’t think I am,” she replied. “Mum asked if you’d moved out.”
He felt his ears warm. “She did not!”
“She absolutely did,” Sarah said lightly. “Used the word cohabitation.”
He groaned. “Please tell me Emma didn’t encourage that.”
“Em followed it up with ‘playing house’, which I think was meant to be reassuring. It wasn’t.”
He winced again.
“There may have been a concerned look or two at last Sunday’s lunch,” Sarah added, “before Mum asked if Evie was… alright.”
“Alright how?”
“Alright, alright.”
Tom’s face went bright red. Memories of Provence, Evie’s birthday and a very strong bottle of wine he couldn’t pronounce flashed through his thoughts. “It was one time,” he muttered.
“Usually all it takes,” Sarah said sweetly. “We also confirmed how many nights you’d actually slept in your bed when she asked. Mum didn’t like that answer.”
Tom stared at the ceiling. “It’s just easier,” he said after a moment. “Everything’s closer, and—” He stopped himself.
“And?” Sarah prompted.
“I like being there.” He shrugged.
Sarah nudged his shoulder gently. “You always do this, you know. Pretend things are temporary until they very obviously aren’t.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m not pretending.”
“Good,” she said. “Because from where I'm standing, you’re already pencilling in dates.”
The washing machine clicked as it finished its cycle. Tom set his mug down and glanced at it.
Sarah followed his gaze and smirked. “When’s she expecting you back?”
“Um…”
Sarah patted his arm. “Try not to forget us entirely, yeah?”
He smiled despite himself. “No promises.”
“Oh,” Sarah added before turning away. “Mum asked if Evie preferred chicken or beef.”
Tom frowned in confusion.
“Apparently that’s ‘important information’ now.”
“But Sunday is family only?” Tom said, confused.
Sarah only gave him a look and walked out the room.
Tom decided (very sensibly, he thought) that the best way to stop his mother suspecting anything was to attend Sunday lunch as normal. This, in hindsight, was where it all went wrong. He’d gone to bed in his own room, unable to sleep, texting Evie till two am, and woken with something that felt like a hangover — or guilt. The house smelled like roast chicken and scrutiny as he made his way down the stairs after his shower. Sarah was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as she stirred something aggressively, while Emma set the table in the dining room. Tom stopped at the bottom, unsure where he was meant to be.
Diana turned as he entered the kitchen, her eyes flicking once over him. “Oh,” she said. “So you do still live here.”
Tom winced. Something in her tone told him it was confirmation. “I— yes. Obviously. I’ve always lived here. This is my… my home.”
Diana gave him a smile and spoke towards the dining room. “Emma. We need one more setting!”
Emma responded with an annoyed “Ugh” making Tom glance towards the dining room to see only three places had been set.
Lunch began much the same as it always did: roast, potatoes, polite conversation around work, weather, and distant relatives. Tom made sure he ate everything, complimented the gravy, asking after the neighbour’s cat, even making a point of mentioning his room, casually, like it hadn’t been weaponised against him. He made it through the first twenty minutes without incident, then his mother reached for the gravy boat.
“So,” Diana said lightly, “how long have you and Evie been sharing meals for now?”
Tom choked on his drink. Sarah didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Emma tried to hide her laughter.
“I’m sorry?” Tom asked, setting his fork down very carefully.
“Meals.” Diana glanced up. “Dinner. Breakfast. The occasional late night snack, I imagine.”
“Occasional,” Tom said quickly, unsure what his mum was referring to. “Very occasional.”
“Mmm,” she hummed. “Sarah tells me you’ve not been home for breakfast in quite some time.”
“That’s not—” Tom stopped himself, trying to work out what to say. “That’s exaggerated.” He flashed his sister a glare, who gave him a sarcastic smirk in response.
“Is it?” his mother asked gently. “Because I could have sworn I bought extra eggs last month and they’ve gone untouched.”
Tom stared at his plate, while Emma’s eyes darted between them all, a gleeful smile on her face.
“Well,” Diana continued conversationally, “I just wondered whether this was a new development or something you’ve been easing into.”
“We’re not—” Tom began, then stalled. “I mean—”
Sarah sat back in her chair. "Careful.”
Diana tilted her head. “You do still live here, Thomas? Don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
“Good,” she said. “I was starting to worry your room had become more of a… storage facility.”
“I just like spending time with her,” Tom said, quieter now. “That’s all.”
“That’s usually how it starts,” his mother replied, reaching for her drink. “You’re very welcome to bring her next week, you know.”
“I’ll ask,” he said. Diana leveled him a look and he cleared his throat. “We’ll be here.”
“And Tom?” Diana met his eyes, warm but knowing. “If you’re trying not to make it obvious, you may wish to stop attending lunch out of guilt.”
Tom closed his eyes, while Sarah and Emma burst out laughing.
As he drove back to Evie’s flat, Tom realised that somewhere between Sarah announcing lunch and his mum handing him the leftovers, he’d somehow accidentally committed both himself and Evie to Sunday lunch indefinitely.
Evie was kneeling on the floor, sorting through a pile of paperwork that had escaped her work bag. Tom was on the sofa, legs stretched out, watching a Neighbours re-run, absently packing clothes into the overnight bag at his feet. She sighed, giving up and just shoved them back in her bag to deal with tomorrow. Her eyes caught on Tom’s bag again, one of his jumpers half hanging out the top.
Evie chewed her bottom lip for a moment before speaking. “Do you ever get tired of moving between places?”
He looked over at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” She hesitated, tracing the edge of a folder. “You’re always here. Most of your clothes are too.” She met his eyes. “I’m wondering if it might make sense for you to just move in. Properly.”
He sat up, the remote and a shirt slipping off his lap and landing with a soft thud on the carpet. “Move in?”
“Well, yes,” she said, gesturing at the room. “You practically have anyway. Might as well make it official.”
He stared at her for a moment, trying to read her tone. “You’re serious?”
She smiled, faintly nervous now. “Of course I’m serious. It’s not exactly a grand gesture, Tom. It’s practical. Besides…” she trailed off and looked at her hands.
“Besides?” he prompted.
“I like having you here,” she answered, looking back at him and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
He grinned and leant forward. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You realise that means you’ll have to put up with my terrible coffee and piles of scripts everywhere.”
“I already do.”
“True.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. He could picture it properly. His books on her shelves. Mornings in this flat. Coming home to her without thinking twice about where home actually was anymore.
Evie smiled, that slow, small smile that always undid him. “So that’s a yes, then?”
Tom’s grin widened. “It’s absolutely a yes.”
He moved closer and kissed her, warm and easy, smiling when she laughed softly against his mouth. When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.
“You’ll have to help with the bills,” she told him.
“Of course.”
“And take the bins out.”
“I draw the line at bins.”
“Too late,” she said, smiling. “It’s part of the tenancy agreement.”
Tom had officially moved into Evie’s flat at the start of October. It had taken two trips in his car, one borrowed box of tools, and several deep breaths before he’d finally told his mum.
The first few days settled into a chaotic sort of bliss. They’d spent an entire Saturday trying to fit both their lives into one small flat — her books, his scripts, her kitchen gadgets, his record collection. Evie was methodical and practical, sorting things by use and space. Tom was… less so. By evening, they’d given up on organisation entirely and ordered Indian, sitting cross-legged on the floor among half-unpacked boxes. The television was on low, both too tired to move.
Evie leant her head against his shoulder, eyes half-closed. “Do you think we’ll ever find the plates again?”
“Doubtful,” he murmured. “We’re destined to live on takeaway forever.”
“I could live with that.”
He smiled, kissing her hair. “So could I.”
He’d waited until Sunday lunch to tell his mother, like that would somehow make it better, nerves jangling as he buttered his potatoes and cleared his throat.
“I’m, uh—” he began. “I thought I should probably tell you… I’ve moved in with Evie.”
There had been a pause. Not the shocked kind, the measured kind. Tom panicked, now wishing he’d waited for a weekend Evie wasn’t busy.
Diana looked at him over the rim of her glass. “I assumed as much.”
“You don’t—” Tom started, already forming a defence, before the words registered. “What?”
“You haven’t slept in your bed properly since August,” she said calmly, going back to her plate. “Your toothbrush vanished months ago, and Sarah mentioned the mug situation.”
He stared, cutlery slipping from his fingers and clattering against his plate. “You’ve been… tracking my mugs?”
“I’m your mother,” she replied, reaching for the gravy.
Their first argument happened the following week. It wasn’t serious, just a small, stupid thing that spiralled out of exhaustion and clutter. Tom had spent most of the morning rehearsing a scene for an upcoming audition, muttering to himself while Evie tried to get some work done at the small coffee table in the living room. It was around lunchtime when she discovered he’d rearranged the kitchen cupboards.
“Tom,” she said, voice sharp enough to make him stop mid-sentence as she stared at the cupboard above the kettle. “Where are the mugs?”
“Top shelf,” he answered absently.
“They were on the bottom shelf.”
“I moved them.”
“Why?”
He walked towards the kitchen confused. “Because it made sense. I kept having to bend down for the plates.”
Evie blinked at him. “You can’t just move things!”
“They’re mugs, Evie.”
“I can’t reach up there!” She gestured towards the top shelf.
He stood in the doorway for a second, then, realising what he’d done, started laughing.
She glared at him, but it cracked quickly into reluctant amusement. “You’re infuriating.”
“I was being practical!”
“You were being you,” she said, shaking her head, trying not to smile.
He grinned. “That’s part of my charm.”
“It’s part of something,” she muttered.
They ended up making peace over sandwiches, the mugs now firmly back where she could reach them. Tom didn’t argue. It wasn’t worth the risk of losing tea privileges.
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader | Baldr & Sigyn (siblings) | Tom Hiddleston x reader
Summary: You attempt to mend a friendship, Baldr finds out the truth, and one night with Tom leaves you with the feeling that the past is no longer content to stay where it was hidden.
