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batsutousaiTitle: The Magic in Words
Fandom: Marvel (movie 'verse) & Real Person Fiction
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Mature
Pairings: Tom Hiddleston/Loki (side: original male/original female)
Warnings: Amnesia, mute character, OoC Loki, awkward boys stumbling upon a relationship, Tom has Loki feels, original characters, memories of Asgardian imprisonment
Summary: There are magic in words, and he knows this. Knows it like he knows there's a life he's missing and people he's left behind who are surely as important as the family he's built around him. And there are words he needs to say, magic he needs to voice, if only he had the ability to do so.
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 character 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: The title came to me a week or so ago, and a rough plot followed. Holes filled themselves in as I wrote (and wrote and wrote and wrote...), and hopefully there aren't any left.
The bulk of this fic takes place, roughly, in mid/late-August of 2013. I'm not sure there's actually a complete two-week block between D23 and TIFF where he was in London, but I'm calling author's right to bullshit. (I suspect I'm the only one who actually cares enough to pay attention to this nit-picky shit, anyway. XD)
They found him in an icy field, nude as a newborn and so cold, he'd long past stopped shivering.
"We were certain you were going to die," Gunnar told him later, while he was propped up in his hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and too much white.
"You were naked," Emelía insisted, small face peering up at him around Gunnar's imposing form.
He clasped his hands in front of himself and bowed his head; he'd already discovered he had no voice – "Underdeveloped vocal folds," his doctor had explained, "we can fix them, but it'll be lengthy and costly. It's something to think on, but I caution against taking immediate action, not without all of your medical information." – and so he could speak no thanks.
Gunnar touched his shoulder, rough hands gentle as a fallen petal. "Until someone comes for you, or you remember something of note, I've an empty room to lend."
He closed his eyes and mouthed the words he couldn't say. Gunnar's hand tightened on his shoulder, strangely familiar.
But he couldn't remember the how or the why, and a nurse arrived to sign him out, derailing his helpless flail for the life he'd forgotten.
They'd named him Aron, for he had no name, but it had never settled right with him.
It was only when Gunnar's girlfriend, Karen, visited shortly after he moved into the guest room, that he found a more pleasing name, writ across the front of a well-loved paperback she had left peeking out of her purse.
Emelía took to it immediately, taking great pains to reintroduce him to her small circle of stuffed animals. "This is Locke," she told them, tone stern while the man stood beside her with a fond smile. "We mustn't call him Aron any more, because it's wrong."
Karen, too, took to the name without difficulty. "He's my favourite character," she told him after dinner, passing him the book. "You should read about your namesake; perhaps he'll prove instrumental in returning your memories."
(There were many things about Locke Lamora that struck a chord with the newly named Locke, but it did nothing for his buried memories. It was true he enjoyed the story, however, and Karen was all too happy to lend him the rest of the series.)
Gunnar, however, still occasionally tripped over what name to call him. Locke found no fault in him for it, simply responding to the sound of his previous name tripping against his tongue with a knowing smile. And if he, perhaps, derived a little too much pleasure from Emelía telling her father off each time she caught his slip, well...
It's not like anyone needed to know.
A year passed with Locke still in the dark about his past. He had fallen into a life with his saviours, taking care of Emelía when Gunnar and Karen both had work, or needed some time together without a small distraction. Gunnar clearly appreciated it, explaining one evening about how hard it had been to raise Emelía after her mother's death, struggling to be a good father and keep a roof over their head all at once.
"Having you here, knowing there's someone always keeping an eye out, someone she adores, is a balm to my soul. I wish, for your family's sake, that we knew where you were meant to be, but I am truly grateful no one's come forward for you. As cruel as that may seem."
Locke didn't blame him, for it was hard to miss what he couldn't remember, with Emelía and Gunnar and Karen filling any hint of a hole. He was glad for their acceptance, for it eased a part of his soul that he had no idea was damaged.
Which wasn't to say that life was always good, because there were moments – Gunnar half turned from him, expression frozen in displeasure; a group of local children circled around a small girl, teasing her for something small; Emelía tugging on his shirt hem and looking up at him with uncertainty in front of the school building – that spoke to a past he couldn't remember. They would hit him hard, another image transposed over the present for but a heartbeat before it was gone, lost to the blackness he'd had to accept, lest it drive him to madness.
But life was well enough. He had very little to complain about, and none of it of particular note.
(He couldn't help the certainty that this wasn't a common occurrence for him; he was much better off not remembering where he'd come from.)
It was when Karen won the trip to London that everything changed.
The trip itself wasn't a problem, really. She'd entered before Locke had been found, thinking it would be a nice almost-family trip if she won. The drawing kept getting put off for one reason or another, until everyone had forgotten about it, then the call came. It had originally been for three people, but given the wait and some other details Locke hadn't cared enough to be privy to, the company was quite willing to add a fourth ticket.
There was but a moment's question of trusting Locke alone with Emelía, given the size of the city, he'd long proved himself capable of making himself noticed, even without a voice, and Gunnar and Karen knew he could easily keep up with Emelía, even when everyone else past puberty had long since claimed exhaustion. (That's the great thing about not being able to talk, Locke wrote at one point, grinning madly at an exhausted Karen, energy spent on speaking in conserved. She'd responded with a weak kick and a wheeze, and he opened his mouth to let out the stuttered whistle that served as his laugh.)
With the knowledge that Locke would manage Emelía, Karen and Gunnar planned their two weeks with spatterings of events for all of them together, as well as plans intended for them separated. As a special treat, Karen made a concerted effort to block out the time after dinner each evening so Locke would be free to wander the city on his own. Locke was grateful, for as much as he adored Emelía, it was difficult to enjoy things she couldn't have cared less about when she was there.
