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batsutousaiTitle: Für Loki
Series: Tales of the Fairy Men
Fandom: Marvel (movie 'verse) & Real Person Fiction
Author: Batsutousai
Beta: Bri
Rating: Teen
Pairings: Tom Hiddleston/Loki
Warnings: Non-consensual ownership, kinda awkward master/slave relationship, pre-slash
Challenge: 2013 Fairy Tale Writing Prompt Challenge
Summary: Tom Hiddleston, having just come into an unexpected fortune, buys himself a gorgeous new house. Unbeknownst to him, the house comes equipped with its own immortal servant.
Disclaim Her: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Marvel. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The characters of Thomas "Tom" Hiddleston is based on a real person, and no offence is intended; this is only for the amusement of myself and other like-minded (read: mentally ill) fans.
A/N: This is part of a series of fics based on a challenge to write your OTP using various fairy tales. And colours. Twelve fics, one per month, for the entirety of 2013.
September's prompt is The Crane Wife with the colour yellow.
So, erm, I mostly just took the general idea behind this fairy tale and ran with it. All similarities to the actual Crane Wife are incidental. XD
The Crane Wife -- Yellow
-0-
Tom had bought the house on a whim. A windfall had come hunting him, and he'd been about done with the crap flat he'd been existing in for the past two years. Given, he needed a new car, too, but his little lady could take another few months; he wasn't sure he would last that long at his flat.
He'd gone out intending to find a nicer flat, something nearer to a park, or with a garden. Somewhere, anywhere, more alive than his current residence. He'd had absolutely no intention in buying an actual house. Certainly not one with such a large plot of land and so far away from the comforting hustle and bustle of London.
"The land sees to itself," the estate agent who had cajoled him along offered when Tom mentioned that he wouldn't be able to manage the upkeep of the grounds on his own.
Tom shot him a sceptical look, but he had to admit that the lawn was remarkably well-kept for a house that had been on the market for three years. (The estate agent had actually said it was closer to two and a half, but considering the chaos of packing and moving, Tom rounded the number up in terms of maintenance.) The flower beds along the walk seemed to be thriving, the grass wasn't overgrown, and the minor wood shading the back half of the property was kept at a respectful distance from the house, allowing for one to, say, set up a badminton or volleyball game, or have a respectably sized audience out for a play.
After a tour of the, admittedly lovely, grounds, the estate agent finally let them into the house. Here, Tom could see the signs of disrepair that had been missing from outside. A layer of dust covered everything, billowing up under their feet as they stepped across the floor. There was grime darkening the windows and edging around the large mirror hanging over the mantle. Some webs hung in the darker corners, spiders scurrying out of sight as the estate agent drew back the ugly orange curtains over the large window in what had probably once been the dining room, judging by the knock-off chandelier draped with cobwebs hanging central to the window.
Tom wasn't much for cooking, but growing up with more women than men had given him an honest appreciation for the importance of sufficient counter space. He could practically hear Sarah now, demanding he sign his name on the deed based on the kitchen alone.
Emma would appreciate the kitchen, but she, like Tom, would have fallen in love with the expansive lawn, first. Maintenance aside.
Mum would be eyeing the sitting room, measuring out space for the grand piano she'd had to sell after the divorce, as she no longer had room for it. She'd want to make sure there would be room to do a brief dance around the edges, without running into the half-dozen bookcases bowing under her ever-expanding book collection or the antique seating set that had once belonged to her mother's mother.
Dad would be looking for a basement or a good spot for a shed out on the lawn, away from any trees that might react unfavourably if something had an unexpected reaction. Somewhere that he could set up some lab equipment and the two computers he used to keep track of his personal experiments.
For Tom, it was the reading nook built in to the bay window in the master bedroom that finally decided him. It overlooked the back of the property, offering an almost unobstructed view of a small creek Tom hadn't even realised was there. He might have overlooked it again if there hadn't been a deer ducking down to drink as he looked in that direction, the movement attracting his attention. A brief moment spent conferring with the property map found that, yes, the creek was on his property.
"Most of the wood back there is unclaimed," the estate agent offered as Tom traced one finger over the portion of creek inside the property boundaries. "That means you might see an occasional adventurer unknowingly crossing onto the land."