Word count: 4.2k words
Warnings: No major ones? (let me know if there is one) References to previous parts/life/loss. Use of mortal aliases
18+ fic minors DNI. See master list for overall story themes
The Threads of Fate: Chapter 57 | Part 4 master list / two | Previous Chapter
Baldr stepped off the bus, intending to head back home when he ran into Jaimie.
“Brian!” she exclaimed excitedly when she saw him. “Long time no see.”
“Jaimie.” He bent to kiss her cheek politely. She wasn’t Sif, but she was still your friend, even if he liked her far less since the gala. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know, busy as usual,” she replied. “How’s Vicky? She been holding up alright?”
“I’m sure you know better than me,” he said lightly.
Jaimie frowned, tilting her head back to look at him, always forgetting how tall your brother was until she saw him again in person. “I haven’t spoken to her since the gala.”
Baldr’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. He could have sworn you mentioned having coffee with her the other week. “Yeah, she's been doing alright. All things considered,” he said, his tone still light even as his eyes turned hard.
“Tom’s also been asking after her,” she continued. “Do you mind if I let him know? I don’t know if he managed to get in touch?”
The name set off warning bells in his head. “Tom?”
“Yeah, he was at the gala too. He was really shaken up over her collapse.”
“Vicky didn’t mention him.”
“That’s strange. They seemed really smitten with each other. I honestly thought they were already seeing each other.”
“Smitten?” Baldr practically growled. It was one thing to have friends, but this; this was something else. They’d spent so long hiding that your foolishness could risk everything coming undone.
“Oh, don't get all ‘big brother’ on her,” Jaimie laughed, and lightly swatted his arm. “He’s a nice guy. Here.” Jaimie pulled out her phone and flicked to a photo. “This is from when we were last filming.”
Baldr leaned closer out of politeness and his breath caught. Apart from the hair and eye colour, the man was the spitting image of Loki; more so than all the others they’d seen over the centuries. The same sharp cheekbones, the same calculating glint in his eye, the same mouth that always looked like he was holding something back. Even the tilt of his head looked familiar. For one brief moment Baldr wondered if it was him and felt a flicker of dread settle in his chest.
And if it was Loki, why was he mortal?
The message sat unsent for nearly ten minutes.
You stared at your phone from where it lay on the arm of the couch, the screen dark now, your own reflection faintly caught in it. Across the room Baldr was pretending not to watch you over the top of his book, which was ridiculous considering he had not turned a page once in the last five minutes, so you knew he was watching you like you were tonight’s entertainment.
“Either send it,” he said at last, “or stop glaring at the thing as though it personally offended you.”
You looked up at him flatly. “I am not glaring.”
“No, of course not.” Baldr raised one eyebrow. “Do you always look murderous when considering casual social interaction?”
You picked up the cushion beside you and threw it at his head. He caught it with infuriating ease and set it calmly in his lap, giving it a pat for good measure.
“Strange,” he said, licking a finger and turning the page with exaggeration. “You’ve managed coffee together for weeks and now suddenly you have the nerves of a—“
“This is your fault,” you muttered.
“How is your inability to speak to your own friends my doing?”
“Because you keep looking at me.”
“This is the most interesting thing you’ve done all week.”
“I’ve been out.”
Baldr glanced at the phone then at you. “With who?”
You snatched your phone back up before he could say anything else and looked down at the message you had typed for the fourth time.
Hi. Sorry I vanish—
Nope. Too abrupt. You stabbed at the screen, deleting the words.
I know I’ve been dreadful—
Ugh, that was worse. Delete.
Your thumb hovered uselessly over the screen. It should not have been this difficult. Jaimie was… loud and kind and impossible to intimidate; exactly like Sif and that somehow made it worse. You had disappeared after the gala, ignored her calls and messages, and told yourself the easiest way to keep yourself safe was to make everyone think you simply didn’t exist.
Baldr’s book shut with a soft snap.
“You know,” he said, quieter now, “for someone so determined to be alone, you seem remarkably miserable every time you get your wish.”
You didn’t answer. With a grimace, you typed before you could overthink it again.
You: Hi. I’m sorry I disappeared. Things got a bit complicated and I handled it badly. If you don't hate my guts, I’d like to see you.
You read it once, winced, then hit send before courage deserted you. The message left your phone with far too much finality.
“There,” Baldr said sarcastically. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Shut up.”
He held both hands up in surrender, though his lips already had a smug smile. “How is asking a friend to meet up for coffee again so hard? Or, like Loki, do you just enjoy making things more dramatic than they need to be?”
You threw him a look and rose from the couch, taking your tea with you and walking towards the kitchen. “Gods, I wish he had stabbed you harder,” you muttered.
Baldr put his hand to ear. “Sorry, love, didn’t quite catch that?”
Your phone chimed before you had counted to ten and you froze midstep. Baldr laughed outright.
“Don’t,” you warned, and looked at the screen.
Jaimie: You utter cow!
You let out a startled breath that might almost have been a laugh. Another message appeared before you could reply.
Jaimie: You talk to Tom before me?!
You let go of the saucer, leaving the teacup floating where it was, and quickly typed back.
You: I’m sorry!
Jaimie: I was giving you exactly two more days before I turned up at your house.
And then:
Jaimie: Yes, I still want to see you.
Jaimie: Tomorrow?
Something in your chest eased before you could stop it.
You: Tomorrow is fine.
The dots appeared almost at once.
Jaimie: Good. And just so you know, if you say “sorry” again I shall throw a scone at you.
A laugh escaped this time, properly.
The café Jaimie chose was small and overheated, tucked between a florist and a shop that sold candles expensive enough to qualify as extortion. You arrived first despite yourself, then spent the next six minutes pretending to read the menu while your stomach twisted like you were about to face a tribunal; or Odin. When Jaimie swept through the door in a caramel-coloured coat, she spotted you at once. For one horrible second you thought she might stop, remember the months of silence, and turn around. Instead she marched straight over and dropped into the chair opposite with a huff.
“You look awful,” she said.
“Hello to you too.”
“I’ve been worried sick, thank you very much.” Her eyes narrowed. “And before you say anything dreadful and self-sacrificing, yes, I’m still angry with you.”
You looked down at your hands. “That’s fair.”
Jaimie let out a sigh then, some of the stiffness leaving her shoulders. “Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like that. As if I’m about to tell you we can never be friends again and you’ll nobly accept it because you think you deserve it.” She leaned forward, fixing you with the sort of look Sif gave you when you were being too self-sacrificing. “It’s deeply annoying.”
You stared at her, caught between guilt and reluctant amusement. “I am sorry,” you said quietly.
Jaimie held up a finger. “That’s one.” She reached across the table and took your hand before you could pull it away. “You scared me,” she said. “You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to, but you don’t get to vanish like that and then expect me not to care.”
You swallowed past the lump in your throat. It would have been easier if she had shouted, easier if she had demanded answers you could not give. This simple kindness was far harder to bear.
“I know,” you said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to…”
“What? Cause a fuss? Be inconvenient?” Jaimie squeezed your fingers once. “Honestly, Vicky, you do realise you’re allowed to be a disaster sometimes. It’s what makes us human.”
A helpless laugh slipped out. Human. At this point you weren’t even sure if you had ever been one.
“There she is,” Jaimie said, sitting back at once as though satisfied she had found something she’d been looking for. “I knew you were still in there somewhere.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. If only she knew.
“Now,” she announced a second later. “What’s this I hear about you and Tom?”
You stared at her, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “I’m not seeing him, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Well, obviously.” She picked up the menu, though she wasn’t reading it. “It would be all over the gossip sites if you were. But the way he talks about you—”
“He talks about me?!” you interrupted.
“He hasn’t shut up about you. And you should have seen the way he was looking at you that night.” Jaimie smiled and rolled her eyes affectionately. “Chris is about ready to clip him round the ear.”
You could only stare at her, mouth open in disbelief.
“Did I forget to tell you we’re filming together again?” She looked at you with a frown.
“Yes,” you answered bluntly.
Jaimie’s smile faltered slightly. “Apparently I did.”
A waiter appeared and by the time your orders arrived an awkward silence had settled between you. You hated how you had left things. Even worse was the dawning realisation that, with each passing day, you were never going home, and that at some point the echoes of the ones you held dear would fade, and you would be alone.
Maybe it would have been better to cut all ties and run.
Across from you, Jaimie stirred her coffee, tilting her head slightly as she looked at you. Reaching across the table, she gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
“Hey, where’s your mind?”
You looked up too quickly and for one brief, disorienting moment it felt like Sif was reaching for you across the table and Loki’s voice echoed through your mind.
Where’s your mind, love?
Then the feeling faded.
“Nowhere,” you answered, taking your hand back and busying yourself with your coffee.
Jaimie watched you for a second longer before a slow smile spread across her face. “Ooo! You should come visit me.”
“Visit where?”
“On set. We’re filming nearby.”
“Nope.” You shook your head.
“The director would love your input,” she continued. “It might even help with the props.”
“Jaimie, no. I can’t.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You’re like a walking encyclopaedia when it comes to Norse myth, for crying out loud.”
“It would just… I don’t know. Be weird.” You gave her a wry smile.
“Is it because of Tom?”
“Maybe.”
It was nothing, you told yourself as you stood outside Tom’s house with your hands shoved into your coat pockets, trying not to question why your heart was pounding like you were about to do something far more reckless than watch a movie. He had asked lightly enough, almost as though it were something you had done a hundred times. You had, just not with him.
Tom H: Come over. We’ll order takeaway and watch something. I promise not to be annoying for at least the first twenty minutes.
You had snorted when the message came through and told him that was the most blatant lie he had ever typed. He had replied with only a smiley face and his address.
The door opened before you could knock a second time. He stood there in a navy jumper and dark jeans, one hand still on the handle, his hair slightly mussed as though he had run his fingers through it more than once while waiting. Something in his smile made your chest tighten.