His second evening alone, Locke settled into a busy café for a coffee and a bit of people-watching, a map spread out over the tiny table in front of him with possible places to visit marked. He had a notepad in his right breast pocket with a pen, I can't speak scrawled across the first page in case anyone thought to try striking up a conversation. (When he was out with Emelía or Karen or Gunnar, they could speak for him, for the most part, but he'd quickly learned to keep paper with him when he'd be on his own.)
"Is this spot taken?" a voice asked, pitched low, as though to avoid drawing attention.
Locke motioned for his visitor to take it, carefully folding the map out of the way.
The man who sat down was Locke's height. He was dressed well, as though he gave a great deal of thought to his appearance, save for the misplaced cap perched on his short-cut hair and the sunglasses near-to-falling off the end of his nose. Blue eyes darted around the room over the glasses, searching for something, for a long moment before his whole body seemed to relax and he set down his cup and a piece of cake so he could slid the glasses off and tuck an arm into the collar of his shirt, leaving them in easy reach, should he require them again. (Which, really, wasn't it getting too dark outside for them?)
"Hi," the man offered after a sip of his coffee, smile brightening his eyes under the shadow of his cap.
Locke politely nodded his head and set about folding his map up the rest of the way; clearly, this man had interest in conversation. Even if he was put off by Locke's inability to respond, his coffee was empty enough that it wouldn't seem a retreat to leave.
"Quiet one, aren't you," the man teased.
Locke pulled out his notepad and showed his pre-written message.
Blue eyes widened briefly, then his brow furrowed. "Oh. I'm sorry." Then followed a silence long enough that Locke was about to get up and leave when the man asked, "You're visiting London, then?"
Locke blinked and nodded, fingers wrapping tightly around his cup.
"Are you enjoying it?"
Locke considered that for a moment, then quickly scribbled, It's only my second day. But yes. So far.
The man grinned, wide and honest. "Yeah? It's a beautiful city. I grew up here." He tilted his head to one side, a strange expression crossing his face. "Oh, wow. Where are you from?" He gave a helpless little laugh while Locke returned his pen to his paper. "I don't usually get to ask that without at least some idea, you know. Usually, a person's accent gives them away."
Locke flashed him a smile that, very likely, said exactly how much he enjoyed keeping people guessing. I'm from Iceland, he'd written.
"Really? I've been to Reykjavík, and down south, near Skógafoss. Beautiful country."
I live in Varmahlíð, Locke wrote. When his companion just frowned, clearly not familiar with the town, he added, Northwest Iceland. South of Sauðárkrókur.
The other man smiled a bit helplessly. "I admit, I'm not much familiar with northern Iceland. Though, if it's anything like the south, I envy you."
Locke just smiled; he hadn't seen much of southern Iceland, to his memory, beyond what he'd spotted through the aeroplane windows or through the bus when travelling from Reykjavíkurflugvöllur to Keflavíkurflugvöllur.
There was a sudden influx of chatter from a group of young women entering. Locke's conversation partner let out a quiet groan of, "Aw, fuck," and ducked his head, hiding behind the bill of his cap.
Locke frowned, easily making the connection between the man's earlier caution and the new arrivals. It didn't take but a moment for him to realise he didn't really want their conversation to end, and he quickly reopened his map as he scooted around the table, holding it up to hide them both from the new arrivals behind it.
The other man's head went up, eyes wide with an oddly-warming surprised gratitude. "Oh," he whispered. "Thank you. You don't have to–"
Locke shook his head and used the pen he was still holding in one hand to point to a park not far off from where they were.
His companion didn't need any further explanation, just nodded and took the far side of the map, freeing one of Locke's hands. "It'll be a little chilly, but I don't suppose that bothers you, particularly."
Locke flashed him a sharp smile and they stood together. With the map held before them as a shield, and Locke's hand gentle on his companion's shoulder to help guide them from the café, they managed to leave without incident. From the women's conversation as they slipped past, they were definitely looking for someone. Which was about the moment he realised he didn't know his companion's name.
Out on the street, they took a moment to find a bin for their empty cups and Locke folded up his map. As they started walking along the pavement, Locke carefully wrote, I'm Locke, btw on his notepad and showed it to his companion.
The other man laughed and stopped to take Locke's hand and give it a firm shake. "Tom. It's honestly good to make your acquaintance."
Once they set out again, Locke let Tom take the lead in showing the way to the park. "Gets busy during the day, but it looks like it's not too bad right now," Tom commented as they looked down either fork of the path. "Getting too cold, I suppose."
Locke shrugged; he'd never minded the cold, not so far as he could remember, at least. Really, he was so unbothered by it, there were days he actually forgot his coat last winter in Iceland, much to everyone's consternation. (Gunnar had been afraid it was nerve damage from almost freezing to death, but the doctors hadn't found anything wrong, no matter the tests they ran, and Locke learned to remember his coat, no matter how much it was bulky and in the way.)
Tom didn't seem to mind filling the silence between them, talking about London and Oxford and how he sometimes missed a place he had in western America, because it was always warm there, though he'd missed London when he'd been away.
"It's funny," Tom mused, head tilted in thought as they leaned against a railing and stared down at the small lake below them, "how you can be itching to get away from where you are, but as soon as you've left, you very much want to return."
Locke squinted at his notepad, tilted towards the nearest light so he could messily scrawl, People?
Tom considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Could be. To some extent, certainly." He hummed and smiled, glancing up at Locke. "It is the place, some, though. I think. I mean, well, have you ever visited a place and just known, right off, that you loved it? Nothing about the people you were with, the place just...spoke to you, on some level."
Locke nodded, somehow certain he'd felt such, though he couldn't say when it was, or what the place in question was.
Tom let out a pleased noise and looked back down at the lake. "I felt that way in Iceland. Didn't want to leave. It's just so...beautiful. Something there called out to me."
