Darling (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

26: the mess, the dream, the defeat

Billie was awake enough to stay upright, sitting on the chaise lounge at the far end of her bathroom. Her eyes were open just slightly, and she was leaning completely against the back of the chair, her head lolled to the side. Her body was relaxed, as if she were asleep. Tom knew she just didn't have enough energy to keep herself upright.

Tom rummaged loudly around in the bathroom, knocking things over and grumbling as he tried to clean up a bit. There were beer bottles all over the bathroom counter, clothes strewn all over the floor. The mirror was smudged with something unintelligible, and he didn't want to even begin to guess what it was.

He didn't want to think about who had been here with her. Trashing her home, and leaving her for near dead—curled up on the floor, unattended for who knew how long. He briefly wondered if she'd had more than just alcohol. He hated to think the worst, but he wasn't really sure what to think anymore.

Tom pulled the trash can out from under the sink, and did a long sweep with his arm, pushing multiple cans and bottles right into the bin. They rattled and crashed loudly, and he swore softly as he watched beer spill onto the counter and down his leg. He felt like he was losing it. Being here, seeing her like this. He couldn't help her amongst all the trash, the debris, the obvious evidence that the last few days of Billie's life had been completely out of control. He felt an impulsive need to tidy up, before he could take care of her.

He couldn't stop thinking about what could have happened if he'd arrived later. Or if he'd just come a bit sooner.

Tom swept a pair of pants, clumped with what was definitely a man's shirt and jeans, to the side of the bathroom, glancing up at Billie as he did. She was watching him, but he wasn't sure how much she was registering.

"What happened, Billie?" He said under his breath, trying hard not to let anger and frustration get to him, but his voice was hard. He turned, reached into the shower and turned on the faucets. Water sprayed from the rainfall head, and he was at least glad to see that the shower looked clean. Billie's throat moved, and she blinked, but didn't say anything.

The short, sequin shift dress she was wearing was bunched at her thighs, stained down the front from most likely her own sick. She had her hands bunched in the fabric, and Tom knew she was awake because her fists were tightened in the material. As if she was afraid of letting go. Her white blond hair was in knots around her face, the normal curls matted together. He absently wondered when the last time she'd slept or eaten had been.

He hesitated in front of her.

Knelt down onto his knees, and then slowly, quietly, let himself feel his own heart break. Crack right down the middle.

For the woman who he had let walk away...and when she had needed him the most.

Tom felt all anger, all frustration over the stressful and nightmarish trip to find her, drain quickly from his body.

He lifted his hands, let them come up to her knees. She didn't respond, but Tom looked at her face then, and watched Billie close her eyes. Saw tears slip from the corners of her dust blue eyes, and slide down her pale, colorless cheeks.

He wanted to hold her, but was afraid to.

Billie took a shuddering breath, and then was still, as if she'd forced it all down, deep inside her.

Tom leaned forward, and slid his hands over hers. She was tense, her knuckles white, clutching the silky fabric. He ran his hands over hers, his thumbs over her knuckles, fighting the urge to envelope her in his arms. He had a feeling it would upset her more than anything.

"It's okay, Billie. It's going to be okay." He whispered softly, not knowing what else to say but knowing he had to say something. Billie swallowed then, and he felt her relax slightly under his hands. Her fists trembled, and then she swallowed hard.