Crumbs (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

Poison & the Bubonic Plague

A/N: The end is nigh! But not quite yet.  Thanks for being so patient and so kind!

The next chapter after this one is called "Chicken Soup & Mixed Messages".  WP has locked it, so if you can't see it, please let me know. (You need to follow me to see it).  Sorry! I don't know why they locked it.

Also, I have been listening to "Riptide" by Vance Joy on repeat while writing this whole story.  And also, a bit of Fiona Apple's "Daredevil."

My head feels like I've been hit with a sledgehammer.  Like a ball of raw bread dough left to expand and grow in a hot bakery...it's rising and bursting at the seams.  Call me the Pillsbury dough boy.  I groan and cradle my head in my hands as I push my face into the pillow. It takes a minute for me to be able to open my eyes, the sharp, stabbing pains subsiding slightly.  The room is dark, but I can see daylight creeping through the sides of the curtains.  I'm alone, in Tom's bed, and he's nowhere to be found.

Sitting up is difficult. It shouldn't be so difficult, I'm 29 not 92.  But I waver for a minute before being able to basically roll myself out of bed.  I forget that Tom's ridiculous, fancy bed is about two stories off the ground and I stumble as my feet finally hit the floor. 

 I feel congested, my head throbs, and my whole body aches.  Not good.  Not good at all.  It would be my luck, that I catch some form of bubonic plague right before I need to catch a plane back to the states.  They're going to quarantine me in customs and I'll live out the rest of my days behind a plastic curtain.

I grab the first thing I find on the floor, pulling it on over my head.  It turns out to be one of Tom's shirts.  It's long enough that it covers my butt, so I don't both looking for bottoms.  His apartment is quiet, and I wonder if he's gone for a run before our flight this afternoon.  Last night drained me emotionally, but now I feel physically empty.  I stumble into the bathroom, brushing my teeth and then splashing water haphazardly over my face. 

My reflection is not forgiving, and the mirror in this bathroom is bigger than god.  It seems to cover the entire wall, reflecting me in all my pale, pasty, unkempt glory.  I look terrible, messy and sort of sweaty looking.  There is no morning after glow, unless you count radioactive glow.  I look positively green.  I push my flat, lifeless hair from my face and back into a messy bun.  I slap my face a few times, but instead of giving me a rosy glow, I now look blotchy and green, like a bruised, half rotten lime.  Perfect. 

Now to find Tom.  I'm sure he will appreciate my appearance.  If I haven't scared him yet, it's time to start.  I walk out of his bathroom and bedroom, and am greeted by the bright, airy whiteness of the loft.  I squint in the light, and start to make my way toward the stairs, when I heard a noise coming from the second bedroom.  It is the room he uses as an office.  I turn slowly, creeping toward the half closed door like some sort of terrible, ill, bumbling secret agent. 

I stop just outside the door, and the murmur of his voice hits my ears.  He's on the phone, and though his voice is muffled, I can make out most of what he's saying.

"Yes. That would be fine.  I really appreciate it.  Thank you." Tom sounds rushed, and all business. Maybe he's doing a telephone interview, or speaking with someone for work.  I muster all my energy I have, and I peek in the door. 

He's sitting with his back to me, scribbling on a piece of scrap paper.  The morning light streams in from a high, wide window, casting strange shadows.  He's shirtless and wearing just his boxers.  His hair is messy, as if he's run his hands through it multiple times.  I hesitate at the door, watching him and listening.

He nods and says "Yes" and "Thank you" a few more times, before hanging up the phone.  He sighs immediately, leaning back against the high backed leather chair.  He closes his eyes, his head tilted toward the ceiling.