Hello Again (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

February 2012: Big Statement

The air is bitterly cold as I make my way home.  I wrap my coat tight around myself, cursing the fact that I wore a dress today.  I have on knee high boots, and thigh highs, along with a heavy wool jacket and a huge scarf, but I’m shivering as I make my way down the street.  I’m looking forward to getting home.  It’s nearing eight, and I’ve been at the gallery since seven this morning.  Partially of my own volition, partially because there is so much to do there.

I duck my head down as I walk, trying not to pay too much attention to the restaurants and stores around me. It’s hard though.  Everything is red and pink and heart shaped.  Valentine’s Day.  Quite possibly the worst holiday ever.  Even when I was dating Richard, I didn’t care for it.  All the forced emotions, and pressure to make a big statement. 

Not that I should have really cared either way.  Richard never really made any sort of statement, big or little.

I round the corner to my apartment building when I hear my phone beeping in my pocket, and I feel the vibration of it against my side.  I pull it out, my hands instantly numbing in the cold air.

It’s a text message.  And I’m shocked when I see who it is.

I’m in New York.  I’ve just landed. I know it’s a long shot, but are you busy?

I haven’t talked to Tom since Christmas, when he declared he was dating whoever, and we had to pineapple the whole whatever we were doing.  And now he’s in New York.  In my city.  And he wants to know what I’m doing.  Talk about last minute.  Still, I already know what I’m going to say.  There’s really only one answer.

I nearly walk past the door to my apartment because I’m staring at my phone, making sure it’s actually a message from him. I stop outside the door to the building and quickly text him back.

I’m free.  Come to my apartment. I text, and then send him my address.  I bite my lip, feeling a gust of cold wind nearly blow me over. 

 Okay. Be there soon. Brief. To the point.

My heart is racing as I shove my phone into my coat pocket.  I rush into my building, halting at my mail box to get the bills and pointless mail that piles up there.  I idly shuffle through it as I walk up the three floors to my apartment.  I see the envelopes and junk mail, but nothing’s really registering.  My mind is elsewhere.

Tom is in New York.  Tom is coming over.  Why is he here?

My heart is still thumping as I quickly open the door to my apartment.  I look around hastily, trying to see what needs straightening before he comes.  I haven’t had anyone over in quite some time.  Santos when he was last in town. He told me I lived like a 90 year old grandma, and I might as well buy a dozen cats and call it a life.   

It’s a small place.  It’s technically a one bedroom, though just barely.  The one plus side to it is the tall ceilings.  It’s an old refurbished building, so the duct work is all exposed, giving it a loft feel. But the apartment is tiny.  It’s mostly just one room—a small but well laid out kitchen that moves right into the sitting area.  There’s a wall that’s about ten feet tall, and doesn’t meet the ceiling, but it separates the bedroom from the rest of the apartment, giving some semblance of privacy.  It is perfect for me.  The rent isn’t cheap, but it’s cheaper than most and I can afford it, if just barely. 

Things are surprisingly neat, so I just throw some dishes into the sink and gather up some of my clothes, tossing them into my tiny closet in the bedroom and shutting the door.  I rush around the apartment, scanning things and making sure I’ve left nothing out that screams ‘old lonely spinster’.  Okay, so perhaps I’m not old, but the lonely spinster thing still seems applicable.  It’s only slightly mortifying that Tom is still the last person I’ve slept with.  He’s the only person I’ve slept with in the past year.  Let’s just call it a draught, with only one or two Tom storms to drench the parched--- okay, I’ll stop there.  I’m nervous and getting carried away with my analogies.