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And Long Past Midnight, Chapter 12

TITLE: And Long Past Midnight

CHAPTER NUMBER: 12/?

RATING: M, sexual content, language.

GENRE(S): Tom Hiddleston/OFC RPF, Romance, Drama

SUMMARY: Syd Martin is structured, organized, and almost always working. When she spends an off-night in a way she usually wouldn’t, in the company of a man that she never dreamed she could, Syd finds that her actions hold consequences long past midnight.

NOTES/WARNINGS: I AM SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN ME SO LONG TO POST. I was going to wait until I had chapter 13 written, but it is a very difficult one to get through, so I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer. I hope hope hope this was worth the wait, and please know that I will have chapter 13 out as soon as possible. Feedback is always welcome, loves. Please let me know that you are still out there! Thank you for you patience.

For those that requested a tag (request a tag HERE): lostsoul1011,spiritanimalotd, tommygirl007, iamdust, alfeazad, kajowa, antyc67, jezzy121,anonanonfrances, marvelousmissfit, tomforachange, lillylallylooly, hallotom,evieplease, dirtyhiddles, littlejenner, breakingthefangirl, clockweasel,lavalavalaura, nicolesnod, playhouse, zodgukie, @allisfairinloveandbacon, @rachaa44, @inside-the-mind-of-a-wallflower, @playhouse, @hailtohiddles, @ohdescriptionss, @kasabianfanfic.

Six thousand, three hundred, and ninety four pounds.

I stare at the number for a few moments more before turning off the screen of my phone. Six thousand, three hundred, and ninety four pounds.

One month. If we do nothing but breathe air and drink tea, we could make it one month with my entire bank account balance. If I manage to get on the dole quickly, maybe a little longer. I turn my phone’s display on again, but the number hasn’t gotten any larger.

I tap the phone on the table, willing Andrew to walk through the door. He agreed to come in early so that I could make my slow way to Brixton to Lillian’s offices. I hadn’t slept but snatches the night before, being so worried about the meeting. After a perfunctory call to set up an excruciatingly early meeting time, Lillian had simply hung up the phone. No hint as to what the meeting was to be about, save what her ominous voicemail had told me.

Your adherence to policy.

Your future at the agency.

Six thousand, three hundred, and ninety four pounds. One month. If she sacks me, we can make it one month.

The door opens and a still bleary-eyed Andrew steps through. He’s on me as soon as the door is closed.

“What’s going on, Syd? All right?”

“I don’t–I don’t–” I shake my head, feeling suddenly like I might cry.

“What’s Lillian want?” He searches my face for clues, and my fear must be evident. “Is it about–”

“I don’t know,” I say with another shake of my head. “I honestly don’t. I’d play you the message, but I deleted it. It was driving me mad.”

He stepped back further, his hands braced on my arms. It feels good, it feel so good to have him back on my team. “What happened?”

I let out a long breath. “Tom came to the cafe.”

“He–how did he know? Did he–” He stops suddenly, his eyes darting to Tilley’s closed bedroom door. “Did he Google you?”

“I don’t think so,” I answer softly. “He said he didn’t. I want to believe him, but in what world does Tom Hiddleston just happen to walk into my cafe when he’s never even been there before?”

A corner of Andrew’s mouth twitches, but he has the sense to bite back the smile. “Probably the same world where you turn out to be Tom Hiddleston’s maid the morning after you sleep with him.”

I swat at his arm but nod in sullen agreement. “I’ve got to go. Got to see if I still have my job.”

“Do you think Lillian would–”

“Oh, without question. Her first call came not minutes after Tom left. I don’t know what he told her, but I can’t imagine it will end favorably for me.”

Andrew hugs me, a strange gesture between us. Out of habit, we usually just settle for the Tilley-approved finger hugs. I am glad for the extra dose of comfort, however. I’m glad for his support, finally, after all this. I only wish I had from the start.

The receptionist at Lillian’s offices sends me directly back before I’ve made it completely in the building.

“She’s waiting for you, miss.”

I rush down the hall even though I’m a few minutes early for our meeting. I clutch my purse to my chest, as if it would bolster me from the coming onslaught. Perhaps I’ll take Tilley to the the Eye once I’m done here. Give myself something to look forward to, something enjoyable for her. One last day of happy before the absolute agony of job hunting begins.

