The Journalist (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction)

Nine

"No." This time when you respond in the negative your voice is stronger. No the reason you're here is not to leave him, despite the fact that it would be the smart thing to do. After all, what assurances did you have that Tom wouldn't lose his temper with you again and hurl something more wounding than cutting words and clothes?

You shift in your seat to try to maneuver the key in your pocket so it isn't pressing uncomfortably into your leg anymore. It doesn't work, but that's alright – the key is a good reminder that just yesterday you had been ready to cut Tom out of your life, despite how your heart is currently reacting.

You love him. You love him.... You can love him and still leave him. The two aren't mutually exclusive.

It had been a spur of the moment decision in response to his emailed plea to see you, a moment of determination – or bravery, or stupidity – that had resulted in you heaving the door to your new place shut behind you.  You were able to cobble together some small semblance of a plan as you drove... The intention was to discuss the press release regarding the event, and maybe find a way to make up your mind regarding your future in the process.

And then he'd jerked the door open. All it took was him saying your name and - poof - you'd been left standing there awkwardly on the walk. Whatever plan you had started to cobble together had evaporated the moment your name left his lips.

Tom's tone is cautious, yet hopeful. "No? But you stopped – paused – out on the stoop..." He lifts his hand to reach over and touch you. You move your arm away from his reach just a fraction, just enough to make him hesitate and then drop his hand back down into his lap.

"I stopped because my head was screaming not to make the same mistake over again. I stopped because I love you, still, and I don't know what to make of that. I stopped because I want – I need something that proves that I can trust you with my heart again."

You are just being honest with him, but perhaps the fact that you're not sure if you can trust him is a bit too much honesty for the moment. Tom seems a little taken aback. What had he expected you to say – that you had merely stumbled upon the pavement?

And then he stands and walks from the room.

Should you follow him? Should you sit and wait to see if he comes back? You're up and on your feet before you can second guess yourself into a tizzy. "Tom? What are you doing? Where are you going?" There had only been a slight delay between when his long strides had carried him from the room and when you had popped up off the sofa in pursuit. You find him in his office leaning over the back of the desk to detach the power cord from his laptop and pluck the computer up off the surface. 

"Getting your proof."

"What?"

He points to the chair by the bookshelf - your chair, still unmoved from the spot where you'd last positioned it so you could watch him work at his desk - and says, "Sit. My email. Read it, please. All of it." He remains by his desk as you settle into the chair. He's holding the laptop with one hand and tapping out the keystrokes with his other as you look on. He then spins the laptop in his hands and pushes it into your lap. You watch him retreat back until he settles against the desk again before you drop your eyes to the computer screen. The wording of his email is exactly the same.

Darling,
I hope this week is better than the last. And thanks for responding to my email last week. My reason for writing now is this....

You skip down, noting that Tom has highlighted the words: [see attached] and clicked to open the files. You were right in your assumption that there would be more than one iteration of the proposed press release. He has them labeled, joint vs individual. That's not what is making your hand shake as you try to control the touch-sensitive mouse pad.