"Hunters?" Tom asked, because the last thing he wanted was to have people over, only for someone to be shot because some overzealous deerstalker was looking for game.
The estate agent paused a little too long and Tom finally looked up at him, taking in the torn, slightly constipated expression twisting his face. At last, he offered, "Locals tend to avoid this area, especially for hunting."
Tom raised an eyebrow, suspecting there was a story behind that. He let it go, though, making a mental note to drop by the local pub first chance he got, see if he couldn't wheedle the truth out of someone with a bit too much drink.
That was about the moment he finally admitted to himself that he was buying the place. He resisted the urge to sigh at himself as he stood, then pasted on a smile and said, "I'll take it."
As expected, Sarah had gushed over the kitchen, refusing to let her boyfriend drag her back to the unloading. Tom just rolled his eyes and set a box of kitchen supplies in front of her. "Have at it," he offered and smiled at the way her eyes lit up and she went digging for a key to cut the tape.
"Mum will tell you off if you don't get a piano," Emma whispered to him while they were taking a brief break in the master bedroom, having just carried up his mattress.
"Nah. A piano will just randomly show up on my front steps one day with only her to help me get it indoors."
Emma snorted and knocked her shoulder against his arm. "She'll give you an hour's warning."
"Forty minutes."
"Fifty."
"Forty-fi–"
"Are you two bartering instead of moving things?" Sarah asked as she came up with a box.
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Get tired of the kitchen already?"
"Ran out of boxes to unpack," she corrected, setting the box down on the window seat and shoving a finger into his chest. "I didn't see your pots. You packed the truck, help me find their box."
Tom sighed and pushed himself up from his seat. "Duty calls," he said with a heavy sigh. Sarah rolled her eyes while Emma grinned. "Don't stay up here much longer," he suggested to his younger sister, who nodded. Then he motioned for Sarah to proceed him back downstairs, checking his mental map of the truck to figure out where to go digging for the last two or so boxes meant for the kitchen.
Tom dropped his bag next to the door with a sigh and paused to run a hand over his face before toeing off his shoes. He'd been out of town for months, and had just enjoyed the plane ride from hell. He loved kids and all, but there was only so long one could stand a screaming baby on an intercontinental flight. (The earplugs the flight staff had handed out with an apologetic grimace had only helped so much.)
Still, as nightmarish as the flight had been, it was good to be home. Even better to come home to a building that didn't include a nasty landlord or a next door neighbour who went through cigarettes like each one might be his last. (Eventually, Tom had always consoled himself, one would be. Even if it would probably be a few years yet.)
Emma had been coming by to keep an eye on the house and her personal touch showed in the fresh yellow flowers in the vase on the table and the windows opened wide to let in the springtime air. It was, unusually, not raining out here, though it had been drizzling in London when he'd caught the company car they'd sent for him. (Better than making him leave his car in the car park for months.)
He smiled and took a whiff of the flowers, then glanced down and smiled wider to see that Emma had left a note for him:
'Put on your slow cooker before I left. Should be about ready when you get in. Enjoy!
And we're still on for dinner Tuesday, yeah? Don't you DARE forget on me.
'love Em'
Tom took a moment to make sure he'd set an alert on his mobile for the dinner – he had – then walked into the kitchen to check the slow cooker. Crossing into the kitchen, he could finally smell it – the open windows had dissipated it too much – and his stomach gave an angry growl. "I know, I know," he murmured, patting it and peering into the glass lid. Curry, it looked like, and he whispered, "God, I love you, Emma," as he looked into the fridge to find the rice he knew his sister would have left for him. It was there, sitting front and centre on the top shelf. He put the rice in the microwave to warm back up and pulled out a bowl and spoon while he waited.
Finally, after serving himself, he walked back out to the dining room and considered sitting to eat. But he was sort of done with sitting for a while, so he shook his head and wandered into the living room, where he stood and stared out the windows at the trees shivering against a particularly strong gust of wind.
When he was done, he sat down at the piano and let his fingers stroke over the keys for a moment before he found himself playing a bit of Für Elise from memory. He winced at a couple of mistakes, then finally got up enough to look under the piano seat for the music. It was at the top, as though the last person to use the piano had performed the same. (It wasn't him, he hadn't had the time. Probably Emma; she liked playing the piano for her current boyfriend, who couldn't play, but had a love of classical music.)