“You came.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “I was promised food?”
“A woman with impeccable priorities.” He moved aside to let you in. “Come on in then.”
When you stepped inside, his house was not what you had expected.
Books sat in uneven stacks on side tables, some upright, others slumped against one another as though they had only narrowly survived being gathered up. A blanket had been draped over one end of the sofa before apparently being abandoned halfway through folding it, and one cushion sat at an odd angle as though someone had just thrown it there. Two mugs still sat on the coffee table with what looked suspiciously like cold tea clinging to the bottom. On the dining table a small pile of papers had been shoved into a crooked stack, and a jacket had been flung over the back of a chair in a way that suggested it had landed there five minutes ago. You glanced towards the open kitchen and found further evidence of a man caught unprepared. A dish towel had been tossed over the edge of the sink. One cupboard door had not quite shut properly. A bowl of fruit sat on the counter beside what looked suspiciously like an empty takeaway container he had missed in his haste.
Tom followed your line of sight and let out a quiet, guilty sort of laugh. “I didn’t think you’d come, if I’m honest,” he said, stepping past you to scoop up one of the mugs.
“So this is you unprepared?” you asked dryly.
He looked over his shoulder with that easy, unrepentant smile of his. “This is me trying to make an effort.”
Loki you knew had always been meticulous with his personal space. Everything had its place — shelves straight, papers stacked, clothes folded with the sort of neatness that suggested order was less preference and more necessity. It was his one small corner of the world he could keep under control when the rest refused to behave. He had relented with time, mainly because your children had turned order into little more than an aspiration, but even then there had always been a structure to the chaos they brought. Tom, it seemed, was the complete opposite. This was simply how he lived — slightly careless, untidy in a way that made the place feel occupied rather than controlled.
“Chinese alright?” he asked, tossing a menu onto the coffee table.
“Hm?”
He turned and caught you still looking around. “Food,” he prompted. “Unless you’d rather I attempted to cook.”
You gave the kitchen a single glance. “I’d rather not die,” you teased.
Tom clutched dramatically at his chest. “Cruel.”
You rolled your eyes and picked up the menu. None of the words registered at first, only the logo in the top corner. Your breath caught as you tried to stop your hands from shaking.
“How long has this place been here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
Tom’s brow furrowed as he peered over your shoulder. “Bleecker Chinese? Ages, I think. Why?”
Your fingers tightened around the paper. “It’s just… it’s…” How did you explain that this place was in New York. Your New York.
“Well, I know it’s your favourite—”
“I never said that.” You looked up at him, trying to determine how he knew that.
The words seemed to catch him off guard and an awkward silence followed. Tom rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly uncertain about how the night was going.
“Did you want to order something else instead?” Tom suggested.
“No,” you answered. “It’s fine.”
By the time the food arrived you had relaxed enough to slip your shoes off and tuck your feet up beneath you on the sofa, a plate of food balanced on one knee while Tom talked you through the increasingly questionable contents of his DVD shelf.
“You own more period dramas than should be legal,” you observed.
“That is because I have taste.”
“No,” you replied, digging through your rice with the chopsticks he had smugly presented you with as though testing whether you remembered lunch in the markets, “that is because you’re incapable of resisting Edwardian coats and tragedy.”
Tom turned to look at you, grinning. “And what exactly does that say about you, considering you’re here voluntarily?”
“That I was hungry.”
“Mm.” He dropped onto the sofa beside you with his own plate and stretched one arm along the back of it. “Keep telling yourself that.”
You ignored him, which was harder than it ought to have been when he was sitting close enough for the warmth of him to register even without touching.
“Right. Since you’ve never seen it, tonight’s choice is obvious.”
He held up one case with a boyish grin that you were instantly reminded of Fáelán right before he did something he wasn’t supposed to. The second your eyes landed on the cover, you frowned.
Thor.
Tom, still oblivious, threw the case onto the coffee table and reached for the remote. “Before you say anything, yes, I know, but in my defence I wasn’t in charge of the script.”
You looked at him sharply. “What?”
“You’ll see.”
You tore your eyes from him and back to the screen. You had not seen it. You had refused every time Jaimie tried to coax you into watching anything that came too close to old wounds, but now, sitting in Tom’s living room with the lights low and takeaway cooling between you, it seemed ridiculous to object without explanation. So you let it play.
For the first thirty minutes you said nothing at all.
By sixty, your irritation had settled into a simmer.
By the time the Bifrost incident had been reduced to something clean and simple, and nowhere near the impossible tangle of truth you remembered Loki telling you, you were staring at the screen with such open offence Tom finally noticed.
“You look personally insulted,” he said, as the credits rolled.
You turned to him. “I am not insulted.”
Tom’s mouth twitched. “No?”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Vicky, you look as though Ken broke into your home and wronged you specifically.”
You set your plate down on the coffee table with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary. “It’s just…” You stopped, because you could not say this is not exactly how it happened. “It is very Midgardian.”
He stared at you for a second, then he laughed. A helpless, delighted laugh that made you want to throw the nearest cushion at his face.
“That,” he said, still smiling as he shook his head, “might be my favourite criticism of it yet.”
You folded your arms. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” He shifted slightly on the sofa, angling toward you more fully now. “That’s why it’s funny.”
You tried to glare at him and failed utterly when his grin widened.
“For the record,” he added, “I agree with you. It’s all a bit too neat, isn’t it? Films like things to make sense.”
Your eyes flicked back to the screen, to the bright false version of grief and pride and fathers and sons. “And yet, life rarely is.”
Tom was quiet for a moment at that. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”
“Maybe I should go.” You stood and tried to work out where your things were.
“What about dessert?” he asked. “You may as well stay and find out what happens next.”
The pleading look in his eyes almost undid you, and because you seemed determined to make bad decisions where Tom was involved, you sat back down. “As you wish.”
While Tom busied himself in the kitchen you finished your wine, thinking back on the movie.
Why, love? Why did you think letting go was a better option?
“You seemed like the type to prefer this over chocolate,” Tom said, walking back into the room.
When he handed you a plate of lemon meringue and topped up your glass, you almost sobbed.
“What?” he asked, catching your expression. “Too much?”
“No,” you answered too quickly, shaking your head.
Tom frowned but didn’t say anything else, then sat back down. You tried to focus back on the screen as the next movie started.
By the time Tony appeared on screen you were no longer angry so much as tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixed, but the older sort, the one that lived deep in the bones and came from too many lifetimes of carrying things no one else could see. A tear slipped out and you quickly swiped it away before Tom could see.
Oh how you missed him.
Artemis, I’m sorry I can’t stay with you.
Lying down against the arm of the sofa, you wrapped your arms across your chest as if that one action could stop your heart breaking. You blinked slowly, trying to ignore the ache in your chest and the burn in your eyes.
I didn’t want to be reminded that I only knew them for a moment.
At some point rain began tapping softly against the windows, steadily growing faster as your thoughts spiralled. The room was warm, the lights were low, and Tom’s voice drifted in and out beside you, saying something dry about the film that might have been very funny under other circumstances. Your head felt heavy.
At some point the food containers were cleared away.
The blanket that had been half-folded over the arm of the couch ended up across you without you remembering Tom putting it there.
The next thing you knew, the sound of the television had dulled into meaningless noise and the sofa beneath you felt far too comfortable. Somewhere above you Tom let out the quietest of laughs, so soft you might have imagined it, before darkness claimed you.
A hand brushed lightly against your shoulder.
“Vicky.”
You made a noise of protest and burrowed deeper into the arm of the sofa.
“Vicky,” he said again, much gentler. “You should probably wake up.”
Your head was still thick with sleep. When a hand brushed a strand of hair out of your face, you leant into it with a soft sigh. For one brief moment you swore you were back in Norway.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. You can’t leave me talking to myself.”
Your lips parted before your mind had caught up enough to stop them. “Five more minutes, Lo.”
The room went very still.
You shifted, blinking once, then twice, dragging yourself sluggishly back toward wakefulness. For one strange heartbeat Tom simply looked at you. Whatever had just passed through his expression was gone before you could see it, buried beneath an easy smile. Your brow furrowed faintly.
“Long day?” he asked lightly.
“Mm?”
“You were out cold.”
Heat rushed into your face with horrifying speed as the room came back into focus properly. You pushed yourself upright at once, rubbing at one eye and trying to work out the time.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Fall asleep during my impeccable film choices?” Tom supplied. “I think I’ll recover.”
You groaned softly and dropped your hand. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”
“And yet you keep saying yes when I invite you out.”
Your head snapped up, having forgotten exactly who was in front of you in your tired state. There it was again, that look in his eyes that made it hard to tell if he was teasing or had crossed into far more dangerous territory. You knew that look. It was the one Loki would get right before sense deserted him entirely. You dropped your eyes from his face, partly because you still were not entirely certain what you had just said while half-asleep, and partly because you were suddenly far too aware of how you felt.
Tom sat back, reached for the remote and switched off the television entirely. The room fell quiet, filled only with the patter of rain against the windows and the faint hum of the city beyond it.
“You can stay a bit longer, if you want,” he said, and though the words were casual, there was something beneath them.
“I should go,” you said, because staying felt far too much like stepping willingly toward the edge of something you might not survive.
Tom only nodded. “Alright.”
He rose first, giving you room to gather your things and your pride in whatever order you could manage. You stood, still wrapped in the blanket for half a second before realising it and hurriedly pulling it from your shoulders. Tom took it from you with a smile that was altogether too fond for your peace of mind.
When he walked you to the door, you paused, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.
“Thank you,” you said, quieter than you had intended. “For dinner.”
“You’re welcome.”
Tom opened the door and stepped aside, one hand still braced against the frame. You passed close enough to feel his warmth and had to resist the foolish urge to lean into it. On the step you turned back to find he was watching you in that same quiet way he always did, as though there was far more he wanted to say and had decided against every word of it.
