The Journalist (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction)

Eight

Back in the place you once called your home. You take the time to study the man you used to think you knew. He looks tired, worn at the edges. How much of that is projection tied to the fact that you yourself haven't been sleeping well?

You take in the condition of the cushions, the blanket that he's hurrying to resettle over the armrest farthest from you, the heavy scent of sleep – and him – that greets you as you sit down. If he's been sleeping on the sofa rather than in the bedroom... Why? This is his house. His home. Why wouldn't he opt for the comfort of his bed?

Guilt, perhaps, over your absence. Well that had been his doing. You push aside the flare of anger, annoyed with yourself and the circumstance. It is also irritation over your still aching shoulder. It wouldn't have to be this way if – no. No more of that.

No more.

Tom fidgets, straightening a paper or two on the coffee table that sits so close to his knees, then runs his hands over his pants legs. He never has been able to sit still, especially not when stressed.

The both of you speak at once. Your utterance of his name is drowned out by his stream of words. "I know you asked for time but, well, I'm not asking for you to make a decision about us. I'm not pushing, really..."

He may be denying any such thing verbally but his face is conveying the exact opposite of his words. His expression is earnest, his eyes are pleading. You can hear his voice in your head: Please stop shutting me out. Please forgive me.

You need to stop this cruel extended silence and allow healing to occur. This isn't healthy, for either of you.

Tom rambles on, flailing his hands about as he speaks. "Look you can't keep ignoring the fact that one of your, your," You almost speak up to help him through the stumble of his words but he gives a short frustrated shake of his head and is able to move on, "your coworkers released everything – our numbers... those photos..." Another shake of his head moves him past mentioning the event, "Ignoring it doesn't solve the problem."

He thinks you haven't even tried? You bite down the bile that threatens to surge up your throat. Even thinking about writing out the statement nets such a reaction.

"I know – I know that." You have to say it twice, the first time the words get stuck. "I just feel sick every time I attempt to write something out." You pause to swallow before adding to your statement, your misery of being a writer who cannot write forcing you to mumble, "Sam has offered to draft something for me, if I want..."

"Oh." Tom flashes a look of surprise, then confusion, then lets his face fall into neutral. He's processing your words and keeping his thoughts hidden. He did that when you first met him, sometimes. Never since. Until now. You had been the young journalist cautiously returning the flirtations of a man who could make a brick wall swoon.

That reaction prompts further explanation from your lips, "I haven't – obviously – taken him up on the offer. I think, depending on the wording of the joint statement... We've both experienced quite the fallout. It makes sense."

This time the look of confusion stays in place. "Depending on the wording? But... You... The attachment? Haven't you read it over? What I sent you?"

No. You shake your head in the negative, now curious as to what he'd sent you.

Had he spent night after night slaving away on the document that you'd been too afraid, stubborn... something to download and open? He didn't have time for such a thing... No.

Maybe he'd had a sea of lawyers hammer out a few variations and then sent the lot to you for examination. That's a bit unfair of you to think that of him – utilizing a sea of lawyers isn't Tom's style – though you probably aren't wrong about the multiple iterations of the statement. It's really the only thing you can think of to explain the fact that it was a zip file attached to the email rather than a single document.

"But... I got the notification that you opened the email." Everything you're telling him doesn't seem to be helping him work through whatever problem of logic he is facing.

You nod, the beginnings of a frown are creasing the spot between your eyebrows as Tom continues to stop and stutter through his thoughts. "Yes. But I didn't open the attachment. I started to reply but couldn't figure out what I wanted to say. I was still processing, I am still processing."

Tom's eyes drift back and forth between yours as you speak as though he's searching out any hidden meaning, any fragment of falsehood in your statement. Why would you lie about such a thing?

For the first time since seating himself on the sofa with you he angles his body forward, turning himself away from you and settling against the cushions with a soft whump. "So you came over here without reading any of it."

Why? Why is that important? So you hadn't opened the attachment - what had you missed? What else had that message contained beyond the desire to see you? That message had been clear enough in the body of the text. And why does he sound so dejected by the idea that something within his email remains unknown to you? You're here aren't you...

"I did." You almost reach out to touch him and draw his gaze back to you but you don't. Feeling the pain radiating off him via mere proximity is enough. More than enough. You to leave him be and start to compile a list of possibilities in your head as to what the attachment might contain.

What had he said? What had been written other than a joint statement? It's obviously something else... Examples of individual statements if you didn't like the joint one? That was reasonable enough to assume.... Even though he's already issued an individual statement of his own. Unless he's expanding upon the original statement.

Maybe though, maybe he'd grown frustrated by your inaction... Had he railed against you? Threatened action against Sam for taking so long in taking action in the matter? Against the whole company? Against you?

No. That didn't fit his behavior when you first walked up the path – not that you could see his face but the way the door had sprung open, how he'd taken the few steps out of the house as though to meet you. 

He'd been watching, waiting. The sun had still been up when you sent the reply, had time to set through your drive and had been down prior to your arrival at his place. Your response hadn't given him any clue to your attitude. A simple – ok – as reply.

It is no wonder he looks as worn as he does. While you had been driving he'd probably been pacing from window to window, watching every movement of the outside world for signs of you.

It will be the first thing you do the moment you have your tablet in your hands again, open the email once more and read every last line of....  

"Didn't read a word of it." He shakes his head slowly while examining the palms of his hands. He takes a long breath, seeming pained to let further words escape him, "Then, are you here to leave me?"

Your thoughts drift to the key in your pocket, now stabbing you in the thigh as you sit turned towards him at such an odd angle. If this had all happened yesterday, if you had been having this conversation with him after the day you'd had, the answer would have been yes. Yes without a second thought.

And now?

You're still nowhere near forgiving him but...

Your reply comes at a near whisper, "No."