Aching throat, throbbing head, coughing fits that've woken you up every hour or so... and to think this started as the sniffles two days ago! You roll over, pawing for your phone on the nightstand, telling yourself that there is no bleeding way that you are hauling yourself to work today. You call your boss. She hears your horrible ill-voice and instantly agrees with you.
"You stay home. Don't want you bringing that around here," she says. "I'll have someone come in for you. Rest. Have some tea."
"You sound like my mum," you croak before hanging up. Wrapping yourself in the duvet from your bed and clutching your phone, you shuffle off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. After that is accomplished, you plop down on the sofa and try to find something decent on the telly. Rory leaps up there with you and settles down beside you, purring loudly.
"Drama queen," you tease him, scratching behind his ears, "you act like no one's petted you in ages."
As usual, there's nothing on, so you go for the Doctor Who reruns you have packed into the DVR. "What do you think, Rory? Nine? Ten? Eleven? I think we even have some Classic Who, but that'll mean getting up and finding the DVDs," you ask the cat stuffily as you fumble with the remote. "Ooh, I know - Let's Kill Hitler."
You start it, forgetting that you had the kettle on until it starts shrieking, scaring you half out of your skin. Cursing, you take Rory off your lap and get up to take it off the stove, still wrapped in your blanket cucoon. You fix your tea - "Honey and lemon for sore throats," you hear your mum say in the back of your mind - and carefully carry it back to the sofa.
You're just getting into the episode, nodding off a bit, even, when your mobile goes off loudly. You let off another string of curses at the noise, tearing off te duvet to search for it. When you finally get it, you look at the number.
(XXX) XXX-XXXX
"Who the hell is this?" You ask yourself. Probably someone selling something. You press Answer.
"Hello, is this-?"
"All right, you can cut the formalities, because I don't wanna buy a fucking timeshare or whatever you're peddling, so if you'd kindly bugger right off a cliff and let me get back to my tea," you rant, trailing off when your voice gets rough...
Then, right before you planned to triumphantly hang up on the interrupting bastard who called during Doctor Who, the man on the other side laughs.
I know that laugh...
"Catch you at a bad time?"
"Tom?!" you ask disbelievingly. You then launch into a lengthy, broken apology. "I'm so, so sorry, I'm not feeling well so I'm a bit on the irritible side... unfamiliar number... watching Doctor Who..." You cough. "Sorry. What're you calling for? And from a different number?"
More laughing from his end. Well, I'm glad someone's getting a laugh out of this. "I've changed my number, wanted to let you know. Don't worry about it, getting snapped at isn't going to hurt me any. Though it sounds like it's hurting you, do you want me to let you go?"
"No!" you yelp. "I mean, no, I can talk, really." You take a sip of your tea, which helps your voice sound less like a strangled toad. "You could have just texted the new number to me, you know."
"I could have," Tom repeats. "But I was curious. I wanted to hear what your voice was like."
You half-laugh, half-cough. "Well, right now it ound like I've been gargling nails. I don't normally sound like this, I promise."
"You're okay, darling, it's honestly not as horrid as you think," Tom tells you.
"Sure it's not." You look back up at the telly. "Damn it, I've missed the ending. Well, since my Doctor Who is now Doctor Don't Bother, I guess you'll have to entertain me," you jest.
"You think so?" he asks.
"Hey, you're the one who interrupted in the first place."
YOU ARE READING
Got Your Number
FanfictionIf your favourite actor gave out his number on social media, would you be able to take the chance and try it out? (A Tom Hiddleston x Reader fanfiction.)