Pairing: Loki x Female Reader | Baldr & Sigyn (siblings) | Tom Hiddleston x reader
Summary: Tom sees your house for the first time, along with things that don’t make sense. A day at the markets echoes another long ago.
Word count: 4k words
Warnings: Probably some incorrect book publishing dates — please ignore for *plot*
18+ fic minors DNI. See master list for overall story themes
The Threads of Fate: Chapter 56 | Part 4 master list / two | Previous Chapter
A/N: Sorry for the almost month between chapters. My characters refused to co-operate *gives them a side eye*
You woke one Saturday morning to a knock on your front door. Knowing it was possibly Baldr forgetting his keys again, you yelled out, “Just use your magic!” and rolled over, pulling the blanket over your head, starting to drift off again.
Letting out a sigh when the knocking only got louder, you kicked the blanket off in annoyance, turned to look at the clock on your bedside table and almost sobbed. It was way too early. Getting up you tugged on your robe and trudged to the door, anger growing with each step. Opening it, you readied to yell at Baldr for waking you.
“I swear to the Norns, B—Oh!” You stopped short, mouth clamping shut when you found Tom leaning against the doorframe, fingers drumming on the wood. “Hi.”
“Tell me, Vicky,” he said, like he hadn’t been about to be on the receiving end of your ire. “If you had one day with no obligations, just time, where would you take me?”
You stood there, mouth slightly open. The simplicity of the question, the ordinariness of it, shocked you. For a moment, you weren’t the Lady of Midgard, wife of a god. You were just Vicky.
Boring. Human. Normal.
“Uh…”
What could you say? No obligations. No obligations usually meant you and Loki sneaking off deep into the forest where no one could find you; but what did that mean here?
“The markets,” you said hesitantly. “Camden, maybe. Or Borough. I like the noise and the colours.”
Tom’s smile brightened instantly, and it was enough to make your chest ache. “Then that’s what we’ll do today. Just markets and food.”
“You want to do that? With me?” you asked him, dumbfounded.
“Why not?” He flashed you a smile. “Go get dressed. I’ll be waiting.”
You closed the door and leant back against it, unsure if you were dreaming or not. Your bracelet caught the light, the runes glinting faintly against the morning sun. You lifted your arm and stared at it, before quickly tucking it back under your sleeve. Why did you have the sudden feeling of déjà vu? Shaking it off, you stepped towards the staircase, stopping short when you realised you’d left Tom standing on your front step. Rushing back over, you quickly opened the door.
“Did you want to come in?” you blurted out before you could think it through properly.
“Sure.”
Tom walked inside and the door shut behind him with such a heavy thunk he thought he’d stepped into another world. He glanced around with quiet curiosity. The hallway was narrow like most older London townhouses, though he noticed that yours appeared frozen in time somewhere in the 1700s. There wasn’t a modern touch in sight.
“Will you be alright here while I get dressed?” you asked.
“Hmm?” Tom hummed, “Oh, yeah, sure.”
Tom drifted a few steps further into the hallway while you disappeared somewhere upstairs, the faint sound of a door closing echoing through the house. He tilted his head and looked around again. The house felt older the longer he stood there. He glanced again at the staircase and noticed a faint line in the plaster near the bottom, like it had been repaired at some point. His attention shifted when he noticed a pair of boots near the front door, too large for a woman, and frowned. They were enormous and not just in their height. Looking up his eyes snagged on a coat hanging nearby and his shoulders tensed. Whoever they belonged to was at least a head taller than him judging by the cut. The thought of someone living here with you stirred something in him. Trying to ignore the feeling curling low in his stomach he turned his attention to the rest of the house, noticing a living room across the hall. Curiosity getting the better of him he walked into the room wondering if this space might tell him more about the woman that plagued his thoughts.
The room was bright despite the grey morning outside. Tall windows, their heavy curtains pulled back to let in the light, looked out over the street. The furniture had clearly been chosen for comfort rather than style because none of it matched and there was nothing showy about it either. Turning around, the wall opposite immediately caught his attention. The entire section was covered in floor to ceiling dark wooden shelves and dozens of novels sat in tightly packed rows with no rhyme or reason.
“That explains a few things,” he said quietly to himself.
Most people had books, but he didn’t think he had seen anyone with a collection this large before. All of them had clearly been read, their spines worn, the corners rounded with age. A few leaned against one another, small slips of paper marking places someone had meant to return to. Moving closer to inspect them Tom reached out and gently pulled what he thought was the newest one from the shelf, based on the fact it didn't look like it had been touched, and read the title.
Hamlet.
He smirked faintly. Of course you would have this book, you seemed like the type of person to enjoy Shakespeare's works in writing as well as on the stage. He flipped it open, the cover feeling heavier than he had expected it to, and stared with a frown at the thick cream coloured paper, the words printed slightly uneven.
Closing the cover, he read the title embossed into the leather again, brow furrowing further and reopened it to the first page, looking for the print date.
London. 1604.
Tom blinked once as he stared at the page for a long moment before letting out an incredulous laugh.
“Right…” he muttered sarcastically under his breath. “Either this is a very good replica or Vicky Erikson owns a book worth more than my house.”
He slid the book carefully back into its place. Curiosity rising, he scanned the other titles sitting there.
Pride and Prejudice.
“Every woman owns this one,” he told himself as he slid the book out. Opening the cover he froze.
1813.
“This one’s not a replica.”
He only knew that because his grandmother had one like it, passed down from her own grandmother, sitting on her bookshelves. Tom glanced back towards the doorway, half expecting you to appear and scold him for touching these. When you didn’t he stepped back, hands on his hips, and looked over the shelves again.
Shakespeare.
Austen.
Dickens.
Milton.
Several other novels that he didn’t even want to guess their ages, or what they might be worth. His eyes drifted to the top shelf and he frowned, tucked between two leather-bound books was what looked suspiciously like a scroll. He turned quickly towards the window, hands slipping into his pockets, and stared at the square outside. It didn’t make sense; you dressed simply, avoided attention like the plague, and yet you lived in a townhouse in one of the more expensive parts of London with, what he could only assume, was a small literary fortune on your living room wall. Pulling out his phone, he started typing a message when a floorboard creaked as you stepped into the room and leant against the doorway, breaking him out of his thoughts.
“Been here long?” he blurted out with all the subtlety of Hemsworth.
“A while,” you answered with a raised eyebrow.
Tom looked around, suddenly uneasy.
Glancing at your bookshelves you wondered what he had seen. “Ready to go?”
“Uh, sure,” Tom said as he made his way over.
As they left, his eyes snagged again on the coat and boots by the front door, something dark twisting low in his gut.
“You live here alone, or—” he asked before he could stop himself.
“My brother,” you answered, locking the door and refusing to acknowledge the jealousy you heard loud and clear.
The markets spread out before you in a bustle of colour and noise, the narrow lanes crammed with people, bright awnings, rails of clothing, and stalls glittering with cheap metal beneath the sun. Somewhere nearby a busker was mangling an old song on a guitar, the notes slipping in and out of tune beneath the hum of a hundred different conversations. The air was filled with the scent of frying sausages, sugar, freshly baked bread, incense, and that unmistakable grease that always seemed to linger. No matter how many lifetimes you lived, market days would always be the same. You tugged your jacket a little tighter around you against the early autumn chill, feeling a sudden longing for the markets of Egypt, mouth watering at the memory of warm flatbread, sticky dates, and spices piled high in painted bowls. Beneath it all lingered the craving to eat one of Brynja’s honey cakes again. Letting out a sigh you walked forward.
Tom watched you take it all in, drifting unbothered through the crowds, stopping every now and then when curiosity got the better of you. The market was heaving, locals and tourists pressed shoulder to shoulder through the narrow lanes, and being noticed felt almost inevitable. Jaimie’s very pointed advice that you didn’t like fuss echoed in his thoughts, someone was bound to not only recognise him, but you as well. He had just opened his mouth to ask if you were sure about being seen in such a place with him, when the air around him shifted and the cramped market gave way to something much older. Sunlit stone replaced the uneven pavement and bright banners stirred in the wind where battered awnings had been. A woman in a simple brown dress, her grey cloak tucked close against the chill, wandered through the square, her attention caught by every little thing she passed.
A group of tourists laughing loudly cut between them and the moment snapped back to the present so sharply Tom thought he was dreaming and would wake in his bed. He looked around and realised you were no longer beside him. Worry settled in his chest as he tried to work out where you had gone before he caught sight of your jacket up ahead.
“This is your element, isn’t it?” Tom asked when he caught up to you, his hand brushing the small of your back to guide you away from a group of teenagers rushing past.
“I like the noise,” you admitted. “It makes me feel… I don’t know, alive.”
He nodded, glancing over the stalls as you walked. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“Make sense?” you asked, looking up at him.
“That you’d like this.” His eyes twinkled with something he wasn’t saying. “It’s a different kind of chaos to societal events.”
“Hmm, yes. The gala that got my face splashed across every newspaper from here to Dublin.” You shot him a look.
“And here I was thinking everyone secretly enjoyed chandeliers and public scrutiny.”
“All that pomp ever really shows is how the elite see only the version that flatters them the most.” You turned the glass bauble in your hand. “It’s one of the reasons Louis lost his head.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “You seem to know a lot about history.”
“And you’re surprisingly good at this,” you told him.
“At what?”
“Blending in. You’re not exactly someone who screams low profile.”
He laughed, head tipping back, the sound so full and unguarded that it drew a few curious glances. “Ah, but that’s the trick, isn’t it? To make standing out look like you belong.”
You arched a brow. “Is that so?” You stopped at one stall, fingers grazing lightly over the notebooks there. “So the best way to hide is to not hide?”
“Comes with years of practice,” he replied. “People don't expect to see you in the mundane.”
“No, I suppose they don’t.” You gave him a small smile before paying the vendor.