Locke saw a sudden flash of golden towers, a memory from before. It was one he'd seen before, multiple times, though he had no idea where it was, or what the place meant to him.
Tom shook himself and straightened, pushing away from the railing. "Listen to me, mooning over Iceland while you're in London on a visit." He offered an apologetic smile, eyes catching the light from the nearby lamp and flashing under the bill of his cap. "How long are you in town for?"
Locke held up two fingers.
"Weeks?" Tom clarified. When Locke nodded, he rubbed at his chin and offered, "Well, I'm busy during the day, but if you wanted a guide in the evenings, I'm more than happy to serve."
Locke blinked, surprised that Tom would offer such. They just met, after all, and as much as Locke was enjoying their walk, he would hardly expect the same to hold true for Tom.
His expression must have been particularly readable, because Tom's smile went a little crooked and he offered, "I like wandering London, but I don't do it much, with..." He waved his hand back in the general direction of the café. "My friends understand, but it doesn't make it any less a distraction."
Locke didn't understand, not really. Tom was attractive, certainly, but surely those women had better things to do than chase one man around on his daily business.
Still, travelling with Locke or no, they would still appear. He tilted away slightly, scribbling that on his notepad to point out.
Tom let out a laugh that was somewhere between bitter and resigned. "Yeah. But, like you showed earlier, they won't give someone with a tourist map a second look. Anyway–" he shrugged "–I don't usually frequent tourist sites, so they don't usually look for me there. I'm sure we'll run into a couple, but they tend to be the far politer of the lot; it's the ones that search you out that are a problem."
I don't understand, Locke wrote.
Tom seemed surprised for a moment before offering a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I forget, sometimes, that there are people out there who don't recognise me; I'm an actor. I played Loki in Avengers Assemble." He paused while Locke shrugged, unfamiliar with the film. "Wow, that made me sound pretentious. I'm sorry."
He sounded so honestly upset at himself, that Locke couldn't help but let out his whistle of a laugh. He slapped a hand over his mouth after a moment, inexplicably embarrassed by the sound he couldn't help but make.
Tom looked more curious than anything, but he seemed to understand it was a touchy subject, for he instead asked, "So, did you want a tour guide? Ah, occasional pauses for autographs and pictures very likely included."
Locke considered it for a moment: He'd never worked out much of a plan for his evenings, but it was true that having along someone who knew a bit about the history of the city – or had personal anecdotes to share – would make it more fun. Also, less stressful, given his disability; it was remarkably difficult to do anything when you couldn't speak.
I am busy with watching my– what to call Emelía without wasting an entire page explaining their relation? –niece until dinner every day. I'm free by seven every evening but Monday.
Tom nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, "Going to a show?"
My brother is.
"Which one?" Tom asked, something expectant in his tone.
Locke had to think about that for a moment, having not paid any particular attention to their plans, beyond the knowledge that he'd be seeing Emelía to bed. Pride? he wrote uncertainly.
"The Pride?" Tom guessed and Locke gave a shrug. "I've heard excellent things about it. I hope he enjoys it."
Locke rather hoped so, too; he'd got the impression that it was Karen who'd wanted to go, more than Gunnar. But, then, Gunnar hadn't seemed the sort, really, to enjoy art, but he'd rather had to be dragged from The National Gallery that afternoon, so who knew.
"Seven every evening works fine for me, though most things are already closed by then."
Locke shrugged, quite aware of that difficulty. He didn't mind overmuch, though, since they were also running around during the day. Parks and people-watching are fine, he offered.
Tom smiled and shook his head. "I'll figure something out. Where did you want to meet?"
Locke frowned, thinking about that. He had a fairly good sense of direction, but he also tended to part ways with the others at different locations around the city, depending where they'd been that day.
Tom seemed to understand, for he offered, "Where's best for tomorrow? If you know."
That, Locke knew, and he pulled open his map to point at the palace. Karen had actually wanted to go after the National Gallery, but that had fallen through, so they were going to spend the day on it. And if they were out and done before dinner, Karen seemed certain there would be other things to do in the area.
Tom nodded and traced a little northeast to a patch of green surrounded by buildings. "St. James Square isn't a bad meet-up. I can come with a list of things nearby, if you'd like?" He glanced up and smiled as Locke shrugged, generally uncaring. "The London Library's there, if you like libraries. They're open until eight, tomorrow, and I can get you in."
The very word tugged at him: Library. Like a cry from the past, a certainty that this was a place he needed to go.
There was magic in words; Locke knew that without knowing how. A building so dedicated to words and their keeping was a treasure, far greater than images on canvas or the home of royalty.
Tom read him easily, smile wide and eyes understanding. "The library it is. Meet me at the statue and I'll lead you over."
After the London Library, Tom asked about the British Library, and Locke admitted there were no plans to visit during the day, so they visited there next. Locke fully enjoyed both visits, and Tom seemed to take his enjoyment to heart, for he looked for more book-related stops to fill the rest of the week.
"You look like you're having fun in the evenings," Karen mentioned over lunch on Saturday, looking out over the Tower Bridge.
"Locke made a friend," Emelía chirped. She'd weaselled the story out of him on Thursday, when the two of them had spent a day finding 'fun' things to do in Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park while Karen and Gunnar visited memorials and the Serpentine Galleries. "He says Tom is super nice and likes books."
Locke made a face at her, because, really? That was what she took away from the thirty or so pages he'd written over the course of the day? Emelía giggled in response and reached over to tap her fork against the side of his water glass hard enough to make an audible chime and set the surface of the water rippling. (He had no idea where she'd picked up that particular habit. Honest.)
Karen shook her head. "Well, now I'm doubly sorry for taking Monday night from you."
Locke was about to shrug it off when Emelía perked up, turned huge eyes on Gunnar, and pleaded, "Pabbi, I wanna meet Tom."
