The Journalist (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction)

Three

Grab a plate and throw it on the floor.
Did it break? Yes? Ok.
Now tell it you're sorry.
Good. Now, did it unbreak?
No?
Now you understand.

--

You stand there in the middle of the sidewalk weighing your options. Basically all you're doing is delaying the inevitable. Since your boss gave you an additional few days of vacation you theoretically could leave your car in the parking lot and find some other means of transportation back to your hotel... That presents a whole slew of other problems. How are you going to get around to go hunting for a new place to live?

Who could you even send back to get your keys and your car? Your boss' words ring in your head: Don't tuck tail and run from this.

Did that include running from Tom, too? That's your own personal battle to figure out. You can't rely on the judgment or advice of others for the solution there.

Fuck.

How had you been so absent minded as to leave your car keys on the key-ring? That should have been the first thing you saw to... What are the odds that he'll have gone back upstairs so you can swoop back in without - no. That idea is flawed on so many levels. Firstly, that's called breaking and entering, even if the door is unlocked.

You stand there cursing the events that had led to this moment. You never should have left your phone next to your keyboard. It was a bad habit you had developed and never bothered correcting - propping your phone up on the desk to make it easier to check. You'd convinced yourself it was for reference purposes, really it was just because you were addicted to the stream of information.

Oh forget the leaving of the phone. Forget the retention of the snapshots. It was an invasion of privacy, pure and simple. You really can't blame Tom for spewing out all the hate against your profession, not when one of your coworkers had acted the way that they did. It doesn't excuse him for directing all that hate at you...

You sigh and try to roll the stiffness from your shoulders. Arguing with Tom has made you tense. And there's no way around it... you'll have to go and knock on the door and pray for the best.

The walk back to the door takes three times as long as it took you to walk the dozen odd paces out onto the sidewalk. You hadn't paid a bit of attention to the weather report for the day, but off in the distance there are dark clouds signaling an evening thunderstorm. Days like today are what drive you mad. Beauty that has hints of darkness attempting to edge out the light.

You square your shoulders and take a deep breath before rapping your knuckles on the door - the five tap sequence that you always used when visiting Tom on set: rap-tap-rap-tap-tap to the pace of Shave and a Hair Cut. You always left out the last two taps for Tom to supply the reply. You instantly scowl at yourself for using the familiar knock. Talk about habits you're going to have to break...

He opens the door just a bit too quickly. Was he watching your struggle through the front window?

"Back so soon?"

Yep, he was watching. You have no doubt that he was watching every step you took with hawk-like precision. His query is delivered with an overly sweet tone - he's trying not to gloat that you came back to the door and doing a piss poor job of it.

You give you head a hard shake in the negative, "Not to talk. I just need to grab..." When you glance over at the counter you trail off the end of the sentence. The counter is bare. "...my keys." Oh the arrogant bastard has hidden your car keys to get his way. You turn your gaze back up to meet his, "Where are my keys, Tom?"

He crosses his arms over his chest, defiantly staring you down. He actually has the gall to let a hint of a playful smile cross his lips.

How on earth does he think he has the upper hand in this conflict?