Hello Again (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

September 2013: Goodbye. Again.

“I’m coming with you.” He said, widening his stance, ready for a fight.  I squinted at him, my head buzzing.

“No.” I turned and walked toward my bedroom, which was really just the other side of the small apartment.

“Gracie. Let me come with you.” He followed me over as I began shoving things into a suitcase. I dumped out my small bag from the Alwinton trip and simply put most of it’s contents—toiletries and a sweater, into my open suitcase.  Living out of bags.

“No, no. I don’t…it’s not a good idea.” I shook my head, distracted.  It wasn’t.  I didn’t want him there.  God, I could only imagine him mixing with my family.  My horrid Aunt and Uncle.  I didn’t even know who else would show up.  Some of my father’s delinquent friends? My mother?  I didn’t even know how to get a hold of my mother.  I wasn’t sure she even knew he’d died, or if she’d care.  My stomach flipped as I continued putting clothes in my suitcase. 

“You need someone—“

“Santos is meeting me at the airport.” I looked up at him, and was met with worried blue eyes.  He crossed his arms over his chest, and I could see he was really concerned. 

“Santos is meeting me.  I’ll be fine.” I said sternly, and then I promptly started pushing him out the door.  Having him there would be too much.  It would mean too much.  As much as I’d like to lean on him, to lie to myself and pretend that he was mine to lean on, I knew it was a bad idea. 

So I made him leave.  I didn’t say much, but a door in the face is pretty self explanatory. 

I’m in love with him. I’m not over him.  And I don’t want him there to see me at my absolute worst.  We were a one night stand.  And I’ve got to close that door. So I did, literally.

 ****

The funeral is Friday morning.  Santos and I spend the next few days holed up in a 37th floor New York hotel room, drinking wine and ordering room service.  We don’t open the curtains.  We don’t leave the room.  He’s not in mourning, but he’s doing it for me.  I’m not sure I’m in mourning either, to be honest.  At least not in the normal sense. I’m confused, and angry, and somewhere in that boiling mess, I’m also sad. Deeply, deeply sad.  Being with Santos for a few days helps, and though I don’t cry and we don’t talk about it much, I know I will find a way to handle it.

“Gracie, you know I love you, right? You ice queen, you.” Santos says to me, the night before the funeral.  The room is dark, but we are watching reruns of bad reality tv.  He grabs my hand.  We’re sharing a bed, even though the room has two big beds.

“I love you too.” I whisper.

“You can’t change the relationship you had with your father.  But don’t beat yourself up over it.  None of it was your fault, you know.” He blinks at me in the dark, and I nod, feeling hot tears run down the sides of my face.

“I know.”

“I’m sort of grateful he was a shitty dad, anyway.” Santos says with such a flippant nature that it makes me laugh.

“Why?” I grin, waiting.

“Because it’s what made us become friends.  Shitty dads, man.  Bringing gay men and lonely ladies together since…well…the beginning of time, I suppose.” He laughs, his voice echoing through the room.  I giggle as well, and reach over, patting him gently on the cheek.

“Thank you for always being my family.” Santos says softly, his voice full of surprising emotion.  I grab him into a hug.  We hug for a moment, and then he begins to fake sob, wailing loudly enough that I’m sure the hotel is going to get a complaint.  We break into laughter, rolling around on the bed and hitting each other as I feel something inside of me let loose.