Gunnar groaned and rubbed at his eyes while Karen let out a polite little cough that did nothing to hide her amusement.
Locke, for his part, eyed the girl suspiciously; she hated meeting strangers.
Gunnar dropped his hand from his eyes, only to find that Emelía hadn't let up on the big eyes. He turned to Locke, expression pleading, and Locke knew Emelía had won. (Which, if he was honest, he knew from the moment she'd turned to look at her father; for a girl of not-quite-seven, she was quite capable of getting her father to dance to her tune. Loki actually suspected he'd been much the same at her age, so he couldn't really talk.) "Would it be okay?" Gunnar asked.
"And how is this Tom with children?" Karen added.
Children had, in fact, come up in casual conversation with Tom; it was hard not to when Locke would often make references to Emelía, and many of Tom's stories about the city involved his family, which included a niece and a number of young cousins. Locke had no doubt Tom would adore Emelía, though how the girl would handle the meeting was anyone's guess.
He pulled out his notepad and scribbled, He loves children. I doubt he will have trouble, but I can ask tonight.
"What were the plans for Monday?" Gunnar asked, looking over at Karen and all of them ignoring Emelía as she very carefully set about chiming each of their glasses, looking quite pleased with herself.
"The zoo, if it's nice," Karen said and she pulled out her itinerary. "Which, given that we've already had a number of surprisingly nice days this visit, I'm not holding my breath." Gunnar snorted while Locke hid his smile with a sip of water. "Otherwise, there was some talk of the aquarium or one of the V&A Museums."
Emelía made a disgusted noise at the suggestion of another museum, having grown bored of them after spending approximately two minutes in the National Gallery. (No matter how many times one of the adults insisted that museums and galleries were two very different things.)
Gunnar nodded, turning back to Locke. "It's your friend's choice, then. And if he would rather meet up earlier, for dinner, something can be arranged."
Locke nodded his understanding as he set his glass back down. When Emelía reached out to clink it with her fork, Locke stole it and used it to continue his lunch without glancing at her.
Emelía stared at him in disbelief for a long moment, only snapping out of it when Karen couldn't hold back her laughter any longer. The girl's revenge was to steal Locke's own fork and knock it against his glass rather harder than she probably should have, forcing Locke to reach out and steady it or chance drenching the whole table.
"Emelía!" Karen hissed, unimpressed.
Emelía huffed and slouched in her chair, looking for all the world like a properly chastised child.
(Locke wasn't even a little surprised, later that day, when she begged him to snatch more things without looking at them and teach her how to do it, too.)
Tom, of course, was all too happy to play host to a child for the night, even going so far as to pull up a couple of options on his mobile and buy tickets to The Lion King right then and there, once Locke decided Emelía would enjoy that event the most.
Their first meeting was a little strained, because Emelía really didn't like meeting people, no matter how excited she had been about meeting Locke's friend. She hid behind Locke when Tom approached, clutching at the back of his shirt like the fabric would save her.
Locke had already taken pains to warn Tom that this would very likely happen, and he wasted absolutely no time in sitting on the pavement, grinning at her from his much lower position. A couple of passersby looked at them oddly, but most of them smiled, understanding what was going on with but a glance.
"I'm Tom," Tom offered.
"Emelía," the girl replied quietly, creeping out from behind Locke.
"Locke tells me you have a fondness for cutlery," Tom commented before flicking his wrist. A fork appeared in his hand, like magic.
Emelía let out an excited noise and grabbed the fork. She looked it over for a moment, then turned hungry eyes back on the actor sitting on the pavement. "Again."
Tom laughed, delighted, and obediently conjured up a spoon, then another fork.
Locke tugged lightly on Emelía's braid before she could demand a fourth show; if she wasn't stopped soon, they would completely miss their show.
She looked disappointed, but Tom promised, "I'll teach you how to do it after Lion King.
"Emelía's response was to babble excitedly in Icelandic about how she was going to show it off to all of her friends – she only had two, other than her stuffed animals, but Locke knew better than to point that out – as soon as they got home and they were going to be so jealous.
Locke rolled his eyes and reached down to help Tom up. "Do I need to know what she's saying?" Tom whispered once he was on his feet, standing close enough they shared the same breath, their hands still clasped.
Locke's heart did a strange little flip against his throat and he swallowed against it, shaking his head. He pulled away to pull out his notepad and write, She can't wait to show off to her friends.
"Ah." Tom chuckled and motioned them on, falling in to step with Locke while he snagged Emelía and gently pulled her along until she figured out what was going on and kept up on her own, eyes on her cutlery. "I remember those days, learning new tricks just so I could make an idiot of myself in front of all my friends." He nudged Locke with his elbow. "I bet you liked to show off your knowledge to your friends, bookworm."
Locke shrugged, because he honestly couldn't recall one way or the other.
"Locke can't know," Emelía piped up, looking up at them. "No memory."
Tom came to an abrupt stop, eyes wide as he stared at Locke. "Wait, what?"
Before Locke could scribble an explanation on his notepad, Emelía helpfully said, "Pabbi found him. He has no memory of...uh, before?"
Locke shrugged, a helpless smile the only response he could think of.
Tom took two steps forward and pulled Locke into a tight hug, chin hard against his shoulder. He pulled away before Locke could decide whether he needed to hug him back or not, and the breath he let out stuttered.
"Come on," Tom said to Emelía, offering her a hand to hold. "Locke seems to think you'll enjoy this."
Emelía grabbed Locke's hand, dragging him along behind until he'd regained his equilibrium and could walk next to her.
She did end up enjoying the show, but was yawning as they stepped out. To keep her from tripping herself up, Locke knelt next to her and let her climb onto his back before standing back up.
"Done this before?" Tom guessed while Emelía yawned in Locke's ear.