Tom smiled and bent to whisper playfully in your ear, “Besides, weren’t you the one who agreed to ordinary. I’m just trying to keep up.”
Nearby, someone did a double take at the two of you and lifted their phone to take a photo.
You ducked to look at a stall brimming with handmade jewellery, running your fingers over silver bracelets and chains. Tom lingered behind you, but you could feel his gaze like a weight, following every small motion.
“See anything you like?” he asked, stepping beside you.
Your hand reached towards one shaped like the armlets you had once worn, its green glass eyes glinting in the sun
“Maybe this.” You held up a delicate bracelet shaped like a serpent, its body coiled into a circle.
The vendor leant forward eagerly. Tom stilled when a glint of gold at your wrist caught his attention. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his features, almost like recognition, but then it vanished and he smiled again.
“No,” he said lightly, taking the bracelet from you and placing it back on the velvet. “Not your style.” Before you could ask what he meant, he reached for another and held it out to you. “This one seems more like you.”
You blanched at the chain of forget-me-nots etched into the silver. “Maybe,” you replied in a whisper. Running your finger over the engraving once, you swallowed hard against the sudden burn behind your eyes and quickly slipped the bracelet back onto the display.
Tom watched you walk away with a frown, unsure where the sudden change in your mood had come from. Without thinking, he turned back to the display, picked up the bracelet and paid for it before hurrying after you.
The two of you wandered through the markets for a while after that, neither mentioning what happened at the jewellery stall, though the moment seemed to hang quietly between you all the same. When Tom eventually suggested lunch, he offered you his arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world and, after a slight hesitation, you slid your hand through before heading towards the food stalls. A little later you found yourself perched on stools at one that served steaming bowls of pho.
Tom fumbled with the chopsticks, nearly dropping a slice of beef into his lap, and you laughed so hard you had to grab the edge of the counter to stop yourself from spilling your broth down your top.
“Stop enjoying this so much,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a smile breaking through.
“I thought movie stars were supposed to be suave and unflappable,” you teased, still laughing as he glared at the noodles like they had personally offended him.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” he said dryly. “My dignity undone by noodles.”
“It’s a little devastating,” you agreed, biting your bottom lip to stop laughing with little success.
Something in the way he looked at you then, all feigned indignation and entirely too pleased that he’d made you laugh, made your heart flutter in a way it hadn’t in years. The vendor chuckled at the exchange, muttering something about “lovebirds” under her breath. Heat rushed to your cheeks and you dropped your gaze at once, pretending to be very interested in your bowl. Tom only smirked and sipped his broth like he hadn’t heard a thing, which somehow made it worse.
The hours stretched into each other as you lingered among the stalls that afternoon. The summer light fell in golden streaks across the crowded walkways, catching on glass bottles of perfume oils and glittering stones in trays that vendors claimed were rare and magical. Tom leant in close as a woman thrust a vial under his nose, the musky-sweet scent making him wrinkle his face dramatically and you couldn’t help laughing.
“What, you don’t think it suits me?” he asked, eyes dancing with laughter as he held it out for you to smell.
You leaned in, catching the faint scent of cloves beneath the lavender. “You’d smell like someone’s grandmother’s attic,” you said, wrinkling your nose.
He clutched at his chest in offence. “Cruel. Absolutely cruel.”
The vendor, unimpressed by the banter, moved on to the next group of people, but Tom was still grinning as you tugged him away.
“This would look nice on that bookshelf of yours,” he said a little later, pressing something into your hand.
You glanced down and found a wooden carving of a fox, small enough to fit in your palm. “It’s cute,” you admitted, brushing your thumb over the polished surface.
“Cunning,” he corrected softly, his expression unreadable again for a moment. “Loyal, too.”
Something in the way he said it made you pause. The noise of the market dimmed around you as Asgard’s meadows came into focus, but then Tom smiled again, bright and disarming, and the weight of it slipped away. You tucked the carving into your bag, pretending it hadn’t unsettled you.
At another stall, you stopped to admire a collection of scarves dyed in brilliant shades. Without asking, Tom plucked a deep green one from the pile and draped it around your shoulders.
“Perfect,” he said, stepping back to admire you. “Though not as gorgeous as that dress you wore to the gala.”
You rolled your eyes, adjusting the fabric to take it off and put it back, unable to hide the warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not,” he corrected. “You looked stunning.”
“Oh really?” you asked with a mischievous glint in your eye.
Before he could answer a group of young fans recognised him, whispering and giggling to each other as they approached. Tom slipped seamlessly into the interaction, posing for photos, his charm effortless. You drifted to a nearby stall, pretending to be interested in loose-leaf tea while watching them out of the corner of your eye, struck by how easily he carried himself there, how natural it seemed for him to belong to everyone and no one at once. You’d once wondered who Loki would have been had he not been born a prince, and it seemed you now had your answer. When he rejoined you, you handed him a paper cup of tea you’d bought while waiting.
“For surviving the ordeal.”
He took it with exaggerated relief, brushing his fingers deliberately against yours. “A true reward.”
As the sun dipped low, lanterns flickered to life along the canalside and music swelled from another corner of the market, you slowed without meaning to, your steps falling in time with the melody. Tom noticed, tilting his head as though listening to something more than the music.
“Beautiful,” he said softly, but his eyes weren’t on the violinist, they were on you.
For a moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to this stretch of cobblestones, to the warm glow of lantern light and the way his gaze lingered.
You cleared your throat, pulling away from him slightly. “I should probably head home.”
“Let me walk you,” Tom offered.
“Alright,” you said quietly.
You both walked the whole way in silence. Tom was close enough that his shoulder skimmed yours when the pavement narrowed, and once when a cyclist came far too near, his hand found the small of your back to guide you aside. By the time you reached your door, your heart was a tangle of things you didn’t want to name.
“Thank you,” you said, standing there with your key in hand.
Tom tilted his head. “For noodles? For foxes? Or for allowing me to witness your deeply concerning ability to vanish into crowds?”
A reluctant smile pulled at your mouth. “For the day.”
He leant against the rail, hands in his pockets, watching you with a softness that made the world feel smaller. “You’re welcome.”
You should have said goodnight. You should have stepped inside, closed the door and put a sensible amount of space between yourself and whatever this was becoming. Instead you lingered. Tom seemed in no hurry to move either. He stood there with his hands in his coat pockets, the evening light caught in his hair, looking at you in that quiet, searching way of his that always made your pulse feel suddenly too loud. Somewhere beyond the square a car passed, tyres whispering over the road. You became painfully aware of the fact that you were standing very close to him. Tom blinked, as though remembering himself, and one hand came out of his pocket.
“Oh,” he said, almost like an afterthought. “Here. I nearly forgot.”
Frowning slightly, you looked down. The silver bracelet lay in his palm, forget-me-nots etched delicately along the band, their tiny petals catching the last light of the day, and for a moment all you could do was stare.
“You bought it?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended.
Tom’s smile turned sheepish. “You walked off looking as though it had personally offended you.” He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I made the mistake of becoming curious, and it seemed a shame to leave it there. It was easier to buy it than spend the next week wondering why I hadn’t.”
Your throat tightened. It was only a bracelet, a little market trinket made of silver and forget-me-nots; yet it wasn’t at the same time. Of all the items he could have chosen it was that one. Seeing it there in his hand, offered so simply this time, made your chest ache in a way you could not quite name.
Tom’s gaze flicked from the bracelet back to your face, some of the amusement slipping from his expression when he saw whatever was written there.
“If you don’t want it,” he said lightly, though the words were just a fraction too clipped. “I can pretend this never hap—”
“No.” You swallowed, suddenly conscious of the way his fingers curved around the bracelet like he had known, somehow, that he would be giving it to you here. “I don’t mind it,” you said, and hated unsteady you sounded. “I just…” You looked back down at the bracelet and could not bring yourself to explain why the sight of it hurt.
He stepped a little closer, lifting a hand and softly wiping away a tear you didn’t realise had fallen.
“May I?” he asked, glancing at your wrist.
You should have said no, or that you could do it yourself, instead Tom took your wrist carefully, as though aware of how easily the moment could break, and you let him. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist as he fastened the bracelet into place and the contact sent a ridiculous little shiver up your arm. You were suddenly far too aware of everything — the warmth of his hand, the slight bend of his head, the closeness of his body, your own breath caught somewhere high in your chest. The clasp clicked shut but he did not let go immediately. His eyes lingered on your wrist for a moment, on the silver flowers now circling it, before lifting slowly to your face. The humour had gone from his expression entirely and what remained made your pulse stumble.
“There,” Tom murmured.
His hand slid from your wrist, fingers brushing yours on the way down, lingering just long enough to make the movement feel deliberate.
“Vicky,” he said, and there was something in the way he said the name that made you look up before you could stop yourself. Oh, how you wanted him to say your name.
His eyes dropped briefly to your lips and for one second you thought he might kiss you. Even worse, you realised with sudden, terrible clarity, was that you wanted him to.
Tom seemed to come to the same conclusion at the exact moment you did, because something shifted in his face, a flicker of surprise quickly hidden beneath that familiar smile. Instead of closing the distance, he lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair back from your face with a gentleness that undid you far more than a kiss might have. Then he leant in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.
“Goodnight,” he said, stepping back before you could think of a single sensible response.
Tom’s smile widened just slightly at whatever he found on your face, then he turned and began walking back down the path as though he had not just rearranged your entire evening.
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: While filming abroad Tom discovers that leaving has become far harder than it once was.
Word count: ~1.6k words
Warnings: References to alcohol, drinking, and adult topics
A/N: I know it may not have been filmed during this period, however for this story we'll assume it was.
Life Or Something Like It Master List | Master list
Italy, Late summer 2006
The Italian sun was relentless. Even late in the afternoon the light spilled across the hills, heat clinging to everything. Cicadas buzzed in the olive trees below, their noise rising and falling in waves. Tom sat on the terrace with his script open in his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in a while. A glass of water sat forgotten on the table beside him.