I walk into Lillian’s office and rap softly on the door frame.

“Sit,” she says without looking up from her computer screen. “Would you like anything? Water? Tea?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” She snaps her laptop closed and stands. She walks briskly around me to her office door and closes it sharply.

I glance around her office, detachedly thinking that she would quite like Tom’s original stylist. All stark whites with no splashes of color, save the vase of roses in the window that she has somehow managed to procure in beige. Where the woman finds beige roses, I couldn’t guess.

“I received a very upsetting phone call yesterday, Sydney.” She walks slowly around me before settling in her uncomfortable looking office chair.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I thought that I was clear when I hired you as to what I expect from my employees. What sort of behavior, what sort of interactions with the clients I consider…appropriate.”

“You were, ma’am.” I stifle a cringe; I hate what she brings out in me. This monosyllabic acquiescence. Why this pip of a woman cows me into a sniveling mess, I can’t guess. But I fucking hate it.

“I don’t believe I was. If I had been clear, then I do not think that I would have received a phone call from Leonard Slattery.”

My pounding heart stutters in my chest. “Wh–who?”

Her pursed lips cinch tighter, like the taut opening of a miser’s change purse. “Leonard Slattery. The executor of Mr Benson’s final will and testament.”

“Mr… Mr Benson?” My mind races at the thought. “My Mr Benson?”

Her nostrils flare. “Yes. Your Mr Benson.”

Not Tom. Mr Benson. Mr Benson’s will and…

Air feels like a heavy thing, knotted into a hard tangle in my throat, making my words difficult with its slow unraveling. “Is Mr Benson… Has he–?”

Her expression loses the barest fraction of severity as she realises. “Yes. He has. Two nights ago.” A moment passes before she continues. “I’m sorry for your…for the loss.”

A tear escapes, and I dash it quickly from my face. Lovely old Mr Benson. I worked for him for five years, and I had so enjoyed his company. Sweet and kind, he had also enjoyed mine. I spent most of my time keeping up his over-large estate, though I would often end my week with him in his most favoured library. He, too, had a soft spot for my tea, and we would share a pot as we chatted. He would update me on his granddaughters, of which there were seven, and I would regale him about the latest mischief Tilley had built. They were pleasant, our talks. With no agenda, and no small amount of comfort, they were a nice close to my weeks with him.

I was sorely disappointed when I learned he was moving to live with his oldest daughter. I had grown so accustomed to our quiet cohabitation of that massive manor five days a week. His gentle companionship was one I hadn’t found in another client.

“Sydney?”

Not realising that I had been sitting in silence for some moments, I shake my head and look up at Lillian. “Yes, ma’am.”

“May I continue or do you need a moment?”

Her question holds no warmth, and I feel a spike of anger pierce my sadness.

“No, ma’am.” I swipe away a final tear. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not being cold, Sydney, dear.” Her voice quavers on the last word, as if comforting another person were a foreign concept. “But this is exactly what I am referring to. This inappropriate…fondness for clients.”

I feel my face heat at her words.

“I was not happy to hear from Mr Slattery, but seeing your reaction to the news of Mr Benson, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

I chew on my lip to keep my thoughts just that–thoughts. Calling Lillian a callous bitch out loud would probably not help my case at the moment.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Don’t you?” Her pristine eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “His will and testament, Sydney. Apparently, Mr Benson has bequeathed you something.”

I regret not accepting her previous offer of water when I came in, as my throat suddenly dries in panic. I hadn’t connected the words to their meaning. I had been so nervous that the meeting was to be over my relationship with Tom, then so devastated to hear that Mr Benson had died that I… Executor of Mr Benson’s final will and testament. Oh. Oh.

“You look relieved, Sydney.”

Her words stun me. She’s right, I am relieved. Perhaps this has nothing to do with Tom’s surprise arrival at the diner. But the relief evaporates like so much morning dew on a sunny lawn. Lillian goes rigid, her mouth tightening to her usual dour look of scrutiny.

“Did you think this meeting was in reference to your interactions with another client? Mr Hiddleston, perhaps?”

I struggle to not answer too quickly. “No, ma’am.”

She rolls her wrist back and forth on the hard top of her desk, the links of her silver watch clinking in accusation. “He also called me yesterday. Quite the urgent matter.”