Locke grimaced and nodded; the girl on his back had a bad habit of crawling out to sleep with the horses when Gunnar stayed over at Karen's, and Locke had learned to keep a window cracked so he knew when she escaped. He'd give her twenty minutes to fall mostly asleep, then go out and get her, carrying her on his back because the latch on the stables had a habit of sticking and he needed both hands to be at least partially accessible to get it open.
"My car is a couple of blocks up, if you want a ride?" Tom offered.
Locke nodded again, grateful to not need to manage public transit with a child slung across his back and no voice. He could have, but he wouldn't have enjoyed it.
Tom's car was nice, kept clean enough that Locke suspected it didn't see much use. Indeed, as Tom smoothly pulled out into traffic, the pleasant voice on his mobile directing him to take the next left, he commented, "I don't usually bring the car into the city, because it's almost less of a hassle to take the tube, most of the time. Even with people stopping me." He shrugged. "And, you know, there are people who are paid to drive me places unmolested. Emma jokes, sometimes, that I should just sell the car, as much use as it gets."
Locke snorted, mouth tugging itself into a smile.
Tom glanced over at him. "I suppose maybe it's a bit rude to ask, but I can't help but be curious about why you didn't tell me you had amnesia."
Locke sighed and glanced down to where his notepad rested in its pocket, almost anaemic, after the use it had been getting. (It was, actually, his third one since they'd left the house, and he suspected he'd need to buy another one or two while they were in London.) He tugged it out and waved it at Tom, not sure writing a proper message was a wise choice, given Tom was driving.
Tom's eyes flickered between the notepad and the road a few times before drily saying, "I suppose that it be a bit much to write down: 'I have amnesia'."
Locke winced and tucked his notepad back against his chest, realising Tom was hurt. (Somehow, Locke knew he always did this, hurt people.)
There fell a heavy silence between them, broken only by the directions given by Tom's mobile, the polite voice grating.
Locke wanted to apologise, wanted to have the ability to end a silence. He wanted to be able to explain, without nearly writing his hand off, how he sometimes didn't even remember that there was a huge hole in his memory. He wanted to ask if, had Tom the chance to have a friendship without his fame playing even the slightest of parts, wouldn't he take it? Wanted to say, 'Isn't it enough that everyone knows I'm mute? That a moment's time spent near me leaves them dripping pity? Why would I want to compound that?'
But he couldn't do any of that, could only close his eyes and will his apology into the air, lips moving with the words.
Something tugged against his heart, and his throat tingled for a moment. Just long enough to let, "I'm sorry," escape to the air between them.
The brakes screamed as Tom hit them, disbelieving blue eyes swimming with hurt turning to look at his passenger.
Locke, for his part, wasn't doing any better. He was mouthing disbelief, fingers clutching at his throat. His notepad had fallen into his lap, forgotten in its momentary uselessness.
"Locke?" Tom whispered, the hurt draining from him as he accepted that the event was as much of a shock to his passenger as it was to him.
Locke turned to look at him, heart thudding against his throat, terror and hope and a not-quite-forgotten bitterness raging through him.
Tom turned away just long enough to pull the car out of the light traffic and apply the handbrake, then he was unbuckling himself so he could turn and reach for his passenger, tugging Locke forward until his head was on Tom's shoulder, giving him the opportunity to hide tears and mouthed curses where only the two of them would ever know they'd occurred at all.
When Locke finally pulled back, head ducked down and rubbing roughly at his eyes, Tom returned to his seat without a word and finished the trip to the hotel.
Outside the building, car idling at the kerb while Tom helped Locke get Emelía's dead weight onto his back, Locke felt doubly weighed down with the certainty that this was goodbye.
When he turned away to walk into the building, however, Tom firmly got in his way, blue eyes burning with some emotion Locke couldn't read. "Where are we meeting tomorrow?" he demanded.
Locke blinked, disbelief rolling over him hard enough he had to shift his stance to keep upright.
Unbidden, the thought came: 'Is this what it's like to be accepted?'
"Locke?" Tom prompted, a smile struggling across his face. "Please don't make me come here to find you? This is practically autographs row."
Locke couldn't stop a laugh, the whistle of air slipping out from between his lips before he could stop it. Tom's smile eased, sliding naturally into place, and Locke took heart from that, puckering his lips and sucking in his cheeks in a way that drove Emelía mad.
Tom grinned, wide and honest. "Outside the aquarium, seven o'clock. Stand me up, and I'll tell Emelía."
Locke put on a horrified expression, even as he gently shifted the girl against his back, making sure she wasn't slipping.
Tom laughed, and while there was a hint of strain there, he hid it well; like Locke's tears, it buried itself between them, never to be mentioned again. "Tomorrow," Tom insisted, reaching forward like he was going to touch Locke's shoulder. Upon finding a small arm there, Tom changed directions and touched Locke's cheek, a brief moment of intimacy that sent Locke's heart thudding against his throat again. "Good night," Tom murmured before pulling away and returning to his car.
Locke turned and watched as Tom zoomed away, turning at the first corner he came to because he lived back in the direction they'd come from.
He didn't take long putting Emelía to bed, long practised with the motions. Instead of going in search of Karen and Gunnar, he retired to his own room, far more drained than he could remember feeling in the past year.
And if he dreamt of long fingers brushing his cheek and warm hugs, well, that was between him and whatever deity ruled the land of dreams.
"How bad is the damage?" Tom asked while they sat on a park bench, each holding an ice cream.
It had been unspoken between them to ignore the fact that Locke couldn't speak, but with the events of the night before, he honestly wasn't surprised by the question. Was so unsurprised, in fact, that he already had the answer written on his notepad.
Tom sighed, handing the notepad back. "Not something that could settle just right to let out a couple words, then." He took a hard bite of his ice cream, expression irritated.