He shifted the script on his knee, meaning to reread the scene, but the pages slipped and a photo slid loose, landing against the stone tiles at his feet. He bent to pick it up, smiling at it before tucking it safely back between the pages, staring out at the hills again, the dialogue forgotten entirely. Somewhere inside the villa, laughter drifted out through an open window. Emma, by the sound of it, teasing someone about burning lunch. He really should be running lines. Instead, his thoughts kept circling back to the same place. To the same person. He closed the script and set it aside, the corner of the photo just visible between the pages, and leant back in the chair.
He could picture her without trying: curled up on the sofa with a book or a script, feet tucked beneath her, that absent-minded little frown she got when she was concentrating; probably in one of his jumpers that had somehow ended up in her closet. His favourite one still smelled faintly of her shampoo no matter how many times he’d washed it. Leaving had never bothered him before. He’d always been good at goodbyes — school, holidays, split parents — but this one had lodged somewhere awkward. Evie had stood on her toes to kiss him at the airport, smiling like she always did, telling him to enjoy himself. Her hand had lingered in his just a second longer than necessary and that second had followed him all the way to Italy. He’d missed people before yet this didn't feel like that, it felt like something had quietly rearranged the centre of his life while he hadn’t been looking.
Emma appeared in the doorway, a magazine tucked under her arm, squinting at him through the brightness. “You’re staring into space again.”
“Thinking,” he answered.
“That’s what you said this morning.”
He smiled faintly. “I do think quite a lot.”
She dropped into the chair beside him, stretching her legs out. “You’re distracted.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Or as Sarah called it, ‘mooning’.”
“I am not!”
“Distracted.” Emma gestured at him, her smile all too knowing.
“Fine,” he sighed. “Am I that obvious?”
She snorted. “You checked your phone ten times during lunch, you almost called me ‘Evie’ at breakfast, and you haven’t complained about the heat once.”
He groaned, covering his face with a hand. “Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”
“Not even slightly.”
He laughed despite himself, then let his hand fall. The humour faded as he looked back out over the hills. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he admitted.
“Like what?”
“Like leaving would be the hard part.”
Emma frowned. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Tom said quickly before adding, “just… realised a few things.”
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “So how long till I’m calling her my sister?” she asked, half teasing, half serious.
“What?! I—“ Tom spluttered, caught off guard. This was normally Sarah’s thing.
Emma grinned, watching the blush crawl up his face. “Oh, you’re in trouble!”
“Emma! I—what, no! what I mean—“ Tom tried again before sighing. “Not for a long, long time.”
That night after filming, when the villa had gone quiet and the air had finally cooled down somewhat, Tom stepped back out onto the terrace. He pulled his phone from his pocket and read the message that he had been forced to ignore while they shot the scene.
Evie: Hope you’re eating properly. Don’t forget sunscreen. Love you.
He smiled, a warmth spreading through him in a way that had nothing to do with the Italian summer.
Tom: I am, promise. Miss you. Love you too.
He stared at the screen for a moment before sending it, then set the phone down on the table. Her reply came a few minutes later.
Evie: Miss you too.
Tom sat back in his chair, the night sky stretching wide above him, and for the first time since arriving felt the restlessness ease. Would it have been so bad if the outcome was different? No. No it wouldn’t have been. He’d meant what he’d told her, it wouldn’t have been a disaster, because this — whatever this was — wasn’t something that would disappear when filming wrapped.
Sitting there beneath the Italian sky, with Evie’s message still glowing faintly on the screen, Tom knew that whatever came next, whether it was work, distance, or the inevitable chaos of life, it didn’t change the one thing he was certain of.
He couldn't imagine a life without her.
London, Late summer 2006
The club was louder than Evie remembered it being last time, music thumping through the space and bodies packed too close together. It smelt faintly of cheap body spray and spilled drinks even though it was still early in the evening. Clara had insisted on dragging her out tonight, something about “you need to get out before you start moping properly,” which Evie had firmly denied while simultaneously checking her phone every five minutes.
“You’re doing it again,” Clara said, not even looking at Evie as she took a sip of her drink.
“No I’m not,” Evie replied automatically, placing her phone face down onto the table.
“Yes, you are,” Clara said, now glancing at her properly. “I swear if you stare at it any harder it might actually ring out of pity.”
Evie huffed in annoyance. “He’s busy.”
“Yes, actors do occasionally have jobs,” Clara deadpanned. “Shocking, I know.”
Evie rolled her eyes, but her fingers tapped the table, hovering near her phone. “It’s just… I don’t know.”
Clara tilted her head at that, nudging Evie’s foot under the table. “I know you miss him.”
Evie shrugged, reaching for her drink. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Evie pursed her lips, playing with the straw in her drink, the silence between them filled with the thrum of music and clinking glasses. Picking up her drink, she took a longer sip than intended, choking slightly when the alcohol burned her throat.
Clara watched her for a moment, then leant forward. “Alright, what happened? Because this.” She gestured at Evie. “Is more than just ‘my boyfriend is away and I’m moping’.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I am not.”
“Evie.”
Evie exhaled, long and slow, like she was trying to decide whether to say something or not. “It’s nothing.”
Clara raised an eyebrow. “That’s never true.”
Evie let out an awkward laugh. “We… had a weird night before he left.”
“Weird how?” Clara perked up immediately. “I knew he was into that kinky shit.”
“Not that kind of weird!" Evie said, then bit her lip in hesitation and mumbled too quickly, like if she didn’t get it out in one go she wouldn’t say it at all. “IthoughtIwaspregnant.”
Clara’s mouth dropped open. “You— what?”
Evie winced slightly, already regretting opening her mouth. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing, Evie.”
“It was a scare,” she said quickly, waving a hand like she could physically brush it away. “I was late and we— it was just—” She stopped, pressing her lips together. “It doesn’t matter now anyway.” Evie lifted her drink slightly, as though that proved the point.
Clara stared at her for a moment, then sat back in her chair, processing. “That’s—” she let out a short chuckle. “Well, that explains Miss Mopeypants.”
Evie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well. Add it to the list.”
“So I’m guessing he didn’t exactly take it well?” Clara prompted.
Evie glanced up at her, something settling into her expression. “He didn’t break up with me.”
Clara’s brows lifted slightly. “Look, it’s a low bar.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Evie said.
“Evie, boys our age hear the word pregnant and run.” Clara gave her a look. “What did he do?”
“He went out and got a test. Came back looking like he’d forgotten how words work.”
Clara snorted into her drink. “That tracks.”
“And then I cried,” Evie added. “A lot.”
“Also tracks.”
“Clara.” Evie nudged her under the table with her foot. “I was panicking.”
“Let me guess, you still think he’s gonna leave?”
Evie didn’t answer straight away, just played with her straw. “…Yeah.” She kept her eyes on her glass.
Clara’s expression softened properly this time. “Has he said he is?”
“No,” Evie said quietly.
There was a brief pause before Clara straightened slightly, her usual energy returning. “Well. Good. I like him.”
“You liked him before.”
“Yes, but now I like him more,” Clara corrected. “He passes the unexpected pregnancy panic test. That’s at least a B-plus.”
Evie laughed properly then, the sound lighter than it had been all evening. “Only a B-plus?”
“Well, he didn’t immediately propose, did he?”
Evie didn’t say anything, only looked down and played with her straw.
“Oh my God, that would be right! Takes ages to kiss you, then proposes without a second thought,” Clara cackled.
“Clara—”
“I’m just saying,” she grinned, lifting her glass. “At least he didn’t run. That’s promising.”
Evie shook her head, smiling, and clinked her glass against Clara’s. “Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: Poor decisions in Provence catch up to Tom and Evie. What does this mean for the future?
Word count: ~2k words
Warnings: No major OMG ones that I can think of?
Life Or Something Like It Master List | Master list
Chelsea, Summer 2006
Evie reached for the calendar, uncapping a pen with her teeth as she leant over her kitchen counter.
“What date did you say?” she asked.
“This Monday coming, the twenty-fourth,” Tom replied, pouring the pasta in the saucepan.
“Have you finished packing?”
Tom flashed her a grin, quickly looking back at the stove. “It’s a, uh… work in progress.”
“Tom,” Evie sighed, shaking her head as she looked back at the calendar and asked, “Want a lift?”
“Sure.”
She nodded, then stopped writing halfway through. Pen hovering over the little square, she glanced between the date and the beginning of the month, feeling her stomach drop. “…that’s not right,” she mumbled under her breath. Placing the pen down, she quickly flipped the calendar open to last month, her finger landing on a date, then flicking back to the current month as she counted the days since. “Oh… no…”
Tom glanced over. “What?”
She didn’t answer straight away, just kept looking at the page. How did it slip her mind? At the back of her thoughts she knew how — she’d gone away, Clara had dragged her out as soon as she got back, and work had been ridiculously busy. Maybe it was the diet of nothing but coffee these last ten days.
“…Evie?”
“I’m late,” she said without looking at him.
“Late?”
Her grip tightened slightly on the calendar. “Late, late.”
He turned fully then, frowning, and wiped his hands absently on a tea towel, eyes flicking between her and the calendar as though one of them might explain if he looked long enough. “Define ‘late’.”
Evie closed the calendar with a soft snap and set it and the pen aside a little too neatly. Tom caught the action and felt worry settle in his chest like a weight. “It’s probably nothing,” she said, though her voice didn’t quite commit to it. “Stress. Or travel. Or—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.
“Evelyn, talk to me.”
Evie shook her head and pushed herself away from the counter. “No, no, no—” she muttered, more to herself than to him, pacing a few steps before stopping sh. “That’s not— I mean, it could just be—” She broke off, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to bite back a sob.
Tom took a step towards her. “Hey—”
“I need a minute,” she said quickly, already moving past him. “I just— I need—” She disappeared into the bathroom, the door not quite shutting properly behind her.
