The Journalist (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction)

Ten

"I'm an ass."

Your favorite word for him throughout this ordeal. It pulls a choked laugh from your chest – because he's not, not really. He's allowed your heartbroken and angry image of him color his own opinions of himself. He has his moments of asshole behavior, but he's not an ass.

"I am a complete and utter ass, darling. Will you forgive me?" Tom asks, still kneeling before you.

If you could manage to see him more clearly through your persistent tears, you'd probably find him crying, too. You can hear it in his voice, the waver of emotion. You're still trying to clear your face of emotional debris, your efforts hampered by the fool of a man stationed at your knees. He finally rests his hands atop your thighs to allow you to compose yourself on your own. He could have caved – sent the letters to your email as soon as he'd written them and put an end to the month and change long torture session.

Snot, the sudden urge your throat has to close completely, and sobs for breath stutter your reply. "I thought – that you didn't love me."

He's already pulled his laptop from your lap so it's a simple thing for him to scoop you forward from the way you've wedged yourself into your chair, nestling you into his arms. You go from having yourself pressed into the security of the chair to being pulled into a standing position a few steps back towards the hallway. With the both of you standing again you feel unsteady on your feet, but he seems to find sure footing.

"I gave you every reason to doubt me." He shuffles his feet farther apart to adjust his height to more evenly match yours, meanwhile he uses one of his hands to tilt your head so your eyes meet with his.

Yes. Yes, he had. There had been no hesitation in the stream of his anger. From the moment he had walked in the door that day to the moment he had kicked you out -- apparently it was only hours later, sitting in the silence amongst the strewn clothes, that he had been able to process and regret the actions he'd undertaken.

Through salt tipped lashes you observe the sincerity coupled with his words. He doesn't say the phrase again, remembering your objections, but you can feel the sentiment in the way he's holding you – see it held within those baby blues. Sorry. I'm so very sorry.

He has you captured within his arms to prevent you from toppling, or back away, back into the confines of the chair he pulled you from. Tom tilts his head down to press his lips into yours, a soft kiss the likes of which you've missed in the time you've spent apart. It used to be an assured thing, a gentle peck delivered in the morning, the happy greeting upon walking in the door after work, a token of affection whenever the moment struck him.

When his lips finally leave yours, breaking the caress, he leaves you breathless. He, however, isn't yet at a loss for words. "Do you doubt me, now?"

No, Tom. Assuredly no. Most unreservédly, no. Unable to find your voice, you shake your head and pull him back against you again, your actions more telling than any words you might be able to summon.

And still the kettle whines on.

--

You've been tense all morning and most of the afternoon, to the point that you're sure that not even a long soak in the tub when you get home will help to relieve the ache of your muscles. The tub is the one thing that sold you on the apartment, the oversized porcelain thing more than making up for the stubborn front door.

Funny how being on the opposite side of the glaring lights, the microphones, the questions, makes you nervous. You'd much rather be scribbling notes to yourself while pressed shoulder to shoulder with others doing the same, waiting for the battle of who-can-get-their-question-heard-and-answered.