Locke knew the feeling. He'd been struggling with two competing facts all day, pasting a smile on his face for Emelía, because she didn't need to be burdened with his troubles when she was having so much fun making faces at fish.
There's magic in words, he'd written in his notepad on the back of the page with the hard facts about his missing vocal cords. Is there magic in intent? the next page had said, before he'd scribbled it out after spending an hour trying to speak; no amount of intent had freed more words.
"You sort of sounded British, I thought. Maybe a little," Tom offered.
Loki considered that, then shook his head and wrote, How many Brits can understand Icelandic perfectly?
"Dual citizenship," Tom insisted. "Or an ex-pat."
Locke shrugged. He supposed that was possible, but they'd checked with authorities in all the English-dominated countries after they'd realised how fluent he was. Just in case. (Actually, they checked with all the European countries, because Locke inexplicably had a perfect understanding of every language thrown at him. He'd stopped admitting to his understanding once they moved past the languages Gunnar and Karen had each studied in school, realising that adding yet more languages to the mix would bring more questions than anything else; how could any one person speak five languages fluently, never mind every language he'd had chance to hear since?)
"God, I'm a tit," Tom declared, leaning down and peeking up at Locke. "How are you doing?"
Locke shrugged, because he didn't have the words to explain how his stomach was twisted up in knots, heart choking him with a sort of bitter resignation, the knowledge that this always happened to him. He couldn't even begin to know how to explain how a huge part of him wished he'd never left Iceland, never been teased with speech when he'd been resigned to an eternity of silence. Except...
Except he had hope. He had a voice, the chance to do more than write down his gratitude on unfeeling white paper. He had acceptance curling around him and warm hugs that didn't end with a giggle and a wet tongue in his ear. He had someone who liked him, not because he was broken, with no past and little hope for the future, but because his past was of little consequence and the future was an ever-changing blip on the horizon.
"How about a film," Tom suggested, trying a smile. "Something silly, if there's anything playing."
Locke thought about it for a moment, weighing the other subject they never discussed, then carefully wrote, What about your films?
Tom frowned, but it wasn't the sort of frown that was an immediate 'no'. "Well, they're not really... I wouldn't call them silly. The first Henry IV, maybe? It's worth a number of laughs." He offered a helpless smile. "I haven't done much in the way of funny stuff, when you think about it. Suburban Shootout." He shook his head. "We'll have to go to my place, though. I've a couple of mates in town who own copies of things, but I wouldn't want to impose."
That's fine, Locke wrote, admittedly curious to see Tom's place.
"Right!" Tom jumped to his feet and reached down to help Locke up once he'd shoved his notepad away. "Now I just have to decide what to torture you with."
Locke whistled a laugh, lightened by Tom's obvious good humour.
He'd fallen asleep on Tom's couch, curled against the other man's side. Judging by the way Tom was snoring quietly next to him and the entertainment centre was off, the actor had turned everything off and just not bothered to move.
Beyond a vague plea from his bladder, Locke was actually quite comfortable. The couch had been designed with comfort in mind, and looked to be used as a bed quite often, judging from the overly-large pillows and the abundance of blankets in various states of neatness. One blanket was even pooled on the floor in front of the couch, clearly having been draped over one or both of them before Tom dozed off.
Locke was just considering falling back to sleep, bladder be damned, when Tom groaned and his eyes fluttered open.
Locke hadn't really realised how close they were until that moment, cheek still pressed against Tom's shoulder and Tom's arm curled loosely against Locke's side, the skin of his forearm brushing Locke's back where his shirt had ridden up in the back. Too warm, too comfortable, too intimate.
When Locke tried to pull away, Tom tightened the arm around him and held fast, blue eyes dropping shut as he turned and pressed his nose against Locke's hair. Locke, for his part, fell very, very still, heart thudding against his throat. He wished he could speak, could ask what was happening, or remind Tom who was next to him, because surely he was thinking Locke was someone else, some woman he was dating or wanted to date.
Tom finally let go with a quiet breath that might have been a sigh, gaze turning towards the entertainment centre. "Sorry I didn't wake you last night, you just looked like you needed the sleep more than you needed to be shuttled back to your hotel."
Locke jerked upright, scrabbling for his notepad; Gunnar and Karen were probably in a complete panic by now, judging by the time on the clock of the entertainment centre. Can you call Gunnar for me? Tell him I'm okay?
Tom nodded. "Of course. Do you have the number?"
Locke scribbled it across the next page and sat there, twisting his hands in his lap as Tom rang the mobile.
"Gunnar?" Tom said once the line connected. "My name's Tom. I'm Locke's friend."
There was a babbled rush of relief from the other end of the line, too quiet for Locke to understand what was being said, but the tone was unmistakable.
"I'm sorry. I brought Locke back to my place for a film and he fell asleep. I didn't even think about the fact that he would have concerned family until just now." He let out a quiet laugh, tone edging on helpless.
Gunnar spoke again, words a calm murmur.
Tom nodded. "Certainly. An hour, say? We've, neither of us, had any breakfast yet." He paused. "Excellent. We'll see you then." He tapped the 'end call' button and offered Locke a helpless smile. "They called the police."
Locke buried his face in his hands, caught somewhere between embarrassed and pleased. Given his disability and amnesia, it was a logical step, despite his age. Admittedly, a part of him was in awe that anyone cared enough to file a missing persons report; there had never been one filed for him before.
Tom chuckled. "Well, we have time for breakfast before we have to go out and soothe ruffled feathers. And you should be able to fit into my clothes, I think, if you wanted something clean to wear."
Clean clothing wasn't a bad idea, so Locke nodded and let Tom lead him up to the bedroom to pick something out. Tom tended to dress much nicer than Locke did, but he owned enough t-shirts and jeans that Locke didn't feel completely out of his depth.
