You've Only Just Arrived (a Tom Hiddleston fan fiction)

Part 56

So Tom's first conversation with your father was regarding your stalker. Well - you don't actually know that to be true. It's just an assumption based on the fact that it is the first time he's admitted to talking to your father. And that means... what. It means that ... it means that there is hope that their relationship didn't start out on a sour note. It means that, despite the wounds delivered by Mitch, life will go on. You have Tom. You have your career. You have friends and family. You have the image of Mitch lunging at you with that horrible sneer on his face.

You flex the arches of your feet as you stare up at the muted grey tones of the ceiling. The shadows in the corner keep taking shapes, materializing into the hulking residual form of Mitch. Refocusing again on Tom's breathing is the only way to try to banish the other thoughts from your head. It is how you managed to quiet your mind enough to attempt sleep, the steady assurance that came with each of his deep exhales — only to be greeted by dreams of being pursued by shadows.

All your fidgeting threatens to rouse Tom. When he stirs in the bed beside you, you force your body to be still. It's early, so very early that it feels like you just fell asleep. Perhaps you should get up and go into the other room, let the beautiful man sleep, possibly find some comfort in a well-lit room... You just can't find the motivation to leave his side - or the warmth of the bed.

He doesn't have you anchored to the spot anymore, not since he rolled over about an hour ago. The action had removed his hand from your abdomen as well as pulled the sheet partially from your body. You finger the stitching at the edge of the sheet, counting out the miniscule ridges dotting the fabric. Worrying at the hem is far better than messing with the bandage over your arm.

"Is it morning already?" You feel the light brush of his lips to your shoulder followed by a short exhalation. In the darkness you feel the bed shift and turn to watch him stretch, trying to fight the lull of sleep wanting to pull him under again. "Did you sleep at all, darling?"

His questions are dulled by exhaustion, prompting a pang of guilt from you. You should have gone into the other room and let him rest. When you sit up one of his hands finds the base of your back and snakes up under your shirt, following your spine up before traveling back down in a slow retracing of the path. You resist leaning over to splay yourself across his midsection, instead letting a beat or two pass before responding, "Enough... I'm fine."

Tom pauses the slow backrub, snaking his arm down to grasp right at your hip. "I wish you'd stop saying that. You can't be fine. None of us are fine. I'm certainly not fine, and I'm not the one Mitch was after."

Oh, but he was.

You close your eyes to fight against the memory conjured, as much good as it does. The scene plays across the backs of your eyelids — Mitch slashing through the air with the sharp shards of broken wine bottle — the look on Mitch's face when the front door had opened and Tom's laugh had announced his arrival home...  You press your hands to your face, trying to keep from losing all composure. The harder you try to clamp down on the feelings the stronger they seem to get. Your palms are damp, partially a clammy sweat, partially tears determined to escape.

Tom is sitting up now, too, his arms circling around you and pulling you so that you are shuddering against his chest. "I hear the crash coming from the kitchen on a loop in my head. And I hear your scream... and running to find..."

"Oh God, Tom. Stop. Please stop. Stop talking." You're barely able to gasp out the plea.

Gingerly he shifts to pull you almost into his lap, careful to avoid the more tender areas of your body. "Ok. Ok. Breathe with me." Together, nestled in an awkward cocoon in the middle of the bed, his occasionaly whispered instruction - in... out.. - you fight off your panic attack and prepare for the coming day.