It didn't take him long to get lost in the music, ignoring his own missteps and humming past the parts where he stumbled trying to shift the page.
"I am so out of practise," he commented as he finished, smiling in spite of himself.
He glanced towards the nearest window, silently debating whether he should play another piece or go back to the kitchen for another bowl of curry, and did a double take to see a man just outside, looking completely the part of a wild man. He'd clearly been listening to the music and was just opening bright green eyes when Tom caught sight of him. They stared at one another for a moment before the man let out a horrified moan and ran for the trees.
Tom ran for the back door, unable to ignore the way the man's skin stretched tight over his ribs under all that dirt. "Wait!" he called after the man, who had reached the treeline. "Wait, please! I'm not going to hurt you!"
The man didn't stop running until he'd vanished into the shadows of the trees.
Tom sighed, rubbing at his chin, and went back indoors. He collected his bowl from the piano and returned it to the kitchen. There, he pulled down a new bowl – one of the plastic ones he'd bought for his cousin's kids, aware that having a large yard meant he'd end up hosting at least one family gathering – and filled it with the leftover rice. He added a spoon, then took it out to the back, where he set it on the small porch. "Here," he called to the man in the trees, assuming he hadn't just kept running – Tom hoped he hadn't. "Some rice for you, if you want it."
After a moment of watching the trees for any movement, he shook himself and went back into the house, leaving the bowl. He served himself another portion of curry and put the rest away as he ate, then returned to the piano. He considered it for a moment before hunting through the piano bench for the book of Broadway songs his mum had got him a few years ago for Christmas. It was near the bottom and he shook his head at Emma's dislike for it, then slipped one finger between the pages and settled in to play whatever song he'd landed on.
It was during the second song that he glanced towards the window and saw the man standing there. He was holding the bowl of rice, half empty, and swaying to the music. His eyes were closed again, so he wouldn't have the slightest idea that Tom had noticed him.
Assuming Tom kept playing what was on the page and stopped hitting random keys because he was pleased by his small victory.
Shaking his head at himself, Tom returned his attention to the piano. He glanced towards his guest whenever he turned the page, noticing that the man was eating as he listened. He kept playing until all the rice was gone, then finished the piece he was on and took a moment to stretch.
When he looked back toward the window, the man was gone.
Over the next few days, Tom made a point to keep rice or potatoes – something easy on the stomach – out for his guest during lunch and dinner. He would eat something himself, then put the food out on the back porch and sit down at the piano to play whatever book of music he pulled out. Each time, the man appeared at the window to eat and listen.
Finally, though, it was Tuesday, and he did lunch as usual, but instead of stopping when his guest finished the pasta Tom had left, he said, over the music, "I'm not going to be in for dinner, I'm afraid. I'll leave you something, though, if you want."
When he glanced towards the window, he found the man staring at him with wide eyes, the music forgotten. Tom stopped playing, and the last chord cut off just in time for the man to say, voice cracking with disuse, "Why?"
Tom blinked. "Why am I offering to leave food out? Why am I feeding you at all?"
"Why– Why–" The man scowled a shook his head, clearly searching for the words he needed. After a moment's silence, he finally said, "I am not to be seen. I broke the rule." He looked suddenly furious. "I keep breaking the rule!" He turned to leave.
"Wait!" Tom called, standing from the bench and reaching towards the window. "Who told you you couldn't be seen? Who made that rule?"
The man paused, trembling. When he looked back, his expression was one of uncertainty. "The Master," he replied. At Tom's uncomprehending look, he explained, "He owns this house."
Tom shook his head. "I own this house. I bought it almost five months ago, before I left on business."
The man stared at him. "The Master is...you?" he asked, confused.
Tom bit back a grimace. "I'm no one's master," he insisted. "You are your own person. And if whoever owned this house before me was using you as some sort of servant or something, well, he's gone. You're free."
The man shook his head. "Never free," he murmured, turning away. "New Master." Then he vanished around the side of the house.
By the time Tom got to the back door, the bowl had been left and his guest had vanished again into the wood.
"You always come home from filming with the best stories," Emma said when he asked for her opinion about the man. He'd phrased it like someone had told him a story about such an event while he was away.
Tom sighed. "Yes, thank you, Emma. But what would you do if you were in that position?"
