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

Part 78.5

FIVE!

FOUR!

T H R E E!

T W O!

O N E!

H  A   P   P  Y      N  E  W       Y  E   A  R !!!

As you get older it really does get harder and harder to stay up partying to ring in the new year. Drinking helps in the moment but then if you're not careful you end up regretting it in the morning. Or afternoon. Whenever your body deems it decent to return to consciousness.

Doesn't mean anybody stops dancing, or drinking. There's usually confetti or glitter, too... something that gets stuck to the sweat that is worked up out on the dance floor and then you're doomed to find evidence of the night for days afterward.

There's the buzz from the jacket pocket again. Nuh-uh. All family and friends have been squared away. All well wishes have been issued. The well is used up, bone dry. Whomever it is can wait.

Yep. They can wait. For all of a minute.

Tom reaches up to swipe a damp palm through his now tangled curls, and then drag his hand down over his face. The stubble that can no longer be considered a day or two past needing a shave grates against his skin. The last thing he wants to do is push through the crowds to find somewhere he won't be jostled and see who it is trying to get into contact.

There goes his mobile again.

"What." His voice rattles around in his throat but hardly reaches his ears. A call would be pointless. Besides, he really has gone through the entire list of friends and family.... "What, what what?"

The few close friends that had finally talked him into a night out are visible, a dozen or so odd paces away so who... who?

He wobbles with the movements of the crowd as he tries to pry the bit of tech from his pocket.

BEN

Ignore

The screen lights up again before he has a chance to pocket it again.

BEN

"Wh..."

Four missed calls and now another? He never felt the others. Or maybe, no, maybe he had.

Benedict had issued an invite for the night, but he'd declined. The invitation had come with a warning: she was invited, too. They still haven't spoken, not since that day at her mother's house. What more was there to say? He'd asked a simple thing. Choose.

And she had.

He waits, counting the seconds before the designated number of rings will pass and Benedict will be forced to leave a voicemail. Five missed calls now and no messages left until this point. Curious.

No. Not curious. Is this Ben calling to check up on him? Make sure he's not home alone? Maybe he should pick up and let good-old-Benedict hear the thrum of the music. He's out. He's out and having a grand time, thank you very much. Everything's fine here.

Fine.

Her word.

Tom swallows, pressing the button to again ignore the call and then quickly shoving the mobile back into his pocket. Fine. Fine, fine. It's all fucking fine. After at least ten minutes of sporadic buzzing against his hipbone he gives in, waving his mobile at his friends before finding an exit.

Fourteen. Fourteen missed calls. And a few assorted texts that begin benign and proceed towards threatening. What was so important about answering his phone?

He jabs the call button and waits, the sounds of the club at his back mirroring his pulse. Maybe he shouldn't have worn his jacket all night. This isn't heatstroke – not even close – but damn it actually feels good to step out into the cold. Benedict answers within two seconds of Tom initiating the call, and only gives Tom enough time to inhale before speaking.

"About fucking time."

"What?"

"What, what? You've been ignoring my calls!"

Damn right. Ben had his own party, his own guests to attend to. Tom huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at the pavement beneath his feet before speaking, "I'm out, mate. No need to check up on—"

Benedict cuts him off, "Is she there?"

Tom blinks, pulls his phone away to look at the screen for a moment and then hold it back to his ear again. Which of the pair of them has had more to drink tonight? "Is who where?"

"You know who. Is she there. With you?"

"What?" The cold is starting to annoy him, or he's actually starting to feel it. He tucks his free hand up under the arm that holds the phone aloft to attempt to keep the digits warm. "No. Why?"

There's a slight pause and then Benedict emits a curse, his words becoming muffled with movement on his end. "Shit. She's not there." There's a background conversation going on. Questions regarding location, accusations that are too distant or muddied by further background noise to make out. More movement and words that are clear once more, "Have you heard from her?"

"No. You know I haven't. Not since..." Tom takes a breath, so many different reactions to the conversation fighting for dominance. His feet have frozen into place beneath him. "What's going on?"

Benedict is already halfway into explaining by the time Tom finishes voicing the question. "She left. She was here. But she stepped out to take a call. And after a while, when she didn't come back in. Well, we'd hoped..."

Tom removes his hand from under his arm to pinch the bridge of his nose. It takes him a second to breathe out a single word: "No." He drops his hand to his side, shaking his head for a moment before rolling his eyes at himself and stopping the motion. "No. I – I haven't heard from her."

"Alright. Alright. It was a long shot." Benedict clears his throat. "Sorry. Ah. Happy New Year, man."

"Yea." He waits, almost too long, to speak again. "Hey, Ben?"

"Yea?"

"When you find her?" He bobs his head slightly, acknowledging the possibility she's just doing exactly what he had been trying to do before answering the call – trying to pretend that the new year held something other than heartache in store for them. "When she answers her damn phone... call me."

After Benedict responds in the affirmative and rings off Tom remains outside, even after the cold has permeated each layer of clothing. For awhile he watches everyone else out there with him, those still out partying, those already making their way home.

It's ludicrous, but he can't help but hope that he'll recognize the next person to wander towards him. That it'll be her. She'd never show up here. They'd never talked about it, so how could she know he might be there? That knowledge doesn't stop him looking for a few minutes longer.

He lets out a long breath, not quite ready to give up even though his nose has started to run. His eyes continue to flit from partygoer to partygoer as he mutters, "Stubborn."

In his head, she responds with a lighthearted laugh:

Pot. Kettle.