Her gaze is assessing, calculating. She watches me for a long, uncomfortable moment, her displeasure apparent.

She continues when I don’t respond. “Apparently, Mr Hiddleston will be requiring an increase in your services.” She seems to be enjoying herself. I fear to guess why. “To the tune of five days a week with weekends on call.”

I feel that heat rise again, a potent surge of emotion for so early in the morning. Five days a week at Tom’s? With weekends on call? The overtime that would entail is staggering. Is that why–?

“Is that why you called Jules? What he meant about–”

“I took the liberty of informing Julian that your schedule for the foreseeable future would be severely limited. I assumed you wouldn’t mind my presumption.” Her look is vile, like she knows something that she hopes I will name first. Like she is trying to catch me at something.

“No, ma’am. Of course not.” I sit up straighter.

She looks at me as if waiting for an explanation, but truly, I have none. I can’t fathom why he would need an increase in services, as I already search for tasks to fill my workdays at his immaculate house.

As if reading my mind, Lillian prompts, “I’m just curious why a single man in a relatively modest home would need a full-time housekeeper.”

I hold her gaze. Her intense focus goads me to rise to the bait. To defend myself. To entrap myself. It’s then that I realise.

“How many jobs do you have?”

Warm embarrassment floods my chest, slow and heavy. I told him not to pity me. But this, giving me more hours, more easy money, this is so much worse than pity.

“I’m surprised that you weren’t more interested in what Mr Benson bequeathed you, Sydney,” Lillian says after several long moments.

Fuck. I softly shake my head to clear my thoughts and to banish the tears that threaten to fall again.

“I–I didn’t think it proper to ask,” I answer in a small voice.

Under other circumstances, this response would likely garner some favor from Lillian, but we’ve travelled far beyond the scope of approval. She sniffs.

“Yes, well, I’m not at liberty to know, regardless. Mr Slattery is compelled to speak with you directly. He has your contact information.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Lillian surprises me by leaning forward. Her voice is low and she stabs a manicured fingernail into the desk’s leather blotter. “You are walking a fine line, Miss Martin. I pride myself in the exceptional service my employees provide our clients, but all of this reeks of indecency. I cannot express my embarrassment at learning you had been mentioned in Mr Benson’s will. What ideas did you plant in that poor man’s head? What wretched story did you weave to have him pity you so much? Your situation with your sister? Your mother?”

The hot pool of embarrassment seethes within me. “Now, hold on–!”

“And don’t think I am a fool when it comes to Mr Hiddleston. Tom.” She says his name in a putrid sing-song voice. “A very fine line, Sydney.”

Anger simmers where the tough knot in my throat used to be at her implication that I had ulterior motives in my kindness to Mr Benson. I deserved, in part at least, her suspicion of my role in Tom’s house, but to assume that my time at Mr Benson’s–

The thought is revolting.

“Yes, ma’am,” I bite out.

There is another tense moment before Lillian relaxes. How she must wish I would rise to her bait. But Lillian, as pragmatic and calculating as she is, doesn’t understand me at all. She doesn’t understand how dedicated I am to providing for Tilley, to holding back my true feelings for her benefit. What satisfactions I will deny myself.

In both telling her off…and with Tom.

“You’ll be late. I wouldn’t want you to disappoint Mr Hiddleston on your first day of full-time.” Her momentary cheek reminds me so fleetingly of her twin. The kind, though troublesome man who is a better employer than she could ever hope to be. I’m peeved at my comparison of the two.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s not until I’ve boarded the lurching tube carriage that I can even process all that was said.

Mr Benson is dead. The only client, other than Tom, that ever treated me as if I were human. Kind and gentle. And now he’s dead.

What on earth could he have bequeathed me in his will? Why would he leave me anything at all? I thought we were friendly enough, and I suppose five years in a person’s house is long enough to form a bond. I called to check on him from time to time, when I thought about it. Just to check in. I realise with some regret that it’s been a fair stretch since I’d thought to call his daughter’s home. Not since…not since Tom.

I flop my head back on the hard window of the carriage. Now it’s too late. How did I deserve to be left anything by him, no matter how small? Was treating a person with decency and kindness really so worthy of reward?

Doubt niggles at me. I hadn’t been inappropriate with him, had I?

