Warnings: Mentions of a physical fight, bruises, threatening. (Please tell me if I missed any).
Summary: The reader meets Tom who had had a fight with one of his former friends.
PS. This is a part 2 to “In the library” but you can read it as a oneshot.
Word count: 1.6k
The sun was already getting near the horizon, making the night sky hang itself upon London. The damp, yet freezing air brushed your skin as your feet took you out of your apartment, to the library. It had been a month since you had met Tom, the both of you were inattentive enough, that you had forgotten to give each other your contact details. Your hand reached for the worn out, rusty handle as the smell of old books engulfed your senses. Mrs. Watson was in her usual place, concentrated on her soap operas. You had borrowed another one of Shakespeare’s works for your literature paper.
“Good evening, Mrs. Watson” you beamed as you placed a small box of cookies you had baked on the counter.
“My, my, Y/N, hey, sweetheart. What a pleasant surprise!” She gushed at you, taking one of the cookies, placing it in her tea, to wetten it, to make chewing easier.
“I just came to return this” you said placing the book next to the box of cookies. Your teeth sank in the soft flesh of your bottom lip in nervousness.
“H..Has Tom…that guy, from the other day..has he ever showed up here?” You asked looking around nervously.
“I can see you flustered there, child, and unfortunately, no, he hasn’t come here since that day” she said with a small sympathetic smile.
You nodded, your shoulders slumping a little, the little hope to meet him once more, just to glance at those blue crystal eyes, got crushed up into small pieces that sank into your heart. “Thank you, Mrs. Watson” you mumbled while forcing out a small smile, a curt nod following it, as you moved to the exit.
“Stupid, stupid” you repeated to yourself as your hands dug deeper into your trench, forming tight fists, trying to soothe your frost bitten hands. “You should have asked for his number or at least hinted that he’d ask yours” Your head turned to the shops and stores you were walking past. People were happily purchasing products, the balloons from Valentines still hung in some shops.
Your steps came to a halt when your eyes met a familiar face you wanted to see oh so much. It was Thomas. Your eyes sparkled in an instant and lost their sparkle just as quickly when you practically went inside to see him with a heaving chest, his cheek bruised, and a man laying under his legs.
Your eyes widened as you made eye contact with him “T..Tom” your voice quivered as you ran to him, your eyes scanning all over his beaten state. His jaw clenched at his vulnerable state.
“Y/N, oh Lord, sweetheart, I had been searching for you, but, but” he held your forearms, though his eyes fell on the man who groaned while standing up, making you look in the same direction as him. He softly pushed you behind him in a protective manner, his eyes digging holes in the man who was rubbing his chin.
“Nick, go before I kill you right here” his voice was below a whisper, but constant and stern, making you grip his bicep. “For hell’s sake, it was years ago, get over it” the man, Nick, spit through his gritted teeth as he stepped backwards and then turned away and left.
Your eyes watched him leave and then set back on Thomas who was looking at you. “I’m sorry, for..this” he pointed his wound and the half-torn clothes. You were about to speak up but then stopped, realising that all eyes were set on the both of you and the manager was stood in front of you and Tom, expecting you to leave.
“I..I am sorry for this Sir,” you quickly apologised for the chaos, you looked at Tom and then back at the manager who gave you a curt nod. “Please see yourself out” he said as you hastily reached for Tom’s hand, nodding at the manager, and rushing out.
The moment you had stepped out, Tom turned to you, holding your forearms firmly. “We’re idiots” he joked, shaking his head, while he pulled you into his chest, caging you in his arms. It was the second time you had met this man, but it felt so warm and so safe in his embrace. Thousands of butterflies flew around your stomach. Your hands reached for his neck, hugging him back, your digits hesitantly sliding through his curls.
“I’m sorry for this state” he apologised again once he had pulled away. “That guy used to be a friend of mine, me and him were quite the best buddies but then he” he stopped for a second, sighing loudly, suddenly getting interested in his shoes.
“Hey..you don’t have to tell me, I understand.” You said softly, your hand going to his bruised cheek as you gently lifted his head up, rubbing the skin of his cheek slowly. “You’re injured, let’s get you to the hospital” you added while looking at his eyes.
He shook his head “No, no need for a hospital, darling, it’s just a small scratch” Tom chuckled at your worried state “As my apology to you, you can come to my place? For tea?” He asked looking into your orbs nervously.
You nodded happily, “But only if you let me treat that” you pointed at his cheek, a giggle leaving your lips when his eyes lit up instantly. His hand came to yours, his orbs silently asking for permission to which you replied with intertwining your fingers together as he led you to his car.
It was a black Jaguar, making you look at him with wide eyes, to which he only smiled shyly, opening the door for you. The ride was pleasantly silent, a few stolen glances, though, the both of you were tensed up.
“And here we are” he said after parking his car. It was a rather tall building, in a quiet area, though, close to the city centre. He opened the door for you, holding out his hand for you to take, which you happily agreed to.
The lift took you to the 17th floor, the top one. Your hands were still clasped together, he used his free hand to unlock the door to his flat. It smelled so nice, just like him. It looked organised, too, clean and comfortable. The furniture was brown, with the plants resting on them.
“It looks so pretty” you said, peaking around while he looked at you. “Now wait, I need to treat that” you stopped him from moving forward. “Give me the first aid kit” you frowned at him.
“Alright, ma’am” he chuckled, letting go of your hand, as he moved to the bathroom, you assumed, soon coming back with a small kit. “But first, tea” he smiled, leading you the kitchen. He stopped at the stove, turned on the kettle and then turned to you, with a smile. “Well, darling, I’m all yours now” he chided with a grin making your heart flutter, your cheeks turning red, him motioning his cheekbone.
“Come here” you motioned him to the chairs that were around the kitchen isle. You prepared the cotton pad and slowly inched forward to this face, your hands carefully dapping on the wound making him wince “I’m so so sorry, I’ll be quick” you said while focusing back on your work, which was hard, due to the close proximity of you two, you could feel his breath on your face, his scent engulfing your senses. It took you a few minutes to put a small plaster on his cut.
“And..done” you said with a smile as your eyes went back to only meet his, looking right into yours. His eyes were two oceans, two crystals, so bright yet so deep, his lips were resting atop each other, so kissable. It was weird how it was only the second time you met him, but now you were there, imagining things you shouldn’t. But the moment you wanted to enlarge the gap between you, one of his hands came to your cheek, his lips curved into a small smile, his thumb was now a millimetre away from touching your lip, his face now much closer, the other hand now rested on your waist, pulling you into him a tad more, making you place your hands on his muscular chest.
Just then, the kettle’s whistle went on, making you two flinch away from each other. “I’ll..I’ll go make the tea” you quickly said taking all the used up cotton to the trash and focusing on making the tea, your stomach doing flips, your heartbeat faster than the light speed. You noticed him smile a little more when he came to where you were standing, you had grabbed the two mugs that sat on the cupboard, his hands reached for yours, covering them.
Your breath hitched, your nervous system not being able to comprehend with what was happening, you playfully whined. “Tom..” you stopped “I..uh..I want tea” you reasoned to which he only laughed loudly “You do? Alright alright, darling” he said stepping away, to give you a bit more freedom to move, yet he remained stood next to you. You quickly made the tea, slowly blowing on them, you picked the two mugs up, “Welp! They’re read-“ you were about to finish when a pair of lips had stopped you mid-sentence, making you gasp and let go of the tea mugs. His lips felt so soft, your mind turned off for a second or two, but then quickly you caught on what happened, though, his hands were now clasping the mugs which were loosely in your hands. He pulled away, setting them aside, a low groan following his act, as his hand slithered up your waist, pulling you into his arms, leaning onto the counter.
