Far From Home // t.h.

16 - (y/n)

You walked out of the pub light on your feet. All the stress that had overtaken you earlier was gone. You were actually smiling to yourself as you turned the corner into the, surprisingly, empty street. Your house was almost visible.

It was a short walk to your doorstep, just enough time to shortly reflect back on the meeting. Sure, there wasn't much to reflect on, as it hadn't even taken that long, and you hadn't even said that much. And yet, it had felt like more than enough. The conversation, mainly through Tom's doing, probably, had gone rather well, you thought. You could really see yourself get on well with your new boss. Hell, if it had been another lifetime, under different circumstances, you could probably be really good friends.

Because you couldn't now, right? That'd be inappropriate? You didn't actually know how formal these kinds of things were. All you had done before was basically temp work. Now, however, you were actually personally hired by Tom to work for him. Or, supposedly, the studio is doing the employing and the contracting, but in the hierarchy, it's Tom that is clearly above you.

He was charming, though. And you couldn't help but notice how good he had looked. Really, really, good. Oh god, that was definitely not appropriate to think of your brand new boss.

Shaking your head off of the thoughts, you reached your house. It was a small apartment, above a Fish n' Chips shop, too. Perfect for a late-night snack as it was open 24/7, but beyond that, it was just a heavy whiff of frying oil in the morning, afternoon, and night. It wasn't too bad as you searched for your keys. Catching a glimpse through the large window, you make eye contact with one of the cooks and smile.

The keys jingle in your hand as you push one through the keyhole and turn it. The front door of the building opens with difficulty, but it does, and you walk inside. The only thing that greets you is a dark staircase leading you up to your door, which, again, needs another key. This one, thankfully, doesn't feel like it's being held back with a barricade when you try to walk through.

Over the weekend, you had made a choice to clean up, and that had definitely been the right choice since you were, for once, not welcomed by the overwhelming sight of chaos but with a nice and clean living room. It wasn't an ample space by any means, but it was enough for you. You had everything you needed.

The stress for the interview- was that the right word to describe it? It hadn't felt much like the usual interview, hell it had been in a pub... but you also doubted that this job would be very regular...

Anyway, the stress you had felt in the morning, and pretty much until the second you walked away from Tom, had definitely tired you out. With just enough energy, you took off your jacket and shoes, walked over to the kitchen to get some cold water, and bee-lined it to the couch. The sofa had been one of your more extravagant purchases over the years, but it was an 'investment'. It was so comfortable; you sank into the cushions without it, actually feeling like you were sinking in. The material was sturdy yet soft to the touch, and it all had some bounce to it. You grabbed the remote that was on the coffee table. The TV played some random music channel, which you had used as background noise the previous night while doing nothing in particular.

And you kept it on as your background noise, wrapping a thin blanket over yourself. It wasn't because you were cold, but just for mere comfort. A few minutes later, not even three songs had finished, and you felt yourself getting more tired. Your eyelids were getting heavy.

That's when your phone rang.

A part of you thought, hoped, it would be Tom. But, unfortunately, quite the opposite was true: it was your mother. The woman had an obvious talent for pulling you out of your comfort. As if she couldn't call you any other time but when you were trying to be at peace and alone.

"Hey, mom," you said, placing your phone on your cheek, hoping that in the lying position you were in, it wouldn't fall off.

"How did the interview go?" She didn't mess around. The little phrase had practically become your new greeting over the past few months, so it was nothing new. But what did surprise you was that you couldn't recall telling your mother what time you'd be meeting with Tom, so how could she have planned it this well to call you five minutes after getting back home.

"I just got home, mom," you groaned lightly. Enough for her to hear your frustration, but not enough for her to make a snarky comment about your attitude.

"That wasn't my question, how did it go?"

"It went well, I think." you turned to lie on your back, staring ahead at the ceiling, "They seemed nice, and I think they liked me."

"Did you get the job?" Her voice sounded strained as if she didn't have much time for an answer. Was the status of your professional life the answer to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? suddenly? You doubted it.

You were also tired and didn't feel like talking to your mother for the hundredth time about your job prospects, just to hear her complain for the next hour. So, you decided to just avoid it all together- "I don't know mom. They'll get back to me."

"They, they, they, who is this they?" Her voice got louder with every inflexion. "Will you be working with a real celebrity, then?" by "real" celebrity, she just meant, are they famous enough that even she would know them since your mother barely watched any kind of visual media. Her Hollywood knowledge didn't go much further beyond her asking: "Who's that one I like? The tall one?" and no one quite ever knowing who she means.

"I can't say, mom. It's all non-disclosure stuff," you assumed. You had no idea how much you could tell about your new job. Obviously, the content of the movies was a no-go, but could you even say that you worked in the production? You could have on your other jobs, but this was Marvel, and they did not mess around.

"Hmmm, I don't trust it." But, of course, she didn't. "I bet it's no good. Do you know what they'll be paying you then?"

"It hadn't come up, actually."

"See, they're probably being cheap! You'd be much better off working for your father-" There it was. Like most times, your mother's phone call was just another excuse to try and persuade you to work for your father.

"Ok, mom, I need to go," you really weren't feeling that conversation. Your mother tried to add something else about the pros of working in your dad's little writer's office, but you just cut her off again. "Seriously, mom, I'm busy."

"You just got home, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I still got more stuff to do! Ok? Bye, love you!" you shouted everything out one after the other, then only leaving enough time for your mother to say "I love you too" before hanging up a second later. Then it was time to get back to all the stuff you needed to do - slowly and very comfortably fall asleep on the couch as your tv softly played 70's music in the background.