My stop comes up and I exit the carriage, suddenly furious with Lillian all over again. I had never questioned my time with Mr Benson, never once thought that telling him stories about Tilley or my dance classes, or laughing over a bawdy joke Jules had told me, had been anything more than treating the kind old man like he was a person. He had been good enough to return the favour. And she had me doubting our friendship.

But I suppose that is the difference. Lillian was contented with the clients treating us as less-than. She was probably more offended that Mr Benson had been decent to me at all than by me possibly crossing any proprietary boundaries.

And now this business with Tom. What is he thinking, having me on full-time? How does he expect me to fill all that time in his already clean house that, frankly, isn’t even that large to begin with? Perhaps he’ll finally stop cleaning before I get there; that will help, surely.

Perhaps it’s some twisted payback for skipping out on the final performance of Baal. This last thought lurches my heart–I’d forgotten to be anxious about seeing him again after missing the play.

I check my watch, not quite believing that it isn’t yet eight in the morning. I feel as if the day should be almost over, when in fact, I haven’t even made it to Tom’s yet.

Full-time. The weight of this tugs at me. Starting every morning in his kitchen. Ending with tea–if we can stand to go back to that–five afternoons a week. My feeble plan to request a different situation had been entirely forgotten when I heard Lillian’s message left on my phone, and now I am committing to even more time spent in his presence.

Weekends on call. I can’t work my cafe job when I have to be on call for Tom. And barring any emergency hoovering incidents… That would mean weekends off. Weekends with Tilley. Two consecutive days of television marathons and day trips to museums. Suppers eaten at a normal hour and around the table, not alone and over the sink several hours after the flat has turned in for the night.

Did he do this on purpose? Had this been his intention, to give me back to my sister? The panic of the morning coupled with this possibility brings me to reluctant tears. I know I make quite the picture, dressed in my maid’s uniform, crying on the tube before the day has even begun, but I can’t hold them in.

Oh, Tom.

He isn’t in the kitchen when I arrive and there is no Post-It on the tap, either. I wonder momentarily if he might not be here at all when a thump from upstairs tells me otherwise. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or set further on edge.

I set down my things and wander into the great room. I feel oddly detached as I look around the immaculate room. Though bright and spacious, it looks hardly large enough to contain all that has happened over recent days. The confrontation with Luke, Tom’s candid confession of exactly where I stand in his life, his feelings for me. My silence in the wake of his bold declaration, however, seems to take up the most space in the vaulted room. Now that I have returned, now that I am here to face what is waiting for me, it seems I will shatter the very air around me. I feel small; vulnerable.

I hadn’t guessed what I would encounter within myself, walking back in this house after these last few days of tumult. Would it be anger at Tom’s deception? At his taking the upper hand in the running of my life, and not for the first time? Would it be gratitude despite this manipulation? Joy in his simplification of my attentions? Would I wade back into wanting, into the need to feel his body against mine as I had in that afternoon downpour?

What I find, as I hear his deliberate footsteps descend the stairs from his room, is startling shyness. I straighten my clothes, mussed from travel, and debate taking my hair down. The idea strikes me as odd, and I follow my instinct though I don’t understand it. The dark coils of it tumble heavily down around my neck as he rounds the corner.

He stops short at the sight of me.

Something in his hesitation makes me want to run to him, to reassure him. But to reassure him of what, I don’t know, and I stay where I am.

I can’t describe what I feel when I look at him, his eyes filled with so much sadness and bellicose desire. It is as if I both know him completely and not at all. A beautiful stranger as well as a comforting companion.

I say his name, and it feels like the most intimate of utterances.

He stride towards me, his look wild, and I make the rashest of decisions to yield to whatever he may do. But he stops short, fists clenched.

“I’m leaving.”

I had been steeling myself for contact, for his embrace, for onslaught, be it of anger or of ardor. I had been recklessly willing to give in, whatever his tactic. His words strike me with their abruptness and I can only stammer.

“W-what?”

“For three weeks. I have to…” He rocks towards me again but doesn’t take another step. “For work. I’ll be out of the country for three weeks.”

I can’t sort out the implications. Gone? For three weeks? “But you just insisted that I come on full-time!”

He checks his watch and the brief gesture flares something angry hot in me.