“I apologise but you’re hard to resist” he said with a ‘hehe’ following it. You only smiled, getting on your tippy toes, attaching your lips back on his, your hands holding his cheeks.
“Now I’m not losing you, ever.”
So after a while I got this. I do apologise if there are any mistakes, it is not proofread.
Once more, this is a part 2 to one of my previous posts, but you can read it separately.
🌷 fighting with Tom and his mum steps in to break it up because you guys are "too good of a couple to break up"
Okay, so i took it to bit of angst and it got a bit longer than expected, oops
Warnings: angst, jealous Tom.
It was an afternoon, on Saturday, you, Tom and his family were spending a nice weekend out at the beach. The weather was great and everyone was having fun, except until the moment you and Tom started to argue over something so small as jealously.
"Oh, you don't want to bring this up, Thomas", you said with determination as soon as you passed the door for the beach house his family rented for everyone. You didn't even know if there was someone at home when the two of you decided to get out of the beach and fight instead of enjoy the beautiful sunny day.
"I think I want it, actually", Tom said, crossing his arms over his chest, his black t-shirt wet from the water that didn't get time to dry of his body. "That's exactly what I want. Why would you keep talking with him, when you knew he was obviously flirting with you?"
You turned on your heels, too irritated that he kept saying the same things from just a couple minutes ago.
"What the hell, Tom! I've told you, I didn't know he was hitting on me, okay? He was just talking about his fucking cat and showing me pictures, that was all. The minute I got the hint what he was trying to do, I told him I had a boyfriend. Fuck, why won't you believe me?"
"I do believe you", he rolled his eyes. "I just don't get it how you couldn't notice what he was trying to do beforehand".
You walked straight to your room, letting the door open since you knew Tom would come to you. "Hey, I'm still talking".
"Well, I'm not", you shrugged, taking off your shorts and throwing it aside. You would take care of your dirty clothes later, when you weren't so pissed at him. "I'm done talking to you about this. And if you insist, I'll probably hit on that specific topic we both know that is much more problematic than what you saw at the beach".
"How can anything be more problematic? That ass fucking kissed you, y/n, for fuck's sake!"
"It wasn't even a proper kiss, Tom, I got off the second I felt it!", you shout, letting the frustration take control over your mouth. "And you know what I'm talking about! You know that I'm talking about the fact that you have a bunch of girls giggling and smiling at you every fucking day, and sometimes I have to stand behind a fucking phone to take pictures of them holding your waist like you were two best friends, and the fact that you get to kiss so many actresses, and still I won't complain"
"Because you know it's my fucking job!"
"Because I know it's not real and that my jealously is all in my head, Tom, because I know I trust you!"
"And I trust you too"
"That's not what it looks like"
"Oh, fuck off", he scoffed, "You wanted me to play nice with a guy who tried to kiss my girlfriend and you don't want me to be mad at it. Really, y/n? So you can tell me that if a girl came to me and tried to do the same damn thing you wouldn't be fucking mad at her?"
"I would probably get mad at her, not at you", you argue, closing your fists beside your tensed body.
"I'm not mad at you, I am just mad at-" Tom stopped himself to think better. "Well, I'm mad at you for not accepting that I have a reason to be frustrated".
You gasp in disbelief. "You're unbelievable", you shook your head, crossing the room to take a towel and finally head to a good hot and relaxing shower, "You're ruining my weekend, thanks".
Tom's face was getting red, his eyes focused on your tensed and stiff moves.
"I just saw a guy with his goddamn mouth on yours, sweetheart, if there's someone who just ruined the weekend, it was you", he was almost spitting his words.
You turned to look at him again, a face covered in what seemed disgust and disbelief. You were ready to say a whole lot of things back, but you contained yourself. The hurt on your chest wasn't worth it. You were in the brick of tears, waiting to roll down your cheeks, but you held them back. Tom looked beyond mad and that didn't look like your sweet boyfriend anymore. So you grabbed your towel and walked out of the room.
"Can you, please, stop walking out when we're talking?", he shouted, but you didn't stop until you reached the bathroom.
"This is not talking, Tom, and I better do so before I say something I regret".
"Like what?"
"Like I fucking hate you!"
The moment the words came out of your mouth, you closed your eyes tightly. That was it, the entire argument fucked everything up.
"You hate me?", Tom swallowed the knot on his throat. He took a couple of seconds in silence before his sharply words came out, the hurt audible on his voice. "If so, why don't you just go away? Why don't you break up with me? You hate my job, you hate me. I bet you even hate spending time with me. Go on".
"Stop playing the victim, Tom", you turned to face him, and regretted immediately. He was crying, his eyes red and wet. At the view, your voice involuntarily softened. "I didn't mean it in that way. I-".
"What is going on here?"
The voice of Tom's mother made both of you wake from the thick tension that seemed to be pulling you two to your own little world. Your eyes turn to the woman who has a worried expression on her face, brows pulled in a frown.
"Mum, we're kinda busy right now, would you just- just leave us alone, okay?", Tom didn't face her, trying to avoid that she looked at his redshot eyes.
"No, you're fighting!", she said, deception covering her words. "And why is that? Stop it, it was supposed to be your little vacation, why are you two yelling at each other?"
"I'm sorry, but I just can't take it right now", giving her an apologetic weak smile, you turn around again to enter the bathroom and lock yourself inside.
Tom keeps stood in front of that door, not so sure about what to do. He feels his mother rubbing his shoulder slightly. "She is breaking up with me".
He didn't know why he was telling his mother such a thing, when he knew it wasn't even a fact, but Tom suddenly felt so insecure, so fragile, thinking about the possibility of you walking out of that bathroom and making your bag to fly back home.
"Oh, no, this ain't happening", his mother turned to face him. "Tom, you're too good of a couple to break up. Trust me, you guys work so great together. I've never seen you so comfortable with anyone, and so happy whenever she's around. It was just a silly fight, I'm sure".
Tom sighed loudly and turned around, giving her mother a light touch on her shoulder, before entering your shared room.
He waited for you to come back, which took a while. You were in the bathtub, trying to calm your nerves down until the water was cold. When you were out, you found yourself surprised to see Tom sitting on the edge of the bed, head down as he seemed to be deep in thoughts. He didn't hear you at first, but when yours wet feet stepped inside, your towel around you body, he raised his head and his eyes scanned you, looking for some kind of sight of your current mood.
You walked around the room, collecting the pieces of clothes you needed, not saying a single word. Tom observed you until he couldn't hold back his desperation anymore.
"Please, don't break up with me"
You stopped on your tracks and looked at him, cocking an eyebrow at his sudden plea.
"What? I'm not gonna break up with you", you said, a bit confused. "Why would you think that? I was just mad at you".
"You said you hate me", he murmured, averting his gaze as his cheeks turned a light pink, "And I told you to break up with me, but that's not what I meant. I don't want this. And I'm sorry, for saying it and for overreacting. I- I don't think you ruined the weekend. I did, and I'm sorry for that too".
Though you really wanted to stay firm and tough, your heart melted at the sight in front of you. Your sweet boyfriend was back. He never left, but the jealously was taking the best of him.
You sighed, walking towards him and sitting beside his figure. "It's okay. But I don't hate you, and you know that, dumbass", you smile. "In fact, I love you. More than anything. I'm sorry for saying it, it was insensitive of me and I'm never saying it again".
Tom stared at you with relief, one of his hands cupping your face. "Thank you. I love you too, darling".
You lean towards his, letting your eyes flutter close, as you touch both noses and forehead. "Ya know, the weekend is not over yet. It's not ruined. What you wanna do?"
Tom shrugged. "Whatever you want, actually. I just want to spend some time alone with you".
You smile and take his lips on yours. "That sounds amazing for me".