Tom made breakfast while ringing his work and letting them know he'd be in late. When they were both done, he drove them into town, commenting, "Rather not chance getting caught out on the tube. By fans or bobbies carrying a picture of you in their pocket." He smiled to take out any hint of sting, and Locke smiled back, understanding his reasoning.
They met at the station nearest the hotel. Tom introduced Locke at the front desk and a constable led him back to where Gunnar, Karen, and Emelía were all seated, the remains of a take-out breakfast spread out over the table between them. "Mr Jónsson? Your brother is here."
It was good to know that Locke wasn't the only one abusing that particular conventional relationship to explain his rather unconventional connection to Gunnar and Emelía.
Emelía was up quick as a shot, running forward and nearly bowling Locke over, she attached herself to him so violently. He leaned down over her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head, the best apology he could manage.
"Þakka Guði," Gunnar breathed, standing with far more calm than Emelía had managed and stepping forward to grab Locke's shoulder, grip a little too hard.
Locke hid his face in Emelía hair, wild from a lack of morning care, and fought against tears. It would never matter that, intellectually, he knew this family cared for him; a part of him – suffocating under memories he couldn't remember, and wasn't sure he'd want to, some days – would always be surprised, would always lay in wait for the moment it could cackle cruelly and say, 'I told you no one actually cares.'
Karen leaned down to kiss his cheek, one hand carding through his hair. "I'm almost convinced we should look into getting you a temporary mobile, so you can let us know next time you're staying away all night," she said in Icelandic.
Locke offered her a look that was half apology, half 'what can you do?'
Karen smiled a bit helplessly. "I know. Once we get back home, this won't happen again. Still..."
"It's not a bad idea for him to have something, some way to warn your constabulary if there's something gone wrong, or if he's safe," the constable who had led Locke back offered, likely guessing the subject of the conversation from the tone, though it was always possible he understood some Icelandic. "A mobile with texting enabled, say, and maybe a tracking app that feeds back to one of your mobiles. Like they do with kids."
Locke made a face, but he had to admit it wasn't a terrible suggestion. While actually calling anyone wasn't an option, being able to text someone was. And if the mobile was nice enough, it would have a note app of some form, which would lessen the amount of paper he went through trying to communicate, as well as ease the difficulty in making himself understood in the dark.
"We'll look into our options at home," Gunnar decided as Locke set about trying to separate Emelía from him. "Now, we're only for a couple more days. And Tom has the number, yes?"
Locke nodded, not looking up from Emelía, who had finally deigned to look up at him, face a mess of tears. He gently wiped at her cheeks with his thumbs and offered a hopeful smile.
She let out a loud sniff and tugged on his shirt. "Tom's here?" she asked, tone hopeful.
Locke shrugged and motioned his head towards in the general direction of the front desk. Tom hadn't come back with him, but that didn't, necessarily, mean he'd straight-up left. Locke had got the impression, from what he'd said over the phone to his office – or studio, or wherever he spent his days – that Tom hadn't any intention of just dropping him off and running for it.
Indeed, Tom was still waiting for them out front, laughing as he signed something for an older man in uniform who was wearing an embarrassed smile.
Karen elbowed Locke while Emelía let out a shout and ran forward to mirror her greeting to Locke with Tom. "You didn't tell me it was Tom Hiddleston."
Locke raised an eyebrow at her and quickly scrawled Really? on his notepad.
Karen stuck her tongue out at him and stepped forward to meet Tom, Emelía being prodded into doing the introductions. Locke, for his part, glanced back at Gunnar, who shrugged, resigned to his fiancée's enjoyment of popular culture.
Tom didn't stay long after a round of introductions, apologising because he really did need to go in to work eventually. Before he escaped, however, Karen managed to ply a promise of dinner out that evening: "We have to thank you for taking Emelía out the other night. And, of course, for keeping an eye on Locke," she'd insisted when Tom tried brushing her off.
Tom had glanced at Locke hopefully, but he'd learned when to let Karen have her way and when she could be talked out of a bad idea, and this event of of the former sort. So he shrugged and smiled.
After they'd parted and a trip back to the hotel for everyone to freshen up, they headed out for a late start to the day's itinerary.
"He is so disgustingly handsome," Karen commented, arm linked with Locke's while Emelía pulled Gunnar along with her a good seven paces ahead of them.
Locke glanced at her with a frown, confused; he knew she honestly loved Gunnar, but she'd never once called him 'handsome'. She'd used 'ruggedly attractive', once or twice, and she'd joked about having a beard fetish often enough when Emelía was out of hearing range, but 'handsome'?
She smiled, reading his confusion with the ease of a year's worth of familiarity understanding his expressions. "Tom."
Locke opened his mouth in a silent 'ah' and nodded.
She squeezed his arm. "Do you ever meet his fans?"
Locke nodded, because they'd been stopped a few times for autographs and pictures. It was only ever groups of two or three people, and while he was willing to introduce Locke, Tom was careful to keep him out of any pictures or the single recording.
"Are they all as utterly mad as they seem online?"
Locke had never had occasion to look into Tom's following in any medium but in person, but it was hard to forget his first brush with them in the café, even if all the ones he'd actually met were quite polite. He shrugged, not having a good response for that.
His lack of faces seemed to be a sufficient answer, for Karen said, "Good. He's far too polite a gentleman to have to put up with those harpies all the time."
Locke smiled, agreeing, and the topic was dropped on account of Emelía apparently talking Gunnar into stepping into a toy shop with her, which could only end in tears.
Dinner was tolerable, with Tom and Karen carrying the conversation because Karen was the best with English, after Locke, and Tom's Icelandic got him little better than some giggles from Emelía. (Tom got her back by telling her all about how sweet and adorable she seemed for a rude little monster, in slightly choppy French. Locke had to duck his head to hide his grin, understanding quite well what his friend was saying, though he was the only one at the table who did.)