Emma shook her head. "I dunno. Find out who owned the house before, maybe? Or ask the weirdo for a full explanation. His name, at least. He's got to have a name, Tom, come on. Who tells stories without naming all the characters?"
Tom grimaced because, yeah, he really should ask the man's name. And contacting the former owner could prove interesting, but it was worth a shot. He still had the estate agent's number on his mobile.
Their food came, then, and Emma was distracted by the way they'd arranged the food on her plate – she thought it was adorable, Tom thought she might have had a little too much wine. The story about the man was completely forgotten.
By Emma, at least.
"What's your name?" Tom asked the next afternoon, once his guest had finished his rice. Tom had added some unseasoned chicken to the rice and it had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from shouting in glee when the man had gone after the meat with a single-minded determination that Tom had yet to see from him. It answered the question of vegetarian, at least. It also suggested that, as much as the man appreciated the food, he came for the music, since he hadn't gobbled it all up before reaching the window to listen to Tom play.
The man shifted for a moment before offering, "Loki."
Tom raised both eyebrows. "That's the name of a god, you know."
The man fled.
Tom stopped playing so abruptly, the silence was like a ton of bricks. He stared after the man – Loki – in disbelief. "Was it something I said?" he asked the piano.
Finally, he shook himself and collected the bowl and spoon from the back porch and put them in the sink to wash later. Then he called the estate agent.
"I'm sorry, Mr Hiddleston, but the previous owner died," the estate agent explained.
Tom ran a hand through his hair, knocking it all askew and not caring a whit. "Did he have any family, anyone I might talk to about–"
"We don't have any real files on that. I can tell you that no one came forward to claim any of his things after his death. Everything was sold and the money was used to pay for his coffin and plot of land in the local cemetery, next to his wife. You can ask around nearby – his name was George White – but I can't promise you'll get much response. From what I've gathered, he was a bit of a loner. If he hadn't died at the cinema, it's likely no one would have noticed he'd passed."
That was...extremely bleak. Tom couldn't imagine so lonely an existence. He supposed he could almost understand why George White had made Loki...whatever he was. Groundskeeper, Tom suspected, since the property always looked so well-kept. (Though, the unpaid and servant aspects still bothered him.)
"Well, thank you," Tom said to the estate agent.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."
"You've helped some. That's what matters," Tom soothed and the other man gave a grateful chuckle before they both hung up.
For dinner, Tom made sure his iPod was charged, hunted down his small speakers, then brought it and some food out to the back porch. He set Loki's bowl at the far end of the porch, nearest the two steps to the ground, and settled back against the door. He put the iPod on shuffle and settled in to eat, pointedly not watching for his guest.
He didn't realise Loki had arrived until a dirty hand reached out and picked up one of the speakers. Tom looked over to watch as Loki frowned at it, shaking it once before noticing the cord and following it to the iPod. When he went to pick up the iPod, Tom said, "It's an iPod. It plays recorded music."
Loki considered that, hand hovering over the electronic. "Like a...radio?"
"They're similar," Tom agreed. "Radios, though, catch airwaves and translate those into music and such, while the iPod has the music stored inside." He tapped it to light the screen up and smiled as Loki's eyes lit up and he leaned in closer, curious. "Do you want me to show you how to use it?"
Loki immediately nodded and Tom put aside his food to explain the mechanics. When he'd finished, he left it to Loki to decide what music to listen to while he finished eating.
Only after Tom was done and Loki had settled on a song did Tom say, "You told me you'll never be free. Why?"
Loki glanced up from his own bowl, which he'd brought over once he was satisfied with the music, and considered the question. "Master gave you house, but didn't tell?" he finally asked.
Tom grimaced. "Mr White sort of didn't have the chance to tell anyone anything about you; he died three years ago."
Loki's mouth turned with something vicious and cold upon hearing about the previous owner's death, but he quickly wiped his expression clean upon realising Tom was watching him.
Tom sighed. "I take it you didn't like Mr White?"
Loki's fingers spasmed around his bowl. "Master trapped me," he hissed. "Master made me stay here and do his bidding."
Tom pressed a hand against his heart, feeling it ache at Loki's words. "I don't want to keep you here, Loki," he told the man, watching as his eyes widened at the statement. "I meant it, before, you know. You're your own person. You're under no obligation to stay here. Not any more."
