Darling (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

27: warm tea, clean, a meal

I long for a hot shower, scalding, in fact. I stumble into the bathroom, flipping on the light as I do.

My reflection is shocking. Harrowing. The bruise on my cheekbone is still there, strange tones of plum and greenish yellow. I'm nude except for my underwear. There are bruises on my outer thighs, where I no doubtedly stumbled drunkenly into things. Dark circles under my eyes seem to complete the look, along with hair that has seen better days.

I flick the lights off, sending the bathroom into forgiving darkness, and I turn on the shower as hot as it will go.

****

The shower doesn't fix everything, but I at least am starting to feel human again. I brush my hair, and slip into clean clothes. Something comfortable, if not all that fashionable. Sweats and a hoodie that I've had for years. I hear Shorty's voice in my head, telling me I need to get back into the "scene". That I need to start dressing like a successful popstar if I want to be one. Just the fact that I still hear him, directing my every move, makes me angry. It is hard to remove his presence completely. I've been used to it for years and years.

I'm scared to leave my bedroom. Scared to see what I will find.

I slip from my room quietly, my stomach churning. The house is nearly silent, but I can hear movement in the kitchen. I make my way downstairs, and hold my breath as I walk around the foyer into the main living area. The last thing I remember is one of the twins doing body shots, and a trio of guys trying to convince some girls I didn't even know to play beer pong on kitchen counter.

I can't imagine what Tom is thinking. I feel a heaviness in the pit of my stomach as I walk through the rooms.

It is immaculately clean. No sign of trash. No sign of parties. It's welcoming even. Or as welcoming as my house can be. I've never quite fully moved in. Never quite made it my own. But there's a few candles burning on the mantel, and around the living room. It smells good, warm and clean. I look around, wrapping my arms around my middle. He's cleaned everything up. Everything.

My heart is hammering in my chest as I walk into the kitchen. Tom's back is to me, and he's standing at the stove. He's wearing a plain white tshirt and jeans, his head lowered over something he's stirring. He hasn't heard me come downstairs. There's a comforting calm to him. A quietness. I feel as if I've walked into a snapshot of what it could have been like between us. If things had been different. If he'd felt the same about me.

"Hi." My voice is low, rough from disuse and being ill. Tom turns quickly, and the sight of his face makes my whole body tense. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes wide and open, forgiving and gentle. He gives me a careful smile and leans back against the counter next to the stove.

"Hello." He says softly. I swallow. "How are you?" A simple question, but one I haven't really been asked by anyone in person since I found out about Shorty. It catches me by surprise, and I don't quite know how to answer at first.

"I'm okay." I give him the simplest answer for the most complicated question. He waits. "I'm not okay." I amend my answer. He grimaces and nods, accepting this.

"Um, thank you. You didn't have to clean...It looks so nice in here." I manage. It's dark outside now, I notice as I glance out the window over his shoulder. Tom shrugs a shoulder and then tucks his hands into his pockets.

"I had some time. Are you hungry?" He asks, and walks over and pulls out one of the three chairs that sit at the large island in the middle of the kitchen. I hesitate for a second, watching him, but then I move forward, and sit down in the high bar chair.

"I'm starving." I say softly. "I don't know when I last ate." I add. I feel nervous, and at the same time, comforted by his presence. He shouldn't be here. I'm embarrassed he saw me like he did, and I'm mortified that he showed up after our last conversation was less than pleasant. But regardless, he's here. And I can't help but take comfort from that fact.