Hello Again (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

September 2013: Goodbye. Again.

We are quiet as we make our way back to London. I fall into some sort of stupor.  Tom packs up our things, though there’s not much.  He forces me to eat a scone of some sort, which he shoves in a napkin from the tray that Mr. Williams drops off at our room in the morning.  Tom is calm and quiet the whole time, which I appreciate.  My mind is spinning, and I feel as if I’m not even really there.

How can he be dead?  How? When did I last speak to him? What was our last conversation?  I can only remember telling him I didn’t know when I’d next be in New York.  And yet, I’d been in DC…only a 3 hour drive away and I had decided not to go.  All my memories of him seem to be covered in a fog, slipping away so quickly.  I feel my stomach churn, as Tom hurtles us down the road in the little tin can.  He’s driving so fast, as if he thinks he can change the past if he makes it back to London in time.

“Tom, pull over. Please.” I say softly, my hands gripping the car door, my mouth watering unhappily.  Tom pulls over, and I make it out just in time to lose my breakfast on the side of the dirt road.  He parks and turns off the car, and a few moments later, he’s at my side with a bottle of water.

“Take deep breaths.” He says softly, and I nod, hunched over and squatting by the side of the road.  His hand comes down on my back.  I don’t look up, but I take the water and rinse out my mouth.  I can feel tears threatening to fall, but my whole body is tense, and they don’t come.

“I didn’t…I didn’t…” I can barely speak. 

“Ok, Gracie. It’s okay.  Breathe or you’re going to hyperventilate.” He says gently.  Tom leans down and pulls me toward him, into his side and I let him.  I lean against him, and tuck my head into his neck and shoulder.  I can’t relax though.  I stare straight ahead, my eyes burning and unseeing. 

“I’m sorry, Gracie girl.” He whispers.  I nod but I don’t respond.

After a minute, I pull away and we get back in the car.  I don’t have anything to say.  I have more regrets about my father than I do happy memories.  I can’t remember the last time I saw him.  And now, the thought of going back to New York and seeing my family, it fills me with a sick sense of dread.

The seven hours home seem to fly by, which is surprising. I’m not quite there during the car ride, and Tom stays quiet, though I can feel his eyes on me.

I make a few phone calls. The first being to Santos.  He’s stunned into silence, and though our conversation is quick, he nearly brings me to tears.  Of course he would.  He tells me he will get plane tickets in order, and not to worry.  And that he’ll see me in New York.  I thank him, and while I’m speaking I can’t help but think that my voice sounds strange.  Our conversation is all of five minutes long, but I feel a slight sense of calm after I’m done talking to him.  He’s the closest I have to family.  Next comes Mary, who is apologetic and sympathetic, and tells me not to even mention work. Our conversation is even shorter.

And then…that’s it.  There’s no one else for me to call.  I have no other family.  No other friends that I feel need to know about this loss.  I feel an emptiness spread in my chest.  A widening hole that is only enhanced by the fact that I’ve lost one of the last bonds to any real family.

****

New York is as I left it.  Autumn has nearly shifted to winter, and there’s a cold, bone chattering wind that sweeps through when I get out of the cab in front of the hotel.  The flight had been a good one.  Santos, bless him, had booked me first class, and I had managed to get some sleep for the first time in 24 hours.

After finally getting into London late on Sunday, Tom had taken me to my apartment.  He didn’t stay for long, but only because I had forced him to leave.