Loki stared at him for a moment longer before letting out a hollow laugh and looking away. "Until I have again what Master stole from me, I will never be free."
Tom frowned. "What he stole from you? What was– Loki, you realise all of his things were sold off years ago. And he's, well, he's dead. If it's not a physical thing."
Loki was shaking his head, though. "It's here. I sense it."
Tom considered that for a moment before asking, "So, if I found this item and returned it to you, you'd be free to leave?"
Loki nodded, then bitterly stated, "You won't."
"I will," Tom insisted. "I don't enslave people. What am I looking for?"
Loki stared at him for a long moment, expression blank, before he very purposefully set down his bowl, then turned and fled into the wood, ignoring Tom's shouts for him to come back.
Tom sighed and knocked his head back against the door. "Dammit," he muttered before gathering his things. When he saw Loki hadn't finished, he left it next to the stairs, then went inside. Cleaning the dishes while listening to his music helped him clear his head a little bit, so he went up to his room and sat in the window seat to watch the backyard and think over what Loki had said.
George White had stolen something, an item that had some sort of value to Loki. Possibly some sort of value to anyone, considering how he refused to say what it was.
The item was still in the house, somewhere. It would have to be pretty well hidden away, since the people who'd stripped the place hadn't found it. That suggested it was in a floorboard or in the wall.
Tom thought back to when he'd been cleaning the house, trying to remember if he'd seen anything out of place. He didn't remember anything, but that didn't mean much, really. He'd hardly been looking.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, glancing down at the bowl on the porch. Given the darkness and the distance, he couldn't quite tell if Loki had come back to finish it off, and he wasn't sure he cared enough to go downstairs and find out. It was getting quite late. For him.
He'd get it in the morning.
They didn't bring up Loki's servitude again, or the mysterious item, though Tom made a point of looking for any suggestions of hidden compartments in a different room each day. He kept feeding Loki, and would bring out his iPod every time. He downloaded a radio app for his mobile at one point and showed it to Loki, who was immediately enthralled.
The longer Tom spent with Loki, the more articulate the other man became. He was still shy about starting a conversation, but once Tom had given them a topic, the man was more than happy to speak along with. When Tom finally asked, three days after learning about the mysterious item, whether Loki could read or not, he got an...interesting response:
"Not your language."
Tom blinked at that. "Well, what language, then? I can find you some books or something, if you'd like."
Loki stared at him for a moment, disbelieving, before snorting and turning away. "What use would I have for a book? I live in the trees."
"You don't have to," Tom replied, shaking his head. "I've got an extra bedroom."
Loki glanced up at the house, suspicious. "No."
Tom sighed silently and offered, "I can get a plastic tote, maybe, something waterproof. Fill it with rocks to keep it in place. You can keep books or the iPod or whatever you'd like in it. And then, when I'm out of town, you can keep amused." He gave a helpless little smile. "Assuming I'm at all amusing."
Loki gave a slow blink. "You're..." He trailed off, clearly searching for a word.
"Are you about to insult me?" Tom wondered with a laugh.
"Sufficient," Loki settled on, then flashed Tom a smile that wasn't the slightest bit comforting.
Tom laughed and leaned back against the door. "Really," he said, getting them back on topic, "books. What language do you want? I'll order you some and–"
"All–" Loki started before he slapped a hand over his mouth. He stared at Tom for a moment before scurrying off the porch and for the trees.
Tom sighed and closed his eyes, regretfully used to Loki escaping into the wood whenever Tom touched on a touchy topic. As he had no idea what might set the man off, that meant he saw Loki's back far too often.
Tom collected the dishes and his mobile and returned to the house, making a mental note to avoid all future discussion of language. Maybe he could teach Loki to read. And then he could have English books and it wouldn't be an issue.
Shaking his head, Tom washed the dishes, then did a thorough search of the kitchen for hidden nooks and crannies.
It took Tom almost two weeks to find the hiding place. Probably because he'd been looking in the wrong places.
He'd known there was an attic since he'd moved in, but he also knew it was meant solely for storage. The flooring wasn't the most stable in the house, so he was only storing some extra blankets and pillows up there in watertight bags and some of his Christmas decorations. He wouldn't even have thought to go up there, but Emma had asked him to hide the gift she'd bought for her boyfriend – he had a habit of snooping, she'd discovered last Christmas – and Tom figured that was the last place he would think to look, if only because Tom had cautioned everyone from going up there.