TITLE: The Swan
CHAPTER NUMBER: 6/?
AUTHOR: Losille2000
WHICH Tom/CHARACTER: Actor!Tom
GENRE: Romance/Drama
FIC SUMMARY: Sequel to The Ugly Duckling. Astrid embarks on a two-week trip to London to serve as her sister’s maid of honor, hoping against all hope she might miraculously run into her Hawaiian mystery man. When her sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law drag her to a production of Hamlet to meet the groom’s best man, Astrid gets the shock of her life. The situation, though, is anything but perfect.
RATING: M (sex, language)
WARNINGS: None in this chapter.
AUTHORS NOTES: So... what can I say? It's been a while. If you want the whole story, you can look through my blog or message me. I'm happy to answer. That said, it's been a good three years since I did any serious writing. My writing muscles need to build back up to what they were before. Please be kind... and let me know what you think. :D
Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - ALSO ON AO3!
Chapter 6 - Flying the Coop
Regret.
Astrid regretted ever stomping up those stairs to Tom’s bedroom. She regretted challenging him to make a move. She regretted letting him have his way with her. In the moment, it seemed right. Maybe if they slept together again, they’d find an incompatibility, especially now that the air of tropical mystery had dissipated and left in its place two broken flesh-and-blood people.
How wrong could she have been?
Now it was amplified, deeper, hotter, engulfing.
Only two weeks for whatever this fire was to fizzle?
It wasn’t, as the Brits say, bloody likely.
And here she was, smack dab in the position she didn’t want to be in; no matter how tangentially her current association with her mother, the family business, and Hollywood was, being connected to Tom in this way presented too many problems to even consider at this point. And fucking him—
“Astrid, are you even listening to me?”
Astrid jumped from the intrusion, letting out a slight squeak. She blinked hard and turned in her spot to look at her sister, who stood in the middle of the furnished but unoccupied flat. “Sorry?”
“Are you okay?” Tilde asked. “You’ve been spacey after the dress shop— and I’m just worried.”
“You don’t need to worry.”
“Let me worry,” she begged. “Let me be the big sister I never got to be.”
Astrid laughed ruefully. If only she could actually talk with Tilde about Tom. She wouldn’t understand, or at the very least, it could pose some very difficult situations in the coming days with the wedding right around the corner. But, Astrid guessed, Tilde meant the other elephant in the room... Astrid being the elephant, and their mother being a Class A narcissist. Because there was absolutely no way Tilde would know about what had happened at Tom’s home...
“It’s too late for that, Tilde,” Astrid said. “You know I love you. I just— there’s no changing her.”
Tilde grumbled and glided over to the couch in the living room. She dropped down on top of the cushions, barely displacing the pillow stuffing with her slight ballet-formed frame. “I should have never allowed her to do all this. I should have done it on my own, it’s not like Jim and I are so hard up. But I thought...”
Astrid held up a hand to stop her sister and sat on the couch more gingerly than Tilde, measuredly, so as not to displace any stuffing in the overstuffed couch, either. Something her mother had taught her, after all: If you’re not going to put in effort to look like a lady, you can at least act like one.
God, even that memory still hurt, down to the marrow in her bones.
“But you did.” Astrid shrugged and laid her head on the back of the couch. There, she sighed.
The sisters sat in silence for some time, listening to Duchess rooting around the flat for something to chew on. When the pug found nothing, she eventually jumped up onto the couch and snuggled into Tilde’s lap.
Astrid cleared her throat. “It’s not all Mom, either. I’m just tired from jet lag and getting everything together for the house party.”
And sleeping with the Best Man. She was pretty sure she’d read a romance novel or a hundred about this situation once. Did that make her a cliché?
“Oh, I meant to ask,” Tilde interjected. “How did that go? Tom was a total tool last night and I was worried about today.”
Astrid licked her lips subconsciously; she could still taste the sugar left by a bite of tiramisu Tom had given to her on a fork. If she concentrated hard enough, she was sure she could still taste the salt of his skin mixed in with it. She could certainly feel the tight muscle in her thigh that pulled every time she shifted, from the way he’d bent it and held it firmly in place as he’d had his way with her.
Frankly, it was a miracle they’d accomplished anything after they ended up in bed. But, she supposed, that was the weirdest part about the whole afternoon. They got out of bed, dressed without speaking and just... worked on what they needed to for the party. There was no discussion. No arguing. Tom stayed a respectable distance from her; she wasn’t sure if she had really wanted him to do it again, over and over, until they were both exhausted. They ate lunch quietly, they got everything organized and packed into his Land Rover, then Tilde showed up and they bade farewell, like it was something they did every day.
Nothing more was said about Hawaii, or a relationship, or lies, or having this end in two weeks. He seemed to be ignoring the topics all together, likely in the misguided belief that if he didn’t bring it up, then everything was fine. She ignored them because discussing WHY she refused to become a true part of his life was too painful.
Astrid pursed her lips and closed her eyes again. Isn’t that what she told him she wanted, though? To feel worshipped and then go about their lives, like nothing happened? Ignore all the elephants and enjoy the sex. No emotion, only sex. He was just following her demands, his need too great to put the brakes on their interlude in his bed.
The problem was that she did want more with him. She wanted emotion and relationships and rainbows and butterflies. When she had thought of him as some wealthy businessman she might once again bump into while visiting London, this had been possible. She had, after all, imagined a reality over the last eighteen months that included falling in love with him and living a life together.
But he wasn’t a businessman. He was an actor. He ran in circles she just couldn’t stomach anymore.
“It was fine. We finished everything and packed it all into his Land Rover for the drive up to Cliveden,” Astrid finally said. “The costume deliveries will be there when we arrive.”
“This really has gotten out of control,” Tilde said. “Part of me just wants to run to the register office and get it over with.”
Astrid shook her head violently. “You do that, and I’ll flip the fuck out. I put too much work into this.”
Tilde laughed. “Scared you, huh?”
“I’m serious, Tilde,” Astrid said, lightly smacking her sister’s thigh. Duchess popped her head up, and thinking it was an invitation for her, came over to her aunt. Astrid cuddled the dog close to her chest, breathing in her freshly bathed fur.
“She likes you,” Tilde said.
Astrid kissed Duchess’ head. “Small children and dogs, apparently.”
Tilde chuckled softly before letting out a long sigh. “I bet she would really like it if her Aunt Astrid were around more.”
“Aunt Astrid is a teacher and never has any time,” she replied directly to Duchess. Duchess reached for the hand that had stopped petting her and touched it with her paw. Her imploring buggy pug eyes asked Aunt Astrid for more.
Tilde huffed, but said nothing more for a long time. Then she cleared her throat. “How do you like the flat, anyway?”
“It’s nice,” Astrid confirmed. In fact, it was nicer than “nice.” This flat looked like one of those staged ads in a real estate magazine with lots of recessed lighting, soft gray colors, top-of-the-line furnishings and a ton of space.
“We’re trying to decide if we’ll sell it or keep it as an investment property,” Tilde replied. “It’s kind of a pain in the ass as a rental property, though.”
Astrid nodded. “You could just give it to Dad’s company to manage.”
Not that doing so was a great option, either.
If Astrid saw her mother irregularly, she saw her father even less. After their separation, he spent time in Las Vegas developing a new casino concept and then, when Astrid graduated from UNLV, moved his business operations permanently back to Sweden. Still, though, the relationship with her father was better than it was with her mother, simply by virtue that he was never around and didn’t have an opportunity to find the weaknesses in her armor like her mother. Tilde rarely spoke about either parent, but Astrid was certain their relationship was similar.
Tilde sat up and turned to look at Astrid seriously. “Or you could move into it.”
“Excuse me?” Astrid said, her heart skipping a few beats, from a sudden surge of anxiety and... something else.
