Far From Home // t.h.

24 - y/n

You watched Tom run upstairs as fast as he had done so earlier. The frustration could be heard in his heavy footsteps on the staircase. The clock on the wall said it was almost 7:30, not leaving you much time for Tom to get ready. But, of course, there was little anyone could do if Tom was late on the set. He was the star of the movie, and one late appearance could hardly ruin the reputation of someone such as Tom Holland, but you did not want anyone to think that his tardiness could have anything to do with his new assistant. After all, you were the one who was supposed to take care of him and have his schedule ready and prepared.

You tapped your fingers nervously on your leg. The time ticked by, and Tom was still upstairs, doing god knows what.

"You think he's alright up there?" you ask Harry, who had made his way over to the kitchen to clean up his dishes.

"No, but that's nothing new with him. You'll have to understand and get used to it, y/n, that you're working for a completely incompetent guy." He leaned against the kitchen counter. Perhaps he had seen your slightly panic-stricken face as he quickly added: "Ok, that doesn't put him in a great light, putting it this way. Tom just gets a bit distracted sometimes and loses the way, so he needs someone with him to... pull him in the right direction."

"I think I can do that," you said, more to yourself than Harry. You could hear a very strained groan of frustration coming from upstairs, followed by a shout of your name.

"I think he needs some pulling." Harry jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. You sighed lightly, scared of what would be waiting for you up those stairs, and made your way to where you had just heard Tom yell out your name. The stairs creaked a little bit, and once upstairs, you were greeted with a corridor with a bunch of closed doors.

"Tom?" you called out, clearing your throat as his name sounded weak and shaky in your mouth.

"Here!" The voice sounded to come from the door on your left, so that is where you were headed. And, indeed, you walked into what seemed to be Tom's bedroom. The bed was large and unmade, with a lot of clothing and other objects lying on the ground in disarray. Tom himself was standing in front of a large wall-to-wall closet, its main doors wide open, revealing a rack of shirts in various colours. Tom was facing away from you, his arms crossed. You couldn't see his face, but even if you had, it probably wasn't the area of him you would have looked at. The t-shirt he had just been wearing lay abandoned on his bed; thus, Tom was, once again, shirtless in front of you. You saw the muscles in his back move and strain as he moved lightly. His shoulders blades poked out just the slightest bit, emphasised even more when he moved his arms to sort through his clothes.

"You got to help me, y/n."

"Why?" You wanted to kick yourself for the question. He was your boss. If he asked you to do something, you weren't supposed to question it; just do it. "Shit, sorry. I mean-"

"I know, it shouldn't be this difficult to pick a shirt to wear; I just get too much into my head sometimes and can't choose. And this is the first official day on set, so all eyes will probably be on me, ugh," he laughed it off, but you could sense that he was tired of some aspect of it. He didn't seem like the guy who enjoyed being the centre of attention, or maybe some of it but not to the extent he had to actually endure in his day-to-day life. You watched him put his hand up to his face, rubbing his cheek not-so-gently as he thought. The gears were probably turning in his brain at a record speed, as you were aware of the slight time limitation. To think this was all happening before the sun was even properly set up for the day.

You reached out to him. His neck almost snapped at his ferocity of turning to look at you.

"How about you go sit down," you suggested, "I'll find something for you to wear."