“I know, I–” He looks to the front door. “I wish you got here sooner– Or–or that I didn’t have to leave so soon. There’s so much I want to…” His lips are pressed into a tight line as he looks around the room, searching for something.

“Come upstairs with me.”

My cheeks flame at the suggestion. His bedroom.

“Why?”

“I need to… Just come on.”

He takes my hand and the contact makes me dizzy. I am bewildered by all this, unsure what to feel first. Outrage? Impatience? Salacity?

Not entirely of my own accord, I stumble up the stairs after him. When we crest the stairs, I brace myself again for his turning on me, for the kiss he promised against. What I see instead is a kaleidoscope of colour in the usually white, white room.

The books in his shelves are rarely in good order, but this is utter chaos. Books turned on their sides so brightly coloured bookmarks can peek from their pages. Post-Its of all hues tacked in endless cascades on the borders of shelves. And his desk. Usually untidy, it is brimming with small stacks of books, more Post-Its and bookmarks and notes decorating their pages and spines. Piles of papers, neat but manifold. And a chair, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, marking a bright barrier between office and bedroom.

Half armchair, half chaise lounge, its sumptuous fuchsia velvet fabric radiates an almost magnetic pull to be touched, enjoyed. Resting on the arm is a happily steaming cup of tea in one of the earthen mugs I had used for tea my first morning in this house.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice not a little affected by the onslaught of stimuli.

“Your vacation.” His voice is so near my ear that his breath tickles the fine hairs on my cheek.

“My what?”

The doorbell rings downstairs and Tom curses under his breath. I turn to him and see the conflict in the creases of his forehead. “I’ll be gone three weeks, house all to yourself.”

“Yes, but–”

“I spent the last few days going over old coursework from Cambridge, my required texts and the like. That’s there on the desk–” The doorbell rings again, followed by the chirping of his mobile. He types a speedy reply before looking back to me. He motions to the shelves. “And some of my favourite books. Those are the ones with the book marks. My favourite passages are on the Post-Its. It’s all color coded.”

“I don’t understand, Tom.” My head is spinning with the frantic energy of him. “What do you want me to do with them?”

He reaches as if to touch me, then thinks better of it. “Read them. Write your own notes. Pick out your own favourites. Pull books for me, or write them down if I don’t have the ones you think I ought. I’ll buy them when I get back.”

“What?”

“Or do none of this, if that’s better for you. Spend time with Tilley. Or with that Andrew bloke, if you must.” He begins backing up towards the stairs. “I’m sorry, I have to catch my flight. Just be here when I get back, please. The 19th. Please.”

“Tom, wait!” I say before he can dash down the stairs.

He glances behind him down the stairs to his escape, but stops.

“I can’t–” I tug restlessly at my hair. “I just can’t sit in your house for three weeks and read. It’s… It’s dishonest. It’s not the kind of work I do.”

“It’s a paid vacation, Syd!” His words carry out on a laugh, all at once impatient and amused. “They aren’t unheard of!”

“Yes, but–”

“Fine.” He strides past me into the room. “Have it your way.” He clears his throat before continuing, elaborately gesturing to the clutter around him. “Miss Martin.” His voice pitches down to a register that crackles over my skin. His gaze finds mine and decisively pins me to the spot, deep and attuned. “Please gets this room in order before my return. I will be back to on the 19th and will evaluate your performance at that time.”

He smirks at me, thoroughly pleased with himself. It is only then that I realise the switch within him, that subtle shift to calculation, to the barest of performances. When I don’t reply, he softens again from actor to man. “Please.” His voice is no less arresting in its earnest turn. “Just… I can’t do much for you, Sydney, not at the moment, but let me do this.”

A car horn honks outside and his phone begins chirping again.

He look lingers still on me, potent regret written on his features as his hand absently turns his mobile over and over in his palm. A rattling breath quakes from me.

And I nod, though I don’t know if I mean it.

He smiles brilliantly and reaches a hand toward me. It falters in its path to me as he decides where is safest to touch. He settles on my hair, softly scrunching a handful in his fist. He presses his clenched hand against my cheek, a soft stroke of his thumb tracing the thin crescent of skin beneath my lower lashes. The look in his eyes is unfathomable.

Then he releases me and is down the stairs before I can say a word.

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I found the secrets. I found gold.