“I’m serious, Astrid,” she said. “We don’t see each other enough and I want to spend time with you and make up for all those years we were apart.”
This wasn’t just some passing fancy. Astrid could see that as plain as day on Tilde’s face. Her sister was determined to convince her to move to London. But for what? She had no support system other than Tilde and James... and her career... well, that was back in Las Vegas.
Not that Las Vegas itself was the most amazing place to live and work.
“I’d never see you anyway,” Astrid argued. “You’re always rehearsing, or preparing to rehearse, or performing. And god knows James is going to be busy doing whatever.”
“Yeah, about that...” Tilde said, trailing off quietly. She picked at the dog hair on her sweater for a few seconds, then slowly looked back at Astrid. “I’m retiring at the end of this season.”
“What?!”
Tilde shrugged. “James and I want a family, and if I wait until it’s a ‘good time,’ it’ll never happen because of our schedules. And really, it’s getting harder and harder to come back from injuries and such. I just... I need a long break from being a performing ballerina. I don’t have the fire I once had, the same will to fight for every goddamn role.”
Astrid simply nodded. This was huge news. Ballet was Tilde’s life. She’d been doing it since she was a little girl, had impeccable skill and training and talent for it. The joke was that Tilde had come out of the womb in pointe shoes.
Which wasn’t that far from the truth, really. As soon as their mother could, she’d gotten Tilde into dance with the best instructors money could buy. Their mother, the failed ballerina, always lived through them. Which explained why she did not like anything about Astrid— Astrid did not have anything that would benefit her.
“Have you told Mom yet?” Astrid asked.
Tilde shook her head. “Of course not! And listen to her prattle on about how I’m a failure and she gave me so much and I’m just a terrible person? No, thank you. I’ll wait until she is permanently back in LA before I tell her.”
Even though Tilde had not yet told anyone else, it somehow eased the tension in Astrid’s shoulders knowing that Tilde would be in their mother’s crosshairs for a change. Typically, that wasn’t the case; their parents always treated Tilde like the perfect golden child. Of course, Tilde had always been one of Astrid’s fiercest allies… when she could. However, since Tilde spent most of her life in London studying at the Royal Ballet from a very early age, support and camaraderie had been scarce. Now, though? Now it felt like she and Tilde could weather the storm together.
Tilde continued, “Yeah. I’m thinking about opening up a dance studio and then after the baby thing happens, if I still have the performing bug in me, then I’ll start guesting. But I’m just so excited to start having babies.”
Stopping the smile from forming on Astrid’s lips was impossible as she registered the excitement on Tilde’s face. Astrid felt the enthusiasm coming from Tilde’s corner of the couch. “I’m excited for you, Tilde.”
And she was. She truly was.
Tilde reached out and grabbed Astrid’s hand. “I’m serious, though, Astrid. We never had a great family growing up, and I see this as an opportunity to right the wrongs of the past and create the family we should have had growing up.”
“I don’t know, Til.”
“James and I have both talked about it a lot and we both agree.”
“Tilde, even if I did move here,” Astrid began, “I don’t know the first thing about teaching in England.”
Tilde nodded. “I know. But James’ parents are retired teachers. I’m sure they’d be willing to help you make heads or tails of it.”
Astrid pursed her lips and turned to stare at the dormant fireplace sitting in front of them. Duchess, who had not moved, made happy dog purr noises as Astrid massaged the tiny velvet triangles of her ears. To be fair to Tilde, Astrid had often thought of moving to London to be nearer to her, but she never thought it would happen or that Tilde would actually need or want her here. The fact that she was wanted made emotion spring to her eyes and prick at them until they watered.
But then, there was the other issue.
The really, super, ginormous issue that came in the shape of a devastatingly handsome British man she met on vacation. If she moved to London, she’d certainly be seeing him more. No clean break at the end of two weeks like she hoped.
“And, you know,” Tilde said, “London’s arts scene is stupendous. We have the hook-up. I thought you could get back into it. You can hardly do that in Las Vegas.”
Astrid snorted. “Tilde, that part of my life is over.”
“Why? You’re amazing. I remember the video you sent of your college production of Othello. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place.”
While Tilde’s appreciation for her talent warmed Astrid’s heart, it didn’t take away the sting of her mother’s actions. Astrid couldn’t even bring herself to discuss it with Tilde when it first happened, much less in the intervening eight years since the incidents that led to her total disavowal of all things acting related. Her silence on the matter, though, had finally come home to roost. First with Tilde telling Tom she was still an actor, and Tom calling her a liar because she told him she wanted nothing to do with it. And now, with Tilde staring her down imploringly. Tilde wanted answers just as much as Tom did, except for very different reasons.
Astrid could not force her suddenly leaden tongue to move in her mouth. Tilde would just have to live with not knowing the whole story, for now. Finally, she said, “If I move to London, I’m not going to be acting.”
“Well, I guess I’ll take that,” Tilde replied. “As long as you’ll still consider moving here to be with me.”
A knock at the front door startled them all, sending Duchess barking and wheezing to the door. The door opened and James popped his head inside. “Knock knock.”
“Come in!” Tilde sang back to him, jumped from her seat, and nearly leaped over the back of the couch to get to him like he was a cold glass of lemonade on a hot day. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him squarely. For a brief, possibly irrational, moment, Astrid was jealous of her sister and the relationship she had built with James.
Which wasn’t a great feeling to have if the plan was to spend more time with them. How could she uproot her entire life— leave her students and friends— and move halfway across the globe just to be consumed by the green-eyed monster?
“Babe,” Tilde said, “tell Astrid she needs to move to London.”
James laughed and turned to look at Astrid. “Astrid… you need to move to London.”
“Thank you!” Tilde pecked his cheek and pirouetted in place until she was facing away from him. She started walking back toward the bedroom. “Let me go get my purse and we can get going.”
When Tilde was gone, and the flat was mostly silent except for more of Duchess’ puggy wheezing as she calmed, James’ smile dropped into a stony seriousness. He stepped over to her and quietly murmured, “We would love to have you here, Astrid. But I understand if you don’t want to come. The decision has to be yours, and if you decide not to move, I will handle Tilde.”
Astrid was grateful for James’ level-headedness in the situation. In the short time she’d known the man, she found that he was a gifted reader of rooms. That was why he was so good with Tilde— a steady anchor in a turbulent sea. Clearly, he understood the anxiety twisting her stomach into knots.
She set a grateful hand on his arm and squeezed appreciatively. “Thanks, James.”
“And don’t let my association with Tom cloud your judgement,” James said.
Astrid withdrew her hand like he’d burned it. Her eyes snapped up to his, then focused outward on the rest of his features and body language. She didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Tom must have told James, despite that she asked him not to.
Unless Tom had told James last night…
“How do you...” She trailed off, turning her gaze and trying to hide her blush.
“He’s my best man for a reason. We tell each other everything,” James replied. “I had hoped that your work today would allow you some time to figure things out before more of this wedding commenced and caused a problem.”
Astrid gulped. “Does Tilde know?”
James shook his head silently.
“Good,” Astrid replied. Good for two reasons, really. The first, because it confirmed for her that the invitation to come to London wasn’t Tilde playing matchmaker. The second, because she still didn’t want anybody to know about it. “Wait… how much did he tell you?”
James stared back at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a slight curl at the corner of his mouth. “That would be breaking the Code.”
Her face now completely aflame, Astrid bent down and grabbed Duchess into her arms. She couldn’t even look at the man anymore without feeling embarrassed. Hopefully, it would pass quickly.
“Bad news!” Tilde called from the hallway as she came back into the room. Her thumbs moved rapidly over the screen of her iPhone. “Mother decided we needed an all hands on deck dinner tonight.”
