Run To Me | BAK sequel

5.

Words: 5k

Notes: I know this isn't exactly what you guys wanted for this chapter but it was soo long so I had to split it in half!!!

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Rain stained the glass windows, sliding down the clear screen slowly- much slower than the hasty mobster that rushed around his room to collect his things. He had to stop every few moments to straighten out his hair that he'd admit, was a little overgrown at this point. Strands hung over his face in locks that could no longer be called curls from the number of times he'd run a hand through it.

Tom couldn't see the rain because even at twelve fifteen pm he had his curtains pulled shut tightly, relying on light from the crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling directly above his bed, red silk sheets practically glowing thanks to the white light.

Tom stared himself down in the body length mirror, wondering if even the simple pair of denim jeans and the white shirt he wore was too much- or was it too little? He wanted to make a good impression but not come off too strong.

It was dead silent in the room apart from the odd creek as he paced back in forth in the oversized bedroom and the gentle tap of the rain outside, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him not to go- it was loud and screeching and wouldn't give out. He'd given in to that voice on many occasions and each time it had landed him in the dumps. Only once did it actually do something good for him.

It was his father's voice. Clear as day- and as assertive and condoning as ever.

The only time his father had ever done anything good for him was the day he sat down with your parents and signed away both of your rights to fall in love on your own terms. As awful as it sounded, the arranged marriage that simultaneously destroyed and opened new doors had taught Tom what it was to be loved and to be in love.

Then again, if that contract was never signed then Harrison wouldn't be dead- you wouldn't be riddled with PTSD and the last six years would've never happened and Tom wouldn't be wallowing in self-pity and the odd empty bottles behind closed doors. Yet again, he probably would still be wallowing in self-pity and you'd still be far away from the other.

Standing beside his bed, Tom's hand hovered over the gun that rested on the cabinet before he curled his fingers around it. With the weapon heavy in his hand he stuffed it in the nearest drawer with slight hesitation beneath a layer of socks. It was unusual for Tom not to have one sitting at his waist, not even arm's length away to be without it felt like a part of him was missing. He felt only a little bit more vulnerable.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

"Do you need to take a weapon with you everywhere?" You give him a lopsided smile, watching Tom shove the weapon into the side of his jeans.

Tom grabs one of your hands and pulled you closer until you were merely chest to chest, the only thing separating the two of you was a thin layer of clothing. "It's for protection, never know when someone's going to attack."

"And someone will attack you in the middle of the street? Tommy, there'll be people everywhere." You say, breath tickling his lips. Tom was able to smell the mint you'd taken from his drawer when he wasn't looking.

A grey beanie sat on your head pushing strands of hair down flat against the side of your face, a pair of woolly gloves cover your fingers because no doubt they'd turn a sickly shade of blue the second you walked out of those doors.

"You never know, sweetheart. If something happens I need to be prepared." He tries to convince you but knew it was failing drastically when you only shake your head, one hand snaking to his waist where your fingers wrap around the base of the gun.