Hello Again (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

February 2013: Cold Feet and Sake

I take the first flight I can get back to the states.  It’s a red eye straight to DC, but I don’t mind.  It’s better, in fact.  The entire row of seats next to me are empty, and the rest of the plane is only half full.  Mostly business travelers, a few young couples and single people. Like me.  Singular. Alone.

The flight goes by in a blur.  I’m exhausted, but I don’t sleep.  The two seats next to me are empty, but I don’t bother stretching out.  I stay in my spot, my arms wrapped around my middle, my carry on tucked neatly at my feet.  I stare out the window for some time, but there isn’t much to see. The sky is a deep, velvety black.  The ant lights of the cities below us flicker and twinkle for some time, until we are too high, and the clouds cover them.  I close my eyes after some time, leaning my head against the cool window, trying not to focus too hard on the large amounts of empty, wide open space that surround me and are keeping me from having my feet planted firmly on the ground.

Santos meets me at Dulles, and we hug for quite some time after I cross through customs.

“Hi, lovey.” He says into my neck as we sway slightly.  I let squeeze him tight and then finally we let go.  He offers me his arm and we walk linked through the airport and toward the cab station.

“Thanks for letting me stay with you.  I needed a break.” I feel the travel catching up to me. Heavy and weighing on my bones.

We step outside, and I take a deep breath.  Back in the US. Back on the east coast.  My familiar territory. It’s an overcast day outside.  Spring still hasn’t quite hit DC, and things just seem rather gray, soggy and chilly outside.

“Sure. You know you didn’t even have to ask.  You could have just showed up.” He squeezes my arm to his side, and we catch a cab just outside the airport.  I don’t have much luggage with me—just my carryon.  I’d packed in a hurry, throwing jeans and sweaters, mixed in with my toiletries.  I didn’t really care. I just knew that I wanted out of London.  I wanted out of England. 

“How’s Cillian?” I ask, looking out the window as the city zips by.  Cillian and Santos have an apartment not far from the National Mall.  It’s convenient for sight seeing and getting around.  I know they both will have to work while I’m visiting, so I’m looking forward to spending a lot of time in the museums.  Quiet time.  Alone time.  Just me and some hundred year old paintings.

“Busy as hell.” Santos grumbles, but then brightens.  “He said he can skip out early one or two days this week though, if you’d like to do something.  Go for lunch or whatever.” Santos is looking at me strangely, and I know why.  He knows part of what has happened between me and Tom, but I haven’t told him much.  He knows it’s serious though.  Enough that I’d come running “home”.

“That would be great. I don’t want you guys to go out of your way though.  Believe me, I don’t need to be entertained. I just needed to get out London.” I take a deep breath.

“Did Mary give you a hard time about taking off? That little minx.” Santos smiles jokingly.

“No, she said to take as much time as I needed.” I nod. She’d been understanding. I didn’t tell her much, just that I wanted to use some of my vacation time.  I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings, so one look at me, and she simply told me to take some time.

“Well, let’s get you settled in, and then let’s get ridiculously drunk. I bought four bottles of prosecco.  Is that enough?” Santos grins as our cab pulls up to his apartment building, a newly rehabbed building aptly called Senate Square. 

“For tonight.” I nod solemnly and follow him into the building.

 ****

I’ve taken a week off.  The first two days I spend in Santos’ apartment.  I don’t really do all that much.  I’m not looking for a party, or really even much of a distraction. I just needed to be out of London, and in a place where I could clear my head.  Santos and Cillian both work long hours—Santos at the architectural firm where he’s basically running the place, and Cillian does whatever phlebotomists do, and is busy doing it rather well, I’m sure.