Astrid groaned. “In addition to or replacing the one tomorrow night at Cliveden?”
“In addition to,” Tilde said. “Tom can’t make it tonight because he has the cast party, and Dad isn’t even in England yet, so that’ll be the official one. Tonight is probably just more nitpicking.”
“Do we have to?” Astrid whined.
Tilde sighed heavily and dropped her phone into her purse with agitation. “Strength in numbers, dear sister.”
Her sister's proclamation made the summons to dinner no better, but Astrid and James dutifully followed Tilde out of the flat and out to the car. The only saving grace was that Tom wouldn't be there. Astrid could focus on one problem, not two.
A/N: I am so sorry for not posting anything in a while but I am exhausted... Part 5 of like a whole new beginning is coming soon I promise and I’m sorry for how bad this is and how far away from the request I strayed @indelwen-of-mirkwood...
Prompt: Can yo write something for Tom Hiddleston coming to a foreign country by himself and he gets kind of lost, the reader speaks English so helps him out. Maybe they do sightseeing together and have lunch. Idk! Thanks a lot dear!
Word count: 1245
Warnings: Shitty writing and not edited!!
Tom Hiddleston x reader
It had been a while since Tom had had the opportunity to actually just sit back and relax, especially by himself. Even if it may be short, he still counted it as a little mini vacation. In a week he was supposed to attend a gala in Stockholm, but he had decided to fly out a little early and take a few days off, he had after all, done more than enough to deserve it. He made up his mind and booked a hotel in a smaller city just a few hours away, just to get a wider perspective of the country and maybe just maybe, avoid some attention.
There was just one teensy tiny problem with his plan. He had never been to this town before, and should he use his phone for directions all the time… He didn’t even want to think about the length of that bill. No, he was on his own here. The hotel was big and easy enough to find from a distance so he should be fine, right? At least that was what he had told himself this morning before leaving it.
The weather of Sweden was known for being cold in comparison to other countries, but not as cold as London, not in his opinion anyway. He had also read that in this time of the year it could be very unpredictable, which now proved to be true. As he had walked through the big lobby the sun had been shining in through the big windows, but now as he walked down the streets, the sky just got darker and darker. No matter the weather, Tom wanted to make the most out of this little trip and nothing would stop him. Famous last words from someone who has never experienced the Swedish thunderstorms.
The wind picked up and almost blew him of his feet, the rain hit his face with full force and it to him it felt like being pricked with thousands of needles. One would think living in London he would be used to all kinds of rain, but maybe not. As the lightning lit up the city streets and the thunder following right after he started to look for any sort of store to take shelter in. The odds seemed to be in his favour this time and he found himself standing right outside a cafe.
The bell signalling his entrance made a pair of eyes turn his way. Only after a few seconds did he notice that he was alone in the little space, but then again, who was as stupid as him and stayed out even after the sky darkened like that? that’s right. No one. The eyes belonged to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her y/h/c was up in a messy ponytail, it was a futile attempt at keeping the her out of her face he thought to himself. She was dressed in a simple yet classy way, in what looked to be her favourite shirt judging by how worn it was, a pair of normal blue jeans and to top it all of, a apron in a stunning shade of y/f/c.
She seemed to come to her senses first and asked him in a cheery and practiced tone if there was for anything she could be of service. Tom being the gentleman he was, ordered a cup of tea to keep him warm while he waited out this storm. if it would ever go away, that is, right now it looked like it could go on and on forever. Since he was the only customer she was quick to finish up his order and bring it to him. He had taken of his coat and sat down at a stool by the window, giving him a very wet view.
“The rain doesn’t seem to stop anytime soon does it?”
he heard a voice say beside him. It was sweet and hinted at an foreign accent, but it was near perfect English which surprised him. He knows it is stereotypic to assume every rumour of Swedish people are true, but he had never visited the country and didn’t know exactly what to expect. He now remembered that he had placed his order in English without realizing that she may not have understood him, but judging by her accent, she understood him very well and he answered her in his thick British accent only he could provide.
“No it does not I’m afraid”
“Well, I’m glad you came in, otherwise you would have gotten completely drenched”
Their conversation flowed freely and easily, they talked about anything and everything only stopping once or twice for refills and the occasionally needed translation. The woman whose name he had found out was y/n, had brought out cake for the two them, stating that they might as well make the best of the storm. She told him how she always had had a love for the English language and made it a priority in her life to keep it alive, even if not many in her circle thought the same. It also turned out she knew he was an actor but wanted him to be able to have some time out of the spotlight. Something he was grateful for, a thousand times over.
**********
The weather cleared up after what seemed like mere seconds, but in reality had been hours. Tom didn’t want to leave. He was intrigued by this beautiful woman in front of him and he couldn’t let this be the first and last time he ever saw her. There had to be something he could do. Then it hit him, in his frenzy of trying to find shelter earlier he had totally forgotten which way from which he came. He was lost.
Both of them stepped out of the cafe and as y/n locked the door he tried his best to figure out in which direction he needed to go. But he was quick to give up when he couldn’t find any recognizable signs or buildings.
“Is something wrong Tom?”
It had taken him a while to get her off the Mr.Hiddleston train, but now his name flowed from her lips, sweet as sugar cake. He didn’t want to admit he was, in fact, lost. But he may not have a choice given that he didn’t bring his phone.
“I seem to have forgotten the way from which I came, do you happen to know the way to the grand hotel?”
She had giggled a little at that. Apparently he pronounced the name “funny”, in her ears. But the universe had once again worked in his favour and she did know the way. It was supposedly one of Sweden's biggest hotel chains and located in the city’s busiest part. And when he flopped down on his bed he couldn’t help but smile at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He felt like a boy again as he put y/n*s number in his phone and sent a message.
We should do this again, may I treat you to dinner tomorrow night? /TH
Dance in the Middle of the Fighting - Chapter 1: The Birth
A/N: It’s heavy-handed! It’s semi-dystopian! It’s Actor!Tom! I hope you enjoy. No warnings this chapter except some description of birth.
Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free. --Rumi
Chapter 1:The Birth
Rain, again and still. She makes her way down the slope and to the little footbridge over the Swannanoa that moves here on the edge of these fragrant woods. The rain channels down her neck, down her curls, down the front of her dress and slides in between her breasts, trickling warm down her belly, all the way down into her boots. Trudging forward, her ankles aching, a half-anxiety gnawing at the base of her stomach.
She shouldn’t have waited so long to come this way. She shouldn’t have rested this afternoon, underneath the broad-leafed trees up higher in the hills. After the first birth of the day, a long but peaceful affair, the air was so cool and for a moment it wasn’t raining, and because of the time she took to herself the messenger walked an extra half-hour to get to her, and now Nida might have to give birth on her own, after all this time of working with her, after all this time of working to make her feel safe.
Her boots stick more in the mud, and she pulls them out with a sucking sound, stamping back down with a distinct fart. She laughs in spite of herself.
The rain makes it hard to see more than about twenty feet in front of her as she reaches the big concrete span across the French Broad River, what used to be a road for cars until just a few months ago, when lack of gasoline sent all the vehicles back into the garages. Helen has never minded walking, but the roads now seem so empty and eerie, save the occasional Tesla that rushes by, charged up by a private electric grid, something so far away from her now that it is basically irrelevant. A part of her, a very small part, still believes that one day there will be a return to the way things used to be. But for now, at least, this is the way that things are, and she knows there is no way but to get used to it. It sinks in more every day, just as the rain: drop by drop, until it saturates everything around her.
The rain washes the mud from her boots and eventually the warm water and the soft, swaddling hush of exhaustion calms her, and when she arrives at the public clinic rooms in the downstairs of the county courthouse where the messenger said Nida would be, she is focused, only the woman and her baby in her sights.