Tom stood there for a second, listening to the sound of the tap turning on and the faint scrape of movement, wondering what had just happened. He dragged a hand through his hair, turning once in a small, restless circle like he’d misplaced something important. Eyes landing on the calendar, he picked it up and opened it, not caring that the pen clattered to the floor. Seventeenth. Every month, like clockwork. He flipped the pages, checking the last few months, spotting the little marks Evie made, and when he saw that there was none this month the colour drained from his face. He looked towards the bathroom door, half-stepping in that direction before stopping again, the words not quite forming fast enough to be useful.
Think, Hiddleston!
There was a pharmacy just down the road near the Tesco. Before he could say anything else, he was already moving, grabbing his keys on the way out.
Evie stared at herself in the mirror for a long moment. Her reflection didn’t look any different. Same hair, slightly frizzy from the heat, same pale skin, same freckles scattered across her cheeks. Nothing about her suggested anything had changed, which somehow made it worse. She pressed her lips together, gripping the edge of the sink a little tighter.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said to her reflection. “Stress. Or—” She stopped, exhaling sharply through her nose. “Or I’ve just miscounted.”
Her bottom lip trembled. That wasn’t true. It came the same day every month, had done so for years. Evie pushed herself upright and paced once across the small space before stopping again, hands hovering uselessly at her sides like she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them. This wasn’t how this was meant to happen. Not like this. Not on a Friday night with him cooking dinner, not with flights booked and normal life still sitting just outside the door. It was meant to be…
She stopped and looked at the door. Meant to be when? They’d never actually had this conversation. Did he even want this?
“Don’t spiral,” she muttered. “Not helpful.”
The smoke alarm went off and Evie yelped, hands covering her ears. She stepped back into the kitchen, expecting to find Tom hovering near the stove trying to fix whatever had caused it to go off. Instead the room was empty.
The pasta in the saucepan had started to burn, the spoon left resting awkwardly on the side, his glass sat where he’d abandoned it. She stared at it for a moment, something in her chest tightening, before rushing over to turn the stove off and dump the pasta straight into the sink. She turned the tap on full blast, only managing to send more smoke to flooding through the kitchen. Coughing, she waved a hand in front of her face, switched the tap off, and turned towards the living room.
He’d been right here a second ago. Hadn’t he?
“…Tom?”
No answer.
Evie huffed out a noise, somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, dragging a hand through her hair.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Figures.”
She walked back to the kitchen, looked down at the calendar, then pulled out a chair and sat slowly, resting her palms flat against the table as though grounding herself might help. She glanced towards the front door once more before pressing a hand to her mouth when the tears finally broke through.
The bell above the door gave a small, indifferent chime as Tom pushed it open. The shop was brighter than he expected, rows of neatly arranged shelves and fluorescent lighting that felt a little too harsh after the softer light of Evie’s flat. He slowed his pace deliberately, forcing himself not to stride straight to the counter like a man on a mission. That would look suspicious. Probably.
He stood there for a moment, staring at a shelf of vitamins as though they might offer guidance. So your girlfriend might be pregnant. They definitely hadn’t covered that at school. He groaned and ran a hand down his face, already certain his mother was going to kill him.
Eyes scanning the shelves, he read the labels.
Multivitamins.
Fish oil.
Something labelled ‘energy boost’.
“…not here,” he muttered under his breath. He just needed to find a test.
Tom turned down the next aisle, eyes scanning a little too quickly before he forced himself to slow down again.
Normal. Be normal. Don’t draw attention to yourself. There, bottom shelf.
He crouched, picking one up and turning it over in his hands, reading the instructions as though this were a casual, everyday purchase and not something that currently felt like it might alter the course of his entire life.
Results in three minutes.
He grabbed a second box without really thinking, then paused, staring at both of them. Was two excessive? Or sensible? What if the first test failed, or she dropped it in the toilet? What if it happened again?
He frowned slightly, doing a quick, entirely unhelpful mental calculation before deciding he didn’t have time for this and dropped both into the basket. He turned and walked towards the counter, resisting the urge to check his watch even though it felt like he’d been gone far longer than he probably had.
The pharmacist looked up as he approached. “Hi there.”
“Hi,” Tom replied, his voice coming out a touch too high as he placed the basket down with what he hoped was a reasonable level of calm.
The pharmacist glanced into it, then back up at him with a small, professional smile.
“Anything else today?”
“Um—” Tom glanced briefly over his shoulder, as though inspiration might be waiting behind him. “No, I think that’s— that’s everything.”
“Alright.”
There was a brief silence as the items were scanned, the beep of the machine sounding far louder than it should have. Tom shifted his weight slightly, then reached into his pocket for his wallet, fingers a little less steady than usual.
“Busy evening?” the pharmacist asked.
Tom let out a short breath that might have been a laugh if panic wasn’t starting to take hold. “Something like that.”
The total flashed up on the screen. He paid, nodding his thanks, and picked up the small paper bag, suddenly very aware of how light it felt. Shouldn’t life-alternating things weigh more than this?
He stepped back out onto the street, the door chiming behind him again. For a second he just stood there. His mum was going to kill him. His dad probably would too. Evie’s dad was going to—
Tom ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath when he realised what he’d done.
“I didn’t tell her I’d left,” he muttered, and started walking back a little faster.
The front door opened with a soft click. Evie looked up immediately from where she was sitting at the table, her hands still flat against the surface like she hadn’t quite trusted herself to move. Tom stepped inside, a small paper bag in his hand, pausing just long enough to shut the door behind him. For a second neither of them said anything.
“I—” he started, then stopped, holding the bag up sheepishly instead.
“I thought—” Another pause as he tried to work out what to say. “Just in case.”
Evie nodded once, her gaze dropping briefly to the bag before returning to his face.
“I should’ve said something before I left,” he added.
She croaked out a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. “You think?”
“That, um, that was—” He gestured vaguely behind him. “Not my finest moment.”
Tom set the bag on the table and looked at Evie. When he saw her tear-streaked face his stomach dropped.
“Oh, Evie…”
He quickly pulled out a chair, sat beside her and cupped her face, his thumbs trying to wipe away the tears.
“I thought you’d left,” she sobbed.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know this is— this is not great timing— but it’s not like we were being completely irresponsible. It was just that one night, and we’d been drinking and— not that that’s an excuse, that’s worse actually—”
“Evie—”
“You’ve got auditions and things, and I don’t want this to— derail anything, because that would be awful and I’d feel terrible— and I’m not saying we have to decide anything right now—”
“Evelyn—” Tom tried again, thumbs lightly stroking her cheeks.
“And I can handle it, by the way. Not that I want to handle it alone, I just— I mean— if you don’t want this— I’m capable, I’ve got a job, I can—”
Tom didn’t bother saying her name for a third time. He leant forward and cut her rambling off with a kiss. His lips pressed against hers, firm and grounding, deepening it slightly when he felt some of the tension in her body ease. Evie’s brain halted, trying to scramble to catch up to what was happening. She'd been so sure he’d walked out and not come back.
“…what was that?” she asked faintly when they parted.
“That,” he said, still slightly breathless, “was me trying to get a word in edgeways.”
“You’re not—” she gestured vaguely between them, “—running away?”
Tom raised an eyebrow at her. “Evie,” he said. “You’ve not even taken the test yet.”
“That’s not a no,” she pointed out.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “No,” he said. “I’m not running away.”
Evie sniffed and took a breath that shuddered on the way out as she tried not to cry. Tom looked at her, eyes still brimming with tears and a deep fear he hated seeing. He never wanted to be the cause of that look again.
“We’ll be alright,” he said. “Whatever the answer is, we’ll be alright.”
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Evelyn (Evie) Brown (OFC)
Summary: Romantic getaways, lavender sunsets, and a birthday celebration that ends up bluring the lines of decision making.
Word count: ~2.4k words
Warnings: References to drinking. References to smut.
Life Or Something Like It Master List
Master list
France, July 2006
The early morning light slipped through the half-shuttered windows to pool across the bedsheets, and the air hung heavy with the scent of lavender drifting in from the fields. Evie blinked against it, half awake, and for a long, lazy moment she couldn’t remember where she was, only that it was warm and peaceful. Closing her eyes, she started to drift off again, only for them to snap open when the sound of Tom swearing under his breath came from somewhere nearby. She rolled over to find him near the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, hair an ungovernable mess, trying to coax something that looked suspiciously like coffee out of the battered percolator.
“Morning,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep.
He startled then turned and smiled, that wide, boyish grin that always undid her. “Good morning, love. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed, but the coffee may have other plans.”
“It’s making a noise like it’s possessed.” Evie sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist.
“That’s how you know it’s nearly done.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is that what they taught you at Eton?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “No, that’s what happens when you watch too many cooking shows at two in the morning.”
She got out of bed, throwing on a shirt and padded barefoot across the cool tiles. Tom turned towards her and looked down at her, eyes gentler than she’d ever seen on him. They stood like that for a while, their reflections caught faintly in the kitchen window, the morning light wrapped around them making the small cottage feel like its own little world.
Lifting a hand, Tom lightly stroked her cheek with his thumb and she leaned into his touch without thinking.
“What did you want to do today?”
“Hmm?” Evie tilted her head to the side as she thought, running her hands over his shoulders and clasping her hands together behind his head.
“I’m guessing something that involves a lot of walking?” he asked, leaning back against the countertop and pulling her with him. “I did see you eye off those ruins on the way here.”
“Tomorrow.” Evie grinned mischievously at him.
“Tomorrow?” Tom asked with a frown. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Can’t I want to just spend the day with you here?” she questioned, sinking to her knees.
Tom opened his mouth to answer, only to forget what he had been about to say when Evie moved, clearly having other plans for the morning. His fingers tightened against the counter, head falling back slightly, a quiet groan escaping as he exhaled sharply.
