The Journalist (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction)

Four

Point A: You love the man standing before you.
Point B: You hate the man standing before you.
Point C: The man standing before you has hidden your car keys so you can't escape him.

You can't keep looking at him. Right now he's finally starting to understand the pain you're in. He forced you into it - into telling him that he'd destroyed the relationship. Ok so pushing all that guilt at him wasn't entirely fair, but neither was holding you hostage.

And he wants to offer up reasons why he exploded the way that he did. Reasons are lovely, but they don't excuse the behavior. You keep shaking your head back and forth in mute protest. No. No. No. You're over this exhausting exchange. If Tom won't give you back your car keys there are other ways of getting into your car. It makes your stomach constrict but it'll have to be done. You'll just turn it on for a few moments, long enough to make the calls and then turn it off again. You just have to retrieve it from your bag, so back into the hallway you go.

"Come on. Please just let me explain..."

He tries to block your path but you slip past him - chalk it up to years of practice worming your way through crowds in pursuit of a story. You almost smile but then Tom's venomous delivery of the word echoes in your head: Journalist.

"Forgive me if I don't want to hear it." It just takes you a second to squat down to retrieve your phone from the side pocket you'd relegated it to. You didn't want it touching the rest of your belongings. Maybe that could be the next adventure for today - go to get a new number and replace the whole damned phone, just for good measure.

Tom has turned to follow you back towards the door. He probably would have followed you right out onto the sidewalk if you'd walked out again. He watches as you turn the phone back on. "What are you doing?"

The phone will take a few moments to restart and that's a few moments longer than you want to be holding the thing. Maybe you could put it down on the ... well if he'd get out of the way you could put it down. You sigh, stalled in the entryway. "I'm calling a locksmith - and then the dealership to see if they can make me a spare key to get me home since I've lost my keys."

Tom is standing uncomfortably close. The fact that you sidestepped him so easily to get back to your bag has brought the stiffness back to his stance. "That's not necessary. Wherever you're staying in isn't home. This is your home."

"It was." Watching your phone load all the programs at a snail's pace won't make it go faster. You just need it to beep to indicate that you can make a call. You look away, but since you're also trying not to look at him your eyes are drawn back to the screen. Internally you're willing your phone not to ring. No incoming messages. No phone calls. Just turn on and let you place a call, that's all you ask.

"It is." He is fixated on the way you're focused on the object in your hands, "Why the hell are you holding your mobile like that?"

Right - because up until now it has all been about how photos of him were leaked, about how his number was the one everyone was calling. In the relationship he was the celebrity, he was the headline. You were at best a byline - at this point, maybe a footnote.

How had he phrased it when he said he'd tried to call you? He figured you also had 'problems with your mobile'. Problems... not quite accurate a word to describe it, in your opinion. Ugh, and the phone is taking its sweet time starting up. "You weren't the only one to get photos and phone calls, Tom."

He's had a week - a week! - and still it evidently hadn't occurred to him that any 'problems with your mobile' would cause you any lingering inconvenience. What did he think? That you'd purposefully kept your phone off so he couldn't contact you?