Darling (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

21: summer's end, home, an accident.

A/N: So sorry about the long wait. I've had a lot going on, and writing has been hard for me.  I hope you are all still interested in this story, and I appreciate all your support!  Hope everyone is enjoying the last few days of summer....

The summer is slowly winding to a close. Tom's classes are just around the corner, and it is as if we can feel the time sifting slowly from the hourglass. In the evenings, he starts preparing for them. He spends most of his free time at the kitchen table with his laptop, glasses on, hair a mess from tugging at it idly, mug of tea slowly cooling on the worn wood surface. He goes off in his own world, readying a syllabus that he changes every semester. He's picked up one more class than last year, as he figured he'd have a tiny bit more time during the day since Gemma is starting kindergarten. It's an unspoken understanding that things are going to be changing, and soon. The days are getting shorter, and the magic of the past summer seems to be fading.

He hasn't said it in as many words, but I can tell he's stressed already. Stressed by the idea that his little girl is going to school. Stressed by the roughly opened bills, and unopened envelopes that are stacked on the little ledge in the kitchen. I haven't brought up my offer again. I somehow know that he'd never accept it. It makes me sad, even frustrated, but I know what it's like to feel like you're alone in a fight. As close as we've grown in these few short months, our haphazardly made team is just that. Haphazard.

It's nearing seven in the morning, and I've been awake long enough to know that I won't be going back to sleep. Tom rolls onto his stomach, sliding a heavy, warm arm across my stomach. He's still asleep and doesn't wake as he holds onto me.

I don't want to leave. I don't want to leave him. And Gemma. And Rosie, Rach and Sam. But a decision has to be made soon—something more permanent, and lately, I'm only seeing one viable option. Shorty still emails and texts me daily. He's gotten over his anger after I released my own unapologetic statement. He got over it even more when he found that people still supported me. Perhaps even more than before. And the offers were still rolling in. The machine never stops. People have placed a dollar sign on my head, on my voice, on the persona of Baby, and even though I haven't sung in weeks, it doesn't matter. They want to cash in. Shorty wants to cash in. And I don't really blame him. I haven't had this much buzz, this much demand surrounding my name since the early days of my career, when my first number one had come out. Strangely, I've become something of a myth—an urban legend. The pop singer with the sex tape who disappeared.

It's been over a week since the paparazzi encounter. And I've only run into them one more time since then, this time alone. I was able to dodge them by slipping into a store. Most of the locals have been surprisingly cool about it—kind and willing to keep my secrets. They don't want the attention brought to their little town either. So they mostly don't blab to the press when they're asked if they've seen me around. And I do my best not to draw attention to myself.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" Tom's voice is deep, rough with sleep. He speaks without opening his eyes.

"Just thinking. Why aren't you?" I smile and run a hand through his hair, fingertips through slightly unruly curl. The sun's bleached his hair nearly golden blond, curling at the ends, making him look younger, and carefree.

"I can hear you thinking." He murmurs. I laugh softly, and he gathers me closer.

"Sing to me." He whispers then, his mouth against my neck as he nuzzles me. I flush, feeling heat go to my face.

This is something new. It started from one night of a few too many drinks. We'd fallen into bed, and I had somehow ended up singing to him. It had been jokingly, a made up song about the night we'd had. He had thought it was hilarious, and though we'd laughed then, it had quickly turned into something new—a routine of sorts.