When they eventually sat on the patio to eat breakfast, Evie watched him in quiet delight as Tom read the local paper aloud in terrible French, laughing at himself every few sentences.
By the time they’d finished breakfast and got dressed, the heat had set in properly for the day. Evie leaned over the small stone balcony of their rented cottage in a light dress, her auburn curls starting to frizz in the heat. She stared out over the lavender fields, the sun painting everything in a bright glow while the air hummed with that endless, shimmering summer sound. It would never compare to the blistering Australian summers, but it was a season she could learn to tolerate. At least this year she wasn’t wearing a jumper as soon as the weather hit under twenty-five degrees, okay maybe once it hit eighteen.
Fidgeting with a strand of hair, Evie wondered how long it would be before Clara texted Tom when she realised she hadn’t replied, only because she’d decided to turn her phone off once they got here. Hearing Tom’s phone buzz on the table inside, she knew it hadn’t taken Clara long at all.
She’d been looking forward to this break; they both had. It felt like she had barely spoken to Tom in person these last few months. As soon as she had finished work and come home, he was heading off to get ready for that evening, their conversations reduced to quick phone calls during their breaks or a text here and there. Seeing him perform as always was a wonderful experience, he had this way of bringing the stage to life. She knew he was doing something he loved and would never stop him, but she still missed him. Looking down at Tom, she watched him hover over the barbecue like a man performing surgery, flipping whatever was sizzling with far more drama than necessary.
“You’re going to burn that, you know,” she called out.
“I am not,” he protested. “This is a delicate process. Timing is everything.”
“Timing,” she said, “and the fact you’ve gone through two bottles of wine trying to ‘get the sauce right’.”
“Creative process, darling. You wouldn’t understand.” He grinned over his shoulder at her, golden curls catching the light.
“I’m sure Gordon Ramsay wouldn’t, either.”
Tom laughed, a sound that always felt like the world opening up a little brighter. “We did drink most of the first one.”
“Details, details,” Evie deflected with a wave of her hand.
He plated the food with surprising finesse and carried it over to the little wrought-iron table under the tree.
“Another one?” Evie asked when Tom handed her a wine glass.
“Why not? We’re on holiday. No work, no responsibilities, and nowhere to be.” He grinned at her and took a sip from his glass.
They ate lunch barefoot in the shade, her legs tangled with his under the table, slowly making their way through the bottle, laughing over nothing, over the rented car that had nearly died halfway up the road on the way here, over the spider that had decided to take up residence in the shower which Tom valiantly disposed of.
Tom reached for the bottle to top up her glass again without checking how much was already in it.
Evie frowned slightly, looking at her glass. “Is this the same bottle or a different one?”
“I genuinely couldn’t tell you,” he admitted.
She shrugged and took a sip anyway, setting it back down a little too close to the edge.
“It’s strange not seeing you on stage every night.” Evie said, her fingers lightly tracing patterns over his arms where they rested across her legs in his lap.
“It feels strange not being there too, like I can go back to being me.”
“I’m sure you’ll get used to it eventually,” she reassured, reaching across the table for another bite of food.
“I don’t think I ever will,” he said honestly, leaning back in his chair. “It feels like someone else’s life sometimes, and then there’s this—” he gestured between them, “—which feels real.”
Evie smiled bashfully. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.” He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “You make everything stop spinning for a bit.”
The words landed heavier than either expected. Evie looked at him for a long moment, the summer sun in his eyes, that light, liquid blue that always gave him away and knew he meant it.
“Tom,” she said quietly, “you’re a ridiculous romantic sometimes.”
“I’m an actor.” He flashed her a boyish grin. “It’s almost an occupational hazard at this point.”
“No it's not,” she laughed and threw her napkin at him.
He caught it, leaned over and kissed her deeply.
Later they wandered through rows of lavender as the light stretched across the fields. Tom watched Evie walk ahead of him, her dress brushing the flowers, leaving a faint trail of pollen in the air. He snapped a photo of her laughing in the warm afternoon sun and realised he’d never seen anyone so alive.
The restaurant had been warm and far too generous with refills. Tom chose the wine based entirely on how confidently the waiter had said the name, nodding like he understood the difference between regions as though this was knowledge he had always possessed. Evie had watched the exchange with growing amusement.
“You don’t know what that means, do you?” she asked sweetly once the bottle was placed on the table.
“I absolutely do,” he replied, already pouring them both a glass.
“Go on then.”
“It’s, uh…” he paused, squinting at the label. “French,” he finished with a grin.
Evie snorted into her glass, trying not to laugh.
“Happy birthday,” Tom said, lifting his glass. “To twenty-three and still pretending you don’t like being fussed over.”
“I really don’t,” Evie said, wrinkling her nose slightly.
“You will,” he said, gesturing with his drink and almost spilling it. “When our names are up there in lights. Everyone will know how much I love you.”
“Yeah, I’d rather they not.”
“Only by me?”
“For you I’ll make an exception.”
Somewhere around the second course the bottle had emptied and another had been started. Between dessert and the walk back to the cottage, they decided the night air was warm enough to linger by the fountain in the square, the sound of water and distant voices drifting through the warm air.
“Dance with me,” Tom said, pulling Evie closer.
“Always,” she replied.
Both laughing and attempting not to trip over on the cobblestones.
At some point between lingering and laughing too loudly at nothing in particular, his hand had slipped under her dress and neither of them seemed particularly concerned about correcting it. By the time they reached the cottage, they were giddy in that dangerous, overconfident way that only comes from feeling entirely untouchable.
“We were very sophisticated,” Tom declared, attempting to remove his shoes and unbutton his shirt while maintaining dignity.
“You nearly bowed to the waiter,” Evie reminded him, struggling to find the zip at the back of her dress.
“That was gratitude.”
“That was a wobble.”
He grinned, stepping closer. “You’re very bossy for someone who can’t walk straight.”
“I absolutely—” The zip snagged and she veered gently into the wall, dissolving into laughter.
Tom caught her before she could protest, mouth finding hers and for a moment neither of them were laughing anymore. Evie’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, more certain now as she finished unbuttoning it and moved to his belt.
“We’re adults,” Tom said, with the solemnity of someone who was absolutely not behaving like one, trying to pull her zip the rest of the way down.
“We are,” she agreed, attempting to push his jeans down.
“Responsible adults.” He slid her dress off.
“Very responsible,” she replied, before letting out a squeak when Tom grabbed her by the back of the thighs and picked her up.
The bedside lamp was knocked sideways at some point when Tom missed the edge of the bed entirely, laughing into Evie’s shoulder as he corrected himself. There had been a brief, entirely unnecessary argument about whether socks stayed on or not. One of them had said “I can’t find it,” followed by, “don’t worry about it,” and that was that.
The wine absolutely did not help with coordination in the slightest.
Tom woke slowly.
First came sunlight, far too bright and cheery, as it broke through the shutters and pooled across the bed.
Second came the awareness of a headache, deep and rhythmic, like a small drum band had taken up residence behind his eyes.
Third came the sensation of a heavy warmth pressed against his side.
Evie was curled into him, hair everywhere, one leg thrown haphazardly across his. The sheet had been abandoned somewhere near the foot of the bed. The bedside lamp lay on its side like it had witnessed something scandalous and given up. He stared at the ceiling trying to remember the events of the night before, only serving to make his head throb harder.
“Oh,” he said quietly, gingerly placing his arm over his eyes to block out the light.
Evie stirred with a whine that said she felt exactly like he did.
He cleared his throat and looked down at her. “Morning.”
She slowly lifted her head to look around the room then at him. He watched as she paused while memory arranged itself before recognition dawned, followed swiftly by colour flooding her cheeks.
“Did we—” she began.
“Yes.”
They both glanced, entirely unhelpfully, at the small bedside table, lamp askew, her bra dangling off of it. Evie lay back down and stared at the ceiling like she was questioning all of her life choices up to that moment.
“My head hurts,” she said finally.
“So does mine.”
“I’m never drinking again.”
“You say that, but the next time you and Clara go clubbing I'll still be picking you up after one too many cocktails.”
She turned her face into his shoulder and groaned, knowing he was entirely correct. “Please tell me we were responsible?”
Tom hesitated, quickly glancing at the small half-opened packet near the lamp.
“…Tom.”
“Define responsible.”
Evie lifted her head and glanced at the bedside table again, making a noise somewhere between a laugh and despair when she saw the evidence, or lack thereof.
“It was one time,” he said quickly, as though that solved anything at all.
She looked at him again, eyes narrowed. “You do know that’s exactly what people say before it becomes a story told at family dinners.”
Tom went very still. “Uh… no one has to know anything about last night,” he said. “And if anyone asks, two glasses; max.”
“Agreed,” Evie replied immediately, then she smiled, slow and soft and entirely unrepentant. “Worth it?”
He looked at her properly then, sunlight in her hair, eyes bright despite the hangover, and whatever panic had tried to form dissolved before it could take shape. “Completely.”
She kissed him, slower this time. When they parted Evie groaned again, burying her head into the pillow.
“I need panadol.”
“Or a coffee.”
“Both.” Evie nodded against the pillow. “Ow,” she whined, pressing a hand to her head.
“Definitely both if we are walking around today.”
“I don’t want to get up,” she whined.
“Then I vote we go back to sleep,” Tom suggested, pulling the sheet over them and drowning out some of the light.
A/N: Reader will be getting an identity/name in this part; it will hopefully make sense as the story goes on.
Summary: Threats long thought dead rear their ugly head. Home is where the heart is too bad your home can't remember you, where are those bloody ruby slippers when you need them.
Soulmates are meant to be regardless of time and place, can you both resist the Thread of Fate? Or will it burn you in the process?
Warnings: Angst, fluff, light/referenced smut, death of characters, possible ooc actions to canon/fanon (in this fanfic my characters do what they want), references to myths/legends 18+ fic minors DNI. See master list for overall story themes.
Note: If starting from here please be aware of established relationship and family between Loki and Reader.