Nida is quiet when Helen comes in, and she scrubs up with the materials in her backpack, then kneels beside Nida, holding her hand.
“How are you, love?” she says.
Nida only groans, and Helen quickly examines her. “You’re almost all the way effaced,” she says, and Nida laughs through a contraction.
“Tell me about… it…” she grunts through the tensing. “So… fast. Second babies, right?”
“That’s right,” says Helen, and joins her energy with Nida’s, going inside the birth vision to draw the baby forth, to calm and comfort and energize Nida to proceed through the trial.
“Breathe,” she reminds her, and Nida takes the longest, slowest breaths she can between the catching of her air, the tensing.
“I feel like I need to push. I need to push,” Nida says.
“Almost,” says Helen. And together they ride the wave of pain. “It’s almost time,” she says. “Do you want anything to be said, or sung, right now?” But when she looks at Nida, who moments before was pink and healthy, glistening with sweat, but strong and determined, she now looks green and grey, her eyes strangely distant.
“Nida? Nida, honey, are you all right? Nida?”
Nida moans again, a raw sound, echoing to the ceiling and back again. The door flies open.
“What is going on in here?” says a woman, angry. Forty or maybe forty-five, and she looks down. “Ah, ah,” she says. “I see. Everything okay? You have a permit?”
Helen nods and examines Nida again. “The baby might be posterior.”
“Is that dangerous?” says the woman. “Do I need to find a doctor?”
“She can’t afford a doctor,” spits Helen. “It’s fine, it’s basically fine, it just might take longer. She needs support. Are there any family members anywhere around?” The woman nods and goes into the hall. “Stay with me, Nida,” Helen says now, holding the woman’s hand. “It’s just a little while longer.”
Time seems to slow and speed up at the same time, and she works with Nida, upholding her energy and encouraging the child to come out healthy, to move the best way for the birth. Nida resists at first but she is strong, and eventually she lets her energy move to give way to that of the child.
“This child must have a purpose,” says Helen, smiling, and Nida smiles too, crying out again. A crowd forms in the room. Helen takes them to be Nida’s family with the way they talk with her, but there is not time for identification or verification now.
The rhythm of the birth is palpable to Helen now, and she feels Nida’s heartbeat more strongly than her own. The group gathers around Nida, each one holding onto her hand or her arm.
“It’s time now,” says Helen. “I’m going to count slowly to three, and then the next time you feel the urge to push, I want you to push, okay?”
Nida nods, her dark eyes gathering all of her strength. She grips the hands she holds.
Someone starts a low, murmuring sound, and Nida takes a deep breath and bears down, the whole room holding their breath with her. Helen draws her own breath as deeply as she can, an edge of frustration now as the baby should be coming fort;, there should be no more waiting. Nida is strong, and Nida is pushing, and as much as Helen tries to control her own energy, the worry of the situation starts to seep into her, and she feels a headache, born of tension and exhaustion, pinching at the back of her neck.
On the third push she starts to cry, a tear stuck at the corner of her right eye, and she reaches out to the power she doesn’t believe in much except in moments like these:
Universe, please send us what we need. Please help this baby to be okay…
And a hand, soft and warm, and large, caresses the back of her neck, sending the tension flowing away, and a man leans close to Nida’s ear, speaking in a low tone to her. Nida smiles and nods, gathering courage, strength and breath once again.
And suddenly everything is quiet and it is as if a whirlwind sweeps through the room and gathers all of the expectant energy; Nida’s eyes fly wide open, she presses her lips together, and she pushes one last time, a loud cry of relief pouring from her, and she pushes up and over the last wave of pain, and the baby emerges, purple and warm, and in only a few moments he is born all the way out into the world. Helen catches him in a soft white blanket and wipes him off, crimping the umbilical and massaging the baby’s soft chest and abdomen until he draws a breath, the sound of his screaming sending a ripple of relief through the crowd, and a smile to Nida’s face. It is only then that Helen realizes she has been sobbing, tears and snot running down her face, and she hands Nida her brand new baby, turning to the side to find a rag for her own nose.
“You did it,” someone says, and Helen sees the tall man for the first time, the one who whispered to Nida. She moves aside, assuming him to be Nida’s husband, but he moves farther to the side of the crowd and holds up his hands as if to resist the praise.
“I’m just glad everyone is well,” he says, and Helen hears the edge of an accent in his voice.
“Who are you,” she says, coldly, her eyes narrowing. She stands up, wiping the last tear from her eye, a fearsome, drenched, exhausted woman with wild hair. “Where are you from?”
She knows very well where he is from, a man from the tax office, no doubt, from Raleigh or Washington, come to collect the brand new kind of public trust tax, a $2500 penalty for giving birth to a child that the government determines you cannot afford. The money is given to Families of Responsibility, those who reproduce into more exalted circumstances, which is defined as having at least four thousand dollars a month that doesn’t need to be used to pay any expenses, to help them on their way and reinforce their good planning. Making decisions ahead of time is key, said the small, faraway voice of President Pence on the radio, over and over urging Americans coldly to think before acting, not to let their animal instincts override their wallets. This tax is only an encouragement, he says. A reinforcement to make America great through reasoned action and foresight.
And knowing your place.
Similar taxes already exist for not being able to afford food and lodging, not being able to afford your own transportation costs, and not being able to afford to maintain a building that you own and live in. Not to mention the taxes for allowing yourself to be a victim of crime, of racial violence, or domestic disputes. Thinking ahead could allow you to avoid all of these things, the president said, his head like a great block of talking cheese, and just as dense, and greasy, and heavy. He never smiles except on signing day, as more and more of these measures creep along the pipeline from fever dream to law.
She knows better than to attack this anonymous man here in front of her directly, better than to jump at his throat and demand his name, his identification card, his badge, or whatever else they carry. They aren’t supposed to carry concealed weapons, but all of them do now, and who knows what damage could come to these people if she acted rashly.
His eyes widen and he stammers, backing toward the door.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,’ she says, moving toward him, and the crowd parts to make way for her. He disappears through the doorway.
She reaches him in the dim hall and grabs his arm just above the elbow. He turns to face her. “Who are you,” she demands.
But up close his eyes are free of guile, wide and open and astonished. He is scared, she thinks to herself. But scared of what?
“Are you from Raleigh?” she says.
“N-No, Westminster,” he says, and Helen can hear the accent clearly now, something tall and kingly and English.
“Why are you here? What business did you have in that room?”
“Only a friend of mine, is a cousin to… to Nida,” he says, holding his hands up. “I meant no harm.”
“It’s only family!” screams Helen, astonished by her own rage. “At a birth it’s only family!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says.
“Well, you should be! Anyway, what’s your name? I’ll have to… I’ll have to record everyone who was present at the birth, for the record, and--”
He steps into the light.
She narrows her eyes. “I know you,” she says. “But I can’t place how…” She looks at him, tilting her head, her heart pounding from her outburst. “I…”
He looks at her, his gaze still wide and open, his face nearly expressionless; a blank canvas, it would seem.
“Are you… Were you in movies?”
He smiles. “A bit,” he says warmly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Here in Bumcombe County?” he says.
“Here in the courthouse,” she says.
“I’m waiting for my travel approval,” he says.
She smirks. “Of course you are.”
“Well, I…”
“Don’t stammer or apologize,” she says. “You’re very lucky. It’s good for you.” She pauses and takes a deep breath, rubbing her temples. “Excuse me.”
Helen pushes back into the room, and seeing mother and baby happy and healthy, she whispers a word to Nida and then moves back to the hallway, ready to dismiss the man and stomp quickly home, but she sees him down the hall, talking with a few of the clerks behind the desk.