While Tom was up there, he'd taken a cursory look around, trained to look for any hiding place in his house by then. It was completely to his surprise that his torch – easier than trying to fix the broken bulb just within reach of the top rung of the ladder – caught something shiny. He turned the light back on the spot and there, glinting gold in the light, sat a circlet with two things set along the edge on the side facing away from Tom.
Tom stared at it for a moment in disbelief, trying to figure out how to get to the bloody thing. (He'd tested the insulation-covered floor when he'd first moved in, wanting to be certain it was actually as bad as the estate agent had suggested. It was.)
It was too far away for him to find a stick to reach. He might be able to ask to borrow one of his young cousins, and their weight should hold, but as soon as their parents figured out what he was up to, he'd get told off for even considering it.
And then he realised, he could get some thick plywood and brace it over the beams. That should hold his weight more than enough to get him within reach of the circlet.
He'd go out after lunch.
Tom was nearly bouncing in place when he set down Loki's dinner and sat back against the house to wait for him. The gold circlet with two emerald horns was in a box at his side. He was so excited to see Loki's expression when he got it back. (If only because he knew, now, why Loki thought he wouldn't return it. But, then again, Loki didn't seem to understand that freedom was worth more than all the gold and gems in the world, to Tom.)
Loki finally came over and slipped onto the porch, picking up his bowl in the same easy movement. He blinked at Tom, taking in his wide smile and the way he was practically vibrating with glee. "What?"
Tom swallowed his mouthful and set his bowl down before holding out the box. "I think this is yours."
Loki considered the box suspiciously for a moment before mirroring Tom and setting his bowl aside. He took the box and carefully opened it, as though he expected it to bite him.
The way his eyes went wide and the choked noise he let out as he found the circlet was worth every second of terror Tom had suffered getting it.
And then Loki was snatching it out and shoving it onto his head. The two horns glinted, then flashed, blinding Tom for a moment. When he looked back, he found Loki, but he was dressed in fine green clothing, gold armour gleaming across his chest and along his arms. He looked nothing like the ragged man that had stood outside Tom's window, silently enjoying the piano music Tom had played in a moment of exhausted boredom.
"My God," Tom breathed, staring at the man.
Loki's eyes jerked up and locked with Tom's. There was a moment of hostility, then he relaxed. "You have a name," he said, and even his voice was more regal. "I would hear it."
"Tom," he said, swallowing his awe. "Tom Hiddleston."
"Tom Hiddleston," Loki murmured, like he was tasting the words, letting each letter linger on his tongue. "For what do you ask of this boon?"
"I–" Tom frowned and shook his head, parsing out the meaning with some difficulty, given his mind wasn't quite in gear yet. "I don't– I didn't give that back to you because I wanted something, Loki. It's– It's yours. It belongs to you."
Loki considered that for a moment, head tilted ever so slightly to one side. "You are a thoroughly improbable human being, Tom Hiddleston. You return to me my godhood, yet you request no gift."
"I don't– Wait. You're actually the Loki, then?"
Loki smiled at him, wide and violent and everything that should have terrified Tom out of his skin.
But Tom just laughed, happy with his victory, and asked, "Are you going to eat that?" motioning to to the bowl that was still at Loki's side.
Loki looked down at the bowl, then back at Tom, expression incredulous. "What could possibly cause you to believe I would have interest in so, so–"
"Are you about to insult my cooking?" Tom asked, mirroring another conversation so many weeks ago.
Loki's mouth twitched and he shook his head, clearly recalling the same. Then he stood, motion almost too smooth. "I shall take my leave of this wretched place."
"Feel free to visit," Tom offered, smiling with a warmth born of granting someone their deepest wish.
"Here?" Loki snarled.
Tom shook his head, unbothered. "I travel plenty, when I've got filming. You don't have to ever come back here again. Not if you don't want to." He shrugged, his smile turning a little sad at the looming prospect of not having Loki around to talk with over lunch and dinner. "You don't have to visit at all."
Loki snorted. "I won't," he promised, then he vanished.
