Crumbs (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

Eclairs, the Moat & the Tin Man

It is some time later.  We are tangled in the sheets, his arms draped over my body, our legs intertwined, heavy with sleep. There’s no reason to get up.  I’m where I want to be.  I don’t care that I’m in London.  That we are leaving in a day.  I don’t need to sight see.  I only need to see one thing, and he’s wrapped around me. Koala Tom, back in full force.  And this time, he’s naked.  Hallelujah.

Tom nuzzles my neck, half asleep.

“When we get back to Maryland, will you make me éclairs? I can’t stop thinking about éclairs.” He mumbles into my neck, his voice low and slow like honey. 

“Is that really all you think about? Eclairs? Running…Shakespeare…” I keep my eyes closed, feeling totally and completely relaxed.  He nods and laughs into my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. 

“Eclairs, running, Shakespeare and you.” He squeezes an arm around me.  I wrap my arm around his neck and run my hands lazily through his hair.

“I’ll make you whatever you want, my little fat kid.” I whisper, which makes him laugh loud and hard against me.  He grabs my sides and I shriek with laughter, smacking him as he tickles me.

“I have to go back to work soon.  I have to go to Detroit after the Summer Celebration.” He says suddenly, his hands stopping their silly attack, and coming to a rest at the dip at my waist.  I lick my lips, sighing.

“Detroit, eh? Sounds fantastic.” I don’t want him to go.  I want him to stay around and hang out with me, but I knew this was coming.  He’s been off nearly the whole summer.  This movie isn’t called “Charlie and Tom Hang Out For the Rest of Their Lives, Not Working but Just Rolling Around in Bed.” That would be a terribly long winded movie title.

“I’ll be there for a few weeks. And in Los Angeles for a bit as well.” Tom moves slightly so we are eye to eye.  I brush my hair from my eyes and reach over to trace his jaw and the line of his nose with my finger.  He lets me, and then chomps his teeth at me.

“We can FaceTime.” I say lamely.  I don’t know what else to say, to be honest.  There are a million things I could say—Tom, don’t go.  Tom, quit your job and run away with me. Tom, have my babies.  All of them are somewhat true, but I have a feeling they aren’t the right thing to say.

“We…can…FaceTime.” He says slowly, enunciating each word, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know what else to say.” I am the lamest.  The lamest of the lame.

“Charlie…” He sighs, exasperated.  So, I am emotionally stunted, and I have been preparing myself for this moment for some time.  Tom finds it annoying, but then, there are many things he finds annoying about me.  He’s told me before.  We made lists.  His included how I’m a workaholic to the point of madness, how I sometimes lie and tell him I will only be a few minutes late, but really I haven’t even left my house, and my penchant for watching the same episodes of televisions shows over and over and over.  Mine included how he is a workaholic to the point of madness, how he looks good even when he’s sweaty or tired or angry or generally supposed to look bad like normal people, and his penchant for breaking into long, poetical diatribes about dead artists and writers (he does this mostly after a bottle of wine).   

“Tom.” I mimic his stern, “dad” voice.  He rolls his eyes and clears his throat. 

“Charlie, I’m…” He presses a finger to his lip, and then to his chin.  It’s his “thinking” pose.  “We haven’t really talked about what we’re doing…here.” He says finally.

“We are having really, really fantastic sex.” I blurt out immediately, and know right away that it was the wrong thing to say.  He flinches as if I’ve hit him.  I didn’t mean it that way, not in a negative way, but I’m a total idiot and have made it seem that way.