You've Only Just Arrived (a Tom Hiddleston fan fiction)

Part 51

Red wine is seeping into the grout between the tiles on the kitchen floor, sure to leave a stain. The smell is a little overpowering as you’re standing over the mess. The wine isn’t just on the floor though, the impact of the bottle hitting the floor sent droplets of wine up onto the cabinets, the baseboard, the nearby wall, and you.

Again with the color red. That’s been the theme as of late. Red haunting you at every turn – all, presumably, at the hand of the man now blocking the only exit from the room. The man you can’t take your eyes from.

You had sent your bodyguard on without another thought about it. This situation could have been avoided if you’d just let Richard do his job. But no – you’d seen the vehicle driven by Tom and his security guard in the parking lot and assumed Tom and John were home. They should have been home. Should have been – but apparently weren’t.

But the front door had been locked! No alarm bells had gone off in your head when you walked in the door, which is why everything – your keys, your phone, your handbag, everything – is currently sitting on the table just inside the door.

With this man blocking the kitchen doorway, those things are well beyond your reach.

“Hello ______.”

He is all smiles, which makes your skin crawl just a little bit more. Who is this man? You blink. He isn’t a stranger. Where have you seen him? Around the set? At a press conference? Somewhere on the street? Recognition hits as you study his face. It was on set – you’ve seen him in passing a few times, actually. Never formally introduced, that you can recall. He’s always maintained his distance.

Your mouth doesn’t want to use the words sent forth by your brain. “W-what…. Who are you?”

At your question his smile falters just a bit before returning full force, “Oh. The beard an’ dye job.” He motions to his well-maintained beard and hooks his left hand momentarily behind his neck before dropping it to his side again. “Had me worried for a minute there, _______. Not remembering me…”

After first rounding the corner he’d taken a few steps into the room. Since then he hasn’t moved and neither have you. You’re trying to motivate your body into responding to your brain’s urge to fucking flee but thus far, no dice. All that training to be on your toes and ready for action for the Touring Sundays films and you’re stuck to the spot, as though someone cemented your feet to the floor.

But then you don’t want to set this guy off. Right now he may be smiling, but if you try to run? Before you can consider trying to slip past him you at least need to arm yourself. In your peripheral vision you can see the knife block – over beyond the paper towels – but it would mean taking steps into the mess made by the broken wine bottle. More concerning, you’d have to get closer to the man who is still prattling on with that huge damn smile on his face.

There's nothing to it. You'll have to chance it.

“They said it’d work, for a little while. Course the fake id really’s what got me in the door. Dave. What sort of name is Dave? Anyway. You learn all sorts of things when… oh, careful. Wouldn’t want to get cut.” He pauses his litany when you take a cautious step forward, your shoe crunching down into the broken glass.

His subsequent approach, just a few steps along with his cautious warning, bring you to a halt. You’re still too far away from the knife block for that to be of any use and he’s entirely too close for comfort. You try to stop your hands from visibly shaking by moving them around to reference the mess of broken glass and red wine. “It’ll ah… it’ll stain.”

Oh thank god the paper towel roll is close enough to make it believable that you were going for that. You fumble with it while trying to tear off a sheet, while also keeping your eyes locked on the stranger. The roll tumbles from the counter to the floor and bounces along, absorbing the red wine in splotches as it falls into the liquid.