Tom stared at where the man – god, Christ, he'd been feeding a god – had just been standing for a long moment before sighing and picking up both bowls and the discarded box. He took everything inside and ate at the table for the first time in what felt like forever.
And if he went over to the piano afterwards and cracked a window open before starting to play Für Elise, as though he expected to look up and see a dirty face framed by stringy dark hair, well. It wasn't like there was anyone to notice.
Without Loki, Tom had to hire an actual groundskeeper. He told the two men who came out that he was mostly worried about the front lawn and maybe four metres out from the back porch. Everything else could be left to nature. The men shrugged, said it was his choice, and offered him greedy smiles when he overpaid them.
He made friends nearby, hanging out at the local pub because the house seemed so lonely without Loki hiding in the wood. They would never come back to his, insisting the place was haunted by a vengeful spirit, and Tom let them keep thinking that; it was doing wonders at keeping hunters and thieves away from his too-large property.
Some evenings, when he didn't feel like going out to the pub, he sat on the back porch with the playlist he'd put together for Loki and stared into the wood, or played the piano until the ache of his hands pushed aside the crushing loneliness.
"You're acting like you've just broken up with your girlfriend again," Emma told him when she dragged him into London for dinner. "You'd have told me if you were dating again, right?"
Tom snorted and nodded. "When have you known me to ever be able to hide something from you?"
Emma pointed her fork at him. "So. Talk."
He sighed and stared down at his food. "I made a...friend. He lived nearby, but he's moved on. He didn't leave me any way to contact him."
"Shit thing to do."
He shrugged and resolutely took a bite of zucchini.
"You've got some filming coming up, right?"
"Yeah."
"It'll do you good to get away," she said wisely. "Do you want me watching the place again while you're gone?"
Tom smiled at her. "Please."
"Consider it done."
Tom glanced up in surprise when someone slid into the seat across from him. Given, he was hardly surrounded by security, but the few people who recognised him under the hat and sunglasses tended to be too polite to bother him while he was eating, especially with his driver scowling at them from the next seat over.
And then he recognised the man across from him and his eyes lit up, the last weeks of loneliness falling away like a blanket fallen from his shoulders. "Loki!"
Loki eyed him for a moment before turning his eyes on the sandwich Tom had been steadily working his way through. "What in the AllFather's name is that?"
"Chicken sandwich," Tom replied with a wide smile as he pushed the wrapper forward, offering to share his chips.
Loki deigned to try a chip, then promptly went after more. "It looks vile," he said around two chips.
Tom chuckled. "A bit, I suppose. It's good, though. The best." He tilted his head curiously. "I thought you weren't going to visit."
"The Nine Realms is much lacking in your...You...too?"
Tom swallowed a laugh. "U2. Yeah, I have a feeling they're pretty central to Earth. Midgard. Do we need to get you an iPod?"
"Yes."
"Can I finish my lunch first?"
Loki sighed and picked up the last chip. "I suppose. And what are these wretched things?"
Tom laughed and set about explaining chips to the god. And then chicken sandwiches. And fast food. And how one had to keep an iPod charged if it was going to keep playing music.
"So I will be required to return and...'plug it in', correct?"
"Yeah."
Neither one of them suggested Loki could just use his magic. Sometimes, having an excuse made things that littlest bit easier.
The Tales of the Fairy Men Series:
Part One: Before He Drowns ~ The Little Mermaid (Turquoise)
Part Two: Crackle of Flames ~ The Steadfast Tin Soldier (Orange)
Part Three: The Curse Stops Here ~ The Frog Prince (Black)
Part Four: Occluded Front ~ The Ugly Duckling (Pink)
Part Five: Let Me Be Your Wings ~ Thumbelina (Purple)
Part Six: Chime of a Bell ~ The Red Shoes (White)
Part Seven: Regardless of Warnings ~ Beauty & the Beast (Blue)
Part Eight: Little Green Riding Hood ~ Red Riding Hood (Green)
Part Nine: Für Loki ~ The Crane Wife (Yellow)
Part Ten: One Day I'll Fly Away ~ Cinderella (Grey)
Part Eleven: Don't Count the Miles ~ Bearskin (Silver)
Part Twelve: The Snow King ~ The Snow Queen (Red)
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Date: 4/11/13 23:49 (UTC)Can't wait to read next months lovely story!
And I can't believe how much catching up I have to do with your stories >.o