Darling (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

15: two worlds, names, the wrong shoes

I feel my cheeks burn as I turn around.  Shorty is sitting on the couch, sprawled on it like he owns it, his hawk like eyes watching me.

"What?" I just said goodnight to Tom, feeling a mixture of embarrassment, anxiety and confusion coursing through me.  This is not how I had expected to end my night with him.  Not at all. Tom had been good natured about it, as he is about almost all things.  He'd was sweet, even.  Which made it all the harder to say goodnight to him, and then promptly shut the door, returning back to Shorty's annoyed scowl.

 Shorty had threatened, quite a few times, in the last few weeks that he was going to come and drag me back to California, but I'd never believed him.  Little towns aren't really his thing.  If me coming back to Delaware was like two worlds colliding, Shorty being here feels like two worlds imploding.

"So, what's his name? Is it serious? Are you in love? Babies? Dog? White picket fence?" Shorty tilts his head to the side, smiling sweetly and blinking at me as he throws the questions my way.  I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed.  I've known Shorty for a long, long time.  We don't really have any secrets.  But maybe that should start to change.   I used to tell him everything, whether it was personal or business related, as soon as it happened.  And for some reason, now, I don't feel really feel like talking about Tom.  Especially not with him.

"Shut up." I roll my eyes and walk away, into the kitchen to get a drink. It would be nice if there was something stronger than wine in the house, but I distinctly remember finishing off the whiskey with Sam and Rachel two nights ago. Instead, I pour myself a glass of wine, not offering Short any as he stomps into the kitchen.

"I mean, you're kidding me, right? Do you even know this guy?" Shorty asks, his voice tired and mean.  "You're just bored, right?" He is totally serious. I turn and glare at him, but I don't say anything.  I know anything I say will fuel the fire.  And honestly, maybe Shorty has a tiny, itty bitty point.  I'm not bored. But, a relationship, of any kind, is probably the last thing I need.

"Baby. Stuff like this is why we are in this shit in the first place.  I've been working my ass off for you.  Trying to clean up.  And you're here, in Bumfuck, Nowhere, getting to second base with some random local." He crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking my stance, as I feel my blood start to boil.  I'm angry.  But I'm also sad. Because I was just having one of the best evenings I've had in a long time, and then Shorty came crashing in, bringing reality back hard and cold. It's not really his fault though.  I've been avoiding him like the plague.

"His name is Tom.  He's not random." I say softly with a sigh.  Shorty groans and leans against the counter.

"As long as you don't send him any videos."

"Fuck off." I brush past Shorty, and out into the small living room. 

"Come on, Baby.  Give us a hug.  It's been over a month since I've seen you.  You look good. Tan. More tan than I've ever seen you, in fact. Which is weird considering your house in California is so close to the beach—" Shorty coos after me, his voice slipping into a slightly more needy, kinder tone.

"I'm tan because they let me go outside here." I shoot back at him, plopping down on the couch.  He huffs and stands at the doorway, watching me.  It is so strange having him here.  I feel forced back into the world I've been running away from. 

"Don't be like that." He grunts and then comes and sits down next to me.  We are quiet for a minute.  Shorty is looking around the room, taking in the scenery.  Rachel and Sam's house is much different than my own.  It's warm. Comfortable.  Full of things that mean something to them.  At my house in California, Shorty had a decorator come in and furnish and design everything.  It feels more like a show room than a home.