You've Only Just Arrived (a Tom Hiddleston fan fiction)

Part 52

All you have to do is stay a few steps ahead of the burly man wielding a broken wine bottle. Simple enough. Except that in your smallish kitchen, there really isn’t anywhere to go.

You’re backing up as fast as you possibly can and trying to keep your feet under you – quite the task considering the debris on the floor.

Shit shit shit.

You can hear John and Tom shouting, but it seems distant.  Far too distant to be of immediate use -- and you don’t dare pull your eyes from their current target.

Right now all your focus is on Mitch, no longer smiling at you with that predatory grin, but snarling as you do your best to avoid him. He lunges, sending himself into the far corner by the fridge, thankfully not getting a firm enough grasp on your arm to pull you into the corner with him. “Where do you think you are going ______?” You spin to keep him in your sights. At least he isn’t standing between you and the door anymore. “You’ve only just arrived….”

You shudder as you try to reach out with your left hand to find the counter. Taking your eyes off him would be foolish but you’ve become disoriented. Are you one step away from the cabinetry? Two? And where is the knife block relative to your current location?

Your hand keeps meeting empty air.

Shit shit shit!

Mitch has squared himself off again, coiling up to give another go at ensnaring you. You take a step back and hear a crunch – you’ve stepped back into the pile of glass that Mitch had created while cleaning the floor. The shards of the wine bottle offer you no purchase on the kitchen tiles. You’ve already started to shift your weight onto that foot and your leg is slipping from beneath you.

There is no time to right yourself. Your forearm cracks down onto the countertop just moments before your shoulder, neck, and head meet with that same unforgiving surface.

And now your kitchen is slightly out of focus.

How helpful.

Your half-grip on the counter prevents you from slipping all the way down onto the floor. If you go down there might not be a chance to get up again. You try to blink the scene back into focus and get your feet back under you.

There isn’t time for this. Mitch is advancing again, able to move his large form much faster than you’d anticipated. There is no hope for you dodging his grasp this time.  You manage to push yourself up and off the counter just seconds before being forced into it again, the weight of the others causing you to slam back into the cabinetry.

Help has arrived.

And then there’s shouting. Entirely too much shouting and shoving.

You need to breathe. You need the space to breathe.

Your brain has disconnected. You are taken back to the discussion a few weeks prior. Bruce, Richard, and Tom are brainstorming with you, seated around a small table on the rooftop seating of a nearby pub. You’d needed something to help relax and a few drinks during a night out was just the ticket. It had been too noisy to think inside at the bar where the crowd was congregated.

Outside on the roof, your group is tended by one of the waitresses and, for the most part, left alone. There had been talk about dialing John in, maybe others, but the idea was nixed in favor of updating all necessary parties later. It is late. Once decisions have been made everyone not-present can be updated.

“How about rumrunner?” You take a sip of your drink after smiling at the cocktail in your hand. You’d ordered it on a whim, learning two things: one, your bartender is a bit heavy handed with the rum, and two, it is fucking delicious. Or – now two drinks in – maybe that is just the feeling of all the stress from the week floating away with every additional swallow.