“Good riddance,” she says, turning away, but her anger won’t hold more than a few steps, and now she is just tired. She talks herself through it as she winds through the streets and down to the wooded portion of the path toward the edge of the city, back in the woods until the landscape opens up, and freshens, and there sits her cabin, a mile or so distant.
It isn’t his fault, she tells herself, and you’re much too snobbish about people with privilege. They didn’t do anything to get where they are, any more than you did to be where you are. It’s just the way of things, and you have to calm down.
She waits until she can barely see her feet in front of her to light the lamp, and the rain is only a fine mist now, adding something mysterious to her exhausted trek.
Something about his calm, self-assured air; the one relative of Nida’s telling him that he did it, he did it.
He didn’t do anything. It was Nida, gathering all of the energy in the room and transmuting it into the birth drive, the pushing. And maybe a little of Helen herself, there helping her and gathering energy alongside of her.
Is it your ego? Her brain asks.
Oh, shut up, she says out loud.
In the distance, a cry like a hawk, but it’s a human voice. Then she hears it again.
It could be her name, or it could be nothing, and she is feeling the pinch of hunger strongly now, and her aching ankles are ready to give out. She will continue on to her cabin and heed no such calls until she has had a rest. A small one, at least.
*****
At home, she drops the lantern too heavily on the table and it wobbles for a second and she reaches to steady her own self as she pulls off her wet boots one after the other and drops them to the floor beside the door.
Up and off she peels her soaked dress and underwear, and she shakes her hair loose and stands with the stove door open, the radiating heat making little shivers run through her as her clammy gooseflesh skin slowly warms.
She hums, a little bluegrass ballad tune and runs her fingers through her hair, swaying back and forth. Standing up, she sees through the back door windowpanes the outline of a man, staring in.
She screams. She grabs up the quilt from the couch and wraps it around herself, and with her free hand grabs her shotgun from above the door.
“Get out of here!” she screams, banging the shotgun into the door. The windowpanes buzz. Emboldened by adrenaline she yanks the door open and shouts into the open yard, and then she sees him: the man from the courthouse.
His eyes are wide and he is breathing fast, terrified. He puts his hands up.
“I mean no harm,” he says, and she calms herself.
“Why didn’t you knock?” she shouts.
“I was about to,” he says, one eyebrow raising and a small smirk showing at the corner of his mouth. “I wasn’t sure if i had come to the right house and I was just bringing my hand up to knock, ma’am,” he says.
She takes a deep breath. “What do you need?”
The rain falls heavier again, and he only stands there, at the base of the stairs, the drops darkening his shirt.
She sighs and turns around, opening the door and walking back into the cabin.
The door stands empty.
“For God’s sake, come the fuck in!” she yells, and then slams herself into the bedroom, angrily pulling her black t-shirt dress over her head.
*****
The tea kettle whistles, and Helen drops two small tea bags into mugs, pouring the water over them. She brings them and a small plastic bear of honey to the table.
“No cream,” she says. “I’m not here enough to keep it from spoiling.”
He says nothing, watching her.
‘I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, sitting upright. “I haven’t introduced myself properly at all. I’m Tom.” He extends his hand.
“Helen,” she says, sliding her fingertips barely into his palm for a quick shake.
He looks at the table. “Thank you for the tea,” he says. “And I do have a very good reason for coming all this way, and again, I am so, so sorry for startling you, and--”
She waves her hand in dismissal. “It’s over, it doesn’t matter.” She drizzles honey into her tea and stirs it. “So you need to find a place to stay? For how long?”
“It seems like, maybe two or three weeks, at most,” he says. “I can pay.”
“Good,” she says, “because nobody gives room and board away for free.” She stands up and grabs a tin of cookies from the shelf. “These are only a week old. I think they’re okay.”
He flinches when she drops the tin on the table.
“I’m sorry about the gun,” she says, and can’t think of anything else to say to soften the moment.
“I’m sorry you thought I was a tax collector back at the courthouse,” he says. “It grieves me to think I could ever be mistaken for such a terrible thing.” He smirks.
She frowns.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It probably isn’t funny to you.”
She shrugs. “I don’t mind laughing about it. I’m just so far beyond tired right now.”
He takes a sip of tea. “So these public trust taxes,” he says. “They are meant to encourage people to, ah… think before acting?”
She laughs, one dry, percussive Ha. “Really they are meant to encourage you to think twice about being alive while not being rich.”
“Hmm.”
“These people up in Washington, they really just have a deep disrespect for anyone who isn’t wealthy. It’s gone beyond disregard and it’s moved on to an actual focused hatred. I think it’s because they know their only fucking virtue is their money. They haven’t got anything else. No decency. No real love. No integrity. Just money, and loyalty to other people who also have it.”
“And the rest of America?”
“Oh, we’re just holding out until it’s over. Trying to find ways to stay fed and clothed and under a roof.” She shrugs. “It’s best to just look at what’s in front of you, in a given day. Thinking too hard about things can cause a bit of the old existential despair to settle in, and that’s a hard thing to come back from, you know?”
He smiles, faintly.
“Did you want a cookie?” she says.
“Oh, I.. Are you sure?”
“Word of advice?” she says.
“Of course.”
“Never turn down someone’s hospitality here. It’s a humanizing thing that we still have. We can still share what we have, no matter how small or large it is. It makes us feel normal. Don’t do that mental math about how important this or that thing is to the person offering it. Take a modest amount of anything offered. It makes the giver feel rich to still be able to give.”
He smiles, taking a cookie. “Mmm, cinnamon and chocolate? It’s delicious.” He pauses, sipping his tea again. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll be sure to take it.”
“Good.”
“And I’ll take all of those that you’ll give me,” he says, gesturing at the tin.
She smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.” She drinks the warm tea, letting the feeling spread through her. Almost like a hug.
“Is there any truth to it? To the purpose behind the taxes, do you think?”
“Oh, of course not,” she says, not concealing her contempt at the idea. “All they do is keep us exhausted.” She sits back, looking directly at him, the sharp attention of his direct gaze startling her slightly. “What I really think is that the taxes just make the whole bottom part of the economy, the whole bottom… oh… ninety percent or so, and puts them in the situation that mothers used to be in.”
“Oh? How so?” he says, leaning in.
“Well, before, mothers had to bear the cost of childcare, the burden of raising their children or being blamed if they don’t turn out right, even for things that can’t be controlled, and mothers had to deal with the critique if the people around them thought they had too many kids, or not enough kids, or whatever, you know?”
“Ah, okay, yes. Yes, that makes sense.”
“And this tax just takes that misery and gives it to everyone. All except the upper tenth.”
He nods, his gaze locking with hers again.
She looks away. “But here I am, talking like this and you’re probably part of the upper tenth back home, right?”
He sighs, heavily, and runs the tip of his finger up and down the handle of his mug. “It’s not like it is here.”
“It’s kind of bad here, right?” Helen says. “I’m not just imagining it?”
“It’s bad,” he says, and the sound of the rain swells to a roar, the tin roof of the porch giving the whole house the echo of the downpour. “How do you deal with it?” he says.
“How long have you been here?” she asks.
“A little over three months,” he says. “I was doing research on a role when they stopped running the planes and instituted the restrictions on travel.”
“Ah, wrong place, wrong time.”
“Or the right place,” he says softly.
“What?”
“Why do you ask?” he says.
“Have you heard of love work?”
“I haven’t, but it sounds lovely.” He slides his hands around his mug.
“More?” She leans back to the stove and grabs the kettle, a thin wisp of steam still trailing up from its spout.
“Please,” he says.
“It is lovely, partly,” she says. “We all have these awful jobs, you know? It’s all there is. No funding for anything but the practical, so that’s where we go, because we have to.”
“What’s your job?”
“I have two,” she says.
“Two?”