"They're not a bad family," Tom told him after, as the two of them walked along the Thames, arms brushing with every step.
Locke nodded, fully agreeing; he'd been lucky it was Gunnar and Emelía who'd found him, and that Gunnar had been willing to invite a stranger to stay with them.
Tom let out a noise that was somewhere between a snort and an aborted laugh. "I want to ask how they compare to your actual family, but..." He grimaced, glancing over. "Sorry."
Locke frowned in thought for a moment, debating; he'd never really explained his brief flashes of memory to anyone before, though Gunnar and Karen seemed to be aware of them. Finally, he stopped walking and tugged out his notepad. Tom stopped next to him with a curious noise while Locke wrote, I get feelings sometimes. Like I never had it this good before.
Tom glanced up after reading it, brows furrowed in sorrow. "So," he said, words careful, "you've rather...gone up in the world. You suspect."
Locke gave him a look and snatched his notepad back before starting off again. This was why he didn't mention his memory flashes to anyone, because they would be questioned.
Tom sighed and hurried to catch up, grabbing Locke's shoulder and tugging until he stopped. "I don't mean to imply I think you're making things up, Locke," he insisted, gently squeezing his shoulder. "I just mean, well... Loki, the character I play who's so popular, he thinks no one in his family loves him, because he's not, well... There are adoption issues. And, yeah, it's at least a bit the fault of his family, because we play it like there was preference there, for his brother, but they still loved him. Thor and Frigga, he was important to them, so important. And Odin, too. Anthony says he wants to play Odin like he loves Loki, but he's not– he can't be proud of him, because Loki's a mess. Because he always...he does the wrong thing, a lot, trying to do the right thing. Or what he thinks is the right thing."
Locke finally turned to look at Tom and took a moment to absorb the broken stare in his friend's eyes, the way this character's story honestly hurt him.
"They say," Tom added, trying to smile, "that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm not...I don't think that's Loki's problem, not really. He's selfish, and has trouble seeing others, sometimes, past his own problems, but I don't...I don't think he has evil in mind when he – both figuratively and literally – blows things up, but that doesn't really help."
He laughed, then, sudden and a little embarrassed. "Lord. Sorry." He glanced away. "I don't even know where my head just went. Sorry, Loki just..." He snorted and shook his head.
Locke didn't know what possessed him to take a half-step forward and tug Tom into a hug, clinging too-tight and hiding his face against Tom's shoulder because, inexplicably, Tom's words had brought tears to his eyes. It was like he'd needed to hear those words, like they were a validation of something he couldn't remember, and his throat tingled, choking him until he opened his mouth to whisper, "Thank you."
Tom tensed for a beat, then returned the embrace, arms tight and nearly unforgiving. Like an echo through a cave system, Locke felt forgiveness in those arms, meant for him, but not him; rolling out through time and space and soothing the sharp edges that he could feel in his dreams, in snatches of images and voices.
It was there, in Tom's arms, that Locke felt his past in his grasp, the truth of who he was. All he had to do was grab for it, speak the words itching at the tip of his tongue, and–
Locke pulled away, rubbing at his eyes and aching for missed opportunities.
Tom caught one of his hands and rubbed his thumb against the back, eyes bright with his own tears. "Anything you absolutely must do tonight?" he asked, and there was a tightness to his voice that Locke could hardly fault him for, because he'd been crying too.
He swallowed and pantomimed rolling a video projector, because he didn't really want to wander London, but he didn't want to leave Tom, either. (Honestly wasn't sure Tom would let him leave, the way he had curled both his hands around the one of Locke's that he'd grabbed.)
Tom smiled, bright and easy. "We can do that. My place?"
Locke nodded, so they hunted down Tom's car and he drove them out to his place while Locke borrowed his mobile to text Gunnar, warning that he might end up sleeping over at Tom's again. The Have fun! ;) he got back was clearly sent by Karen.
They settled in on the couch again, Locke leaving to to Tom to pick the film. He put in some silly cartoon which had them both laughing, shoulders knocking as they shook. The second film was quieter, and clearly one Tom knew well, for he hummed along to the soundtrack at one point near the beginning, and Locke thought he heard him whispering the dialogue a couple times.
As the credits rolled, Locke looked down at where Tom's short hair was tickling his arm where it poked through the weave of his borrowed shirt. His eyes were closed and his breathing even, clearly asleep.
Locke was familiar enough with the entertainment system now to know which remote would turn everything off in one fell swoop. He silenced it and carefully reached around Tom to turn off the light next to him, then slouched back against the couch, arms falling almost-naturally to wrap around Tom and hold him close.
It was comfortable, this closeness. This careless intimacy that had so surprised Locke that morning, Tom's face buried in his hair. He'd thought it was strange, their tendency to stand in each other's space, too-close, but it wasn't, not really. The first thing they'd done was share a map, shoulders bumping as they'd snuck past Tom's pursuers. It was in every time they'd stood together under a street lamp, Tom reading over his shoulder as Locke wrote little notes on his notepad, or Locke leaning on Tom's shoulder as he searched for information about some attraction on his mobile, the light nearly blinding in the dark of the city parks.
It hadn't been strange, the closeness, until after he'd seen Tom with Emelía and helped him to his feet. That moment when their casual intimacy had been, nearly literally, in his face.
Had Tom noticed it? Had he scented the change on the wind at that moment? Or had it taken until that moment in the car, when Locke had discovered he might still have a voice? Had he noticed it at all?
Locke remembered gentle fingers touching his cheek and a nose pressed into his hair, and knew Tom had noticed. They were sharing a page, fingers hovering at the edge and waiting for one of them to have the courage to turn it over.
Locke suspected, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he'd never been the brave sort.
..
