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

Part 59

You sit on the chilled tile flooring of the bathroom, wrapped up in Tom's arms in the darkness. He hadn't turned the light on when he entered the bathroom - just fixed his attention on your form so he'd know where to find you after shutting the door - then quickly, quietly, shutting out the rest of the world. It's just you and Tom, your panicked breathing in contrast to his steady rhythm. It's impossible to truly judge time in this environment. The minutes are punctuated by waves of nausea that cause your stomach to clench, forcing you to pull yourself up and kneel towards the toilet bowl to battle against the urge to dry heave.

Only Tom's light touch on your back lets you know he's still there in the moments where it seems that it is just you and the porcelain. Tom is still there. He's still with you. He doesn't speak throughout. He holds you loosely, allowing motion when you need it, then cradling you back to his chest when you're ready to settle again. The outside world continues on - time refusing to stop for your moment of crisis. The occasional shadow passes in the thin strip of light between the door and the floor. Those you have shut out are worried, yet no one knocks. They know better.

Once your breathing starts to normalize you un-clench your fingers, finally accepting Tom's offered hand. You trace your fingertips over his palm. You start where his hand meets his wrist, tracing circles over the meat of his palm at the base of his thumb. From there you find and follow his lifeline, abandoning it to trace his line of heart back towards the outside of his hand.

He waits until you slip your fingers between his to grasp at your hand and speak. "Do you want some water?"

His question is soft, uncertain. He'd get up and leave if you told him to, if you told him you needed time alone. It's the last thing you want. You shake your head in the negative. He waits before asking something else, lifting your hand to press your knuckles against his lips. He lets you settle your intertwined hands into his lap once more. You feel his inhalation of breath before he speaks and brace for the question you know is coming.

"Do you - can you tell me what you saw? What made you run?"

If anybody else had asked you would have told them to fuck off. Tom, though? For Tom you'll try... Even with your determination you still twitch in reaction to his request. He immediately moves his arm from where he had wrapped it around your shoulders, loosening his hold once more to make it easier for you to pull away if you need to. He doesn't release your hand, though, that he keeps firmly gripped within his. You use it as your anchor as you force yourself to reply. "Dad turned into Mitch. It was stupid to run but," a hiccough bubbles to the surface, "I just needed... I couldn't...."

Tom readjusts how the pair of you are nestled together so his voice comes closer to your temple than before. "Flashback, again."

"Yes." Your voice sounds flat. As much as you hate to acknowledge it, you're not ok. Everything that has happened is catching up to you. The studio was right to insist that you seek out a professional to help deal with it all. Tom, your family, the security team - everyone was right in their assessment of your mental health. You hiccough again and through the frustration, disappointment, and fear, you laugh at yourself. "Fuck!"

He has better sense than to suggest trying to scare the hiccoughs out of you. He is quiet, probably coming up with ten dozen replies and deciding against each and every one of them before finding something he deems worth muttering. "So - are we going back out there at some point?"

You're trying to hold your breath and swallow away the hiccoughs, without much success. Your attempts at least muffle the high-pitched squeak. Hic. Your body jumps into his coinciding with the spasm of breath. "...Do we have to?"

"Eventually, yes. I think so, yes."

You sigh, leaning against him. Your shoulder is tucked under his arm to allow for the most physical contact possible. Aside from the occasional hiccough your breathing has finally returned to normal again. The muffled sounds of movement and conversation of the others seems a bit louder - they must be done in the kitchen and have moved into the main room - the sounds traveling down the hall to the bedroom and your current location a bit easier. "I guess you're right," you admit with hesitation, "but not yet... It smells good in here."