She laughs. “A lot of people have more than that. I’m lucky to only have two. I sort and grade electronic components for manufactured devices, like tablets, computers, phones, and those kinds of things. Even though the upper tenth are the only ones who can afford a lot of it, there’s still a high demand. Some lower-90s people still buy them as status symbols, gifts for their loved ones, and things like that. You know. I feel like there will always be a market. And the other job is writing ad copy.”
“Ah.”
“It’s really not bad at all. That job isn’t bad. It’s hard to find new and creative ways to tell rich people to buy things I’ll never be able to afford, but it turns out I’m good at it, and it keeps me in tea and honey, so I’ll take it.” She smiles.
“How’s the money?” he asks.
“Well, that’s very forward of you, isn’t it.”
He blushes. “I.. I’m sorry if I--”
She laughs. “It’s fine. Money is a big part of my life. It’s a big part of everyone’s life here, and I think we’d do better if we talked about it more, not less. The money is fine. It’s just enough for what I need. No ability to strive for anything else, but I’m lucky. I don’t complain about it. Not out loud, anyway. I have what I need, and that puts me above a lot of people. A lot of families. So far I’ve steered clear of the extra taxes by showing that I can support myself. I turn in my justification forms every year and they can’t help but agree that I bring in more than I have to pay out for my expenses for my lifestyle, even with their bogus retroactive calculations.” She gestures around the spare cabin, laughing. “So they haven’t seen the need to charge me extra for being alive. Yet. Luckily they don’t count up whether you get enough hours of sleep at night, because in that sense, I am certainly poor. But in all other ways, adequately supplied. So, again, I can’t complain.”
“And what about the midwifery?” he says.
She smiles. “That’s my love work.”
“Yeah?”
“No one has figured out yet how to regulate the genius of the laboring mother’s mind and body. They work together in the most miraculous tandem, and energy workers like me can get right into the battle, as it were, and help the mother in her own mission. It’s fascinating, and it’s energizing, and it’s exhausting, and I love it. It’s marvelous, and really, I only need to remind the mothers of their own strength.”
“Amazing.”
“It is.”
“Well.”
“That’s love work.”
“I see.”
“Love work is unpaid, and it’s what we do to keep ourselves alive. Our souls, not our wallets. And I love it. Most people have love work of one kind or another.”
He pauses for a moment. “It occurs to me that my… interruption into the birth process today may have stymied this sort of … energy that you’re talking about. Did it? Is that why you were angry?”
She tilts her head to the side. “You know, I think you might be right. Of all things, I never really thought of that.” She pauses. “Tom, what did you say to her? To Nida?”
“A little quote from Rumi,” he says. “Something I tell myself in a dark moment. For some reason I felt compelled to say it. At least, for all my bumbling, it did seem to help her.”
“I have to admit it did, as much as it rankles me to say it.” She frowns. “I’m sorry.”
He looks stern. “Don’t apologize, Helen. It’s your love work, so it’s more precious to you. It’s time you could be using resting, but you pour it into yet another pursuit. It’s a third job for you, but it’s more than that. And there I came barging into the middle of its… greatest drama.”
She says nothing, struck nearly dumb by the accuracy. She coughs. “That’s literally exactly it,” she says. She grins. “Well done. But you’re still not staying here.”
He laughs. “I wouldn’t try,” he says, “although I will ask for permission to sleep here only for the night. Until my papers come in, I have to show I have a place to stay or I’ll be charged a tax as well. If they pick me up out there sleeping in a park or under a bridge or something they’ll double the fee.”
“Well, fuck the tax man,” she says, standing up. “You’ll sleep here tonight if it’ll help you stick it to him, and then in the morning you can go looking for a long-term arrangement. I’ll write down some names for you.”
“Will you be here? In the morning?” he says.
She shakes her head. “I’ll be up and out at five thirty, so probably not, unless you’re a really early riser. You can let yourself out.” She gestures at the kitchen area. “I haven’t been shopping in a while, but you can make yourself anything you see here to eat in the morning. And no refusing.”
“Yes ma’am.” He stands, pushing in his chair and gathering the mugs. “I miss restaurants,” he says. His eyes widen. “Not that I… What I mean to say is that I’m very grateful to you, and--”
“No, so do I,” she says. “I really do. Nobody has cooked for me in … ages.”
“It hasn’t been that long for me,” he says, “but there’s something about a table full of gleaming china, a candle, some hot bread, and--”
“Stop,” she says, her voice quiet. “I’m... maybe… not as sure as you are that all of this will pass while I am still alive to see it.” She grips the back of the chair and looks down.
“Helen, I’m sorry,” he says, “How many times can I put my foot in my mouth in one day?”
“It’s fine,” she says, her voice flat.
She strides to the corner of the room and reaches into the pitch-dark closet and pulls out an extra quilt and towel. She drops them on the chair by the table and turns to say some kind of good-night to Tom. She sees him silhouetted against the windowpanes of the front room, drinking the last of his tea and looking out at the rain and the river. He seems a thousand miles away.
And in only a few weeks, he will be.
She turns and goes to her bedroom, closing the door behind her without a sound.
Fic summary: I feel like this is so short i needn’t give you a summary but a little bit of back story (if you’re even that interested). I have been a fan of Tom since War Horse and then eventually got interested in fanfic writing but on Wattpad but i want to expand and possibly deal with more mature topics so i thought I’d bring the party to Tumblr and start with my old fics to get it started! (sorry they are quite short for now and in the future they should be longer)
~~If you actually made it through all that waffle here’s the actual fic~~
Waking up to an unfamiliar bed you reached over to the nightstand to put on your glasses "it's too early to bother with contacts" you murmur to yourself sleepily. You turn over and see Tom still sleeping peacefully beside you, his blonde curls sprawled across the pillow. After about a minute of watching his bare chest rise and fall steadily under the sheets you decide to get up and walk around a bit before getting ready for your busy day of being dragged around to interviews with tom before the big premier of his new movie.
You push off the sheets, swing your legs to the side of the the bed and begin padding around on the wooden floor heading towards the window. You draw the curtains slightly (careful not to let in too much light) and rested your elbows on the cold surface as you stared down at the street below. A small knot of fans had gathered in the streets obviously aware that Tom was staying there.
As you stare across the unusually quite streets of London you think about how much your life has changed since you got together with Tom. Getting used to the fans, the lack of privacy, the media. But your mind soon wonders over all the great times you've had with Tom, all the dinners, the movie nights, the pointless conversations, you glance down and look at the small diamond engagement ring twinkling on your finger and smile.
You feel a warmth wrap around your waist as Tom plants a soft kiss on your neck before resting his chin on your shoulder, his stubble tickling you.
"How long have you been awake?" Tom asks his voice still tired.
You ajusted the glasses on the bridge of your nose and looked down at your watch. "not too long."
"what are you thinking about?" he says his thumb rubbing circles on the small of your back.
"Just us" you reply resting your head against his.
After a long but not awkward silence you hear a quiet hum outside your window slowly getting louder. You looked down and saw that the small group of fans was quickly growing into a large crowd with cameras flashing and people waving and screaming. Tom gave them a small wave and smile before closing the curtains and retreating to the bed. You slumped down next to him and sighed.
"How about," Tom started resting his hand on yours. "if we get ready quickly and seek out the back, I know a small café near here that we can get breakfast at before my first interview. You up for that?" he smiles at you hopefully his blue eyes searching your face for some kind of emotion.
"always." you say smiling up at him
"great!" he kisses you gently. You kiss him back slowly getting more and more passionate. He raises his hand an begins to tangle his fingers in your hair but you rest your hands on his chest and break away.
"what happened to quickly?" you laugh getting up and walking towards the bathroom leaving a slightly disappointed Tom still sat on the bed.
