Tom Hiddleston Oneshots.

White Rabbit

One of these days, you needed to stop poking the proverbial hornet’s nest. Here you were, in the middle of the Vietnam, one of the few Americans willing to come over here in the first place. You wanted to help people—you were very skilled as a war nurse—and there was no one left at home, so why not enter the war?

It turned out to be one of the best decisions you ever made.

And led to the worst.

The streets of Saigon outside the bar were loud—you could almost hear the shouts and horn honks from inside. Inside, it was a dark, dismal, private place. People kept to themselves, whether they were there for a fling or to garner some extra cash. White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane blasted through the bar, ironically adding to your mood; in Vietnam, you sometimes felt like Alice lost in wonderland. 

You sat at the bar, your eyes traveled over the various types of people who had come tonight, as you swayed to the music. There were the typical Ladies of the Night dancing on tables, some on men’s laps, you didn’t really care to stare at their intimate activities for fear of someone catching your eye and getting pissed off. That had happened once, never again. Never. Again.

The men who weren’t busy feeding their cocks either sat nursing their beers, becoming one step closer to an alcoholic, or at the pool tables, gambling away their war wages for the chance to earn a few extra bucks.

Your best friend was one of these men.  He had become your best friend a few weeks ago, the night you pissed off that prostitute and her client. You found yourself entranced by the way the woman had ground herself against the man. It was a dance you had never experienced; you were fascinated by it. But you should’ve looked away before they noticed you staring.

“Hey pervert!” The American man had called out to you. “I’ll pay you fifty to get in on this!”

You bashfully murmured a no, but the solider, obviously intoxicated, was not accepting that answer. He pushed the Asian woman harshly off of him, grabbed her hand, and dragged her with him, issuing protests in Vietnamese, as he approached you. But before he could act on his intentions, you were shielded by another man—one who was much taller than you and very well-built, you couldn’t help but notice—who caused the American man to cower away without even speaking. 

The rest of that night had been spent stammering out a thank you, offering to buy the man a drink, and, finally, relaxing enough that you could introduce yourself.

“(Y/N.)” You stated plainly, holding out your hand.

“Conrad. James Conrad.”

Your jaw practically dropped on the floor when your ears first heard his thick British accent. He licked his lips and focused his blues eyes on you, his large hand engulfing your own.

Everything about him had you practically dripping that moment. But you had kept your hormones from getting too out of hand and, instead, you both had talked through the night about every little thing there was to know about each other; both your stances on the war, what you planned for the future, favorite colors, food. You had become lifelong friends in the course of twenty-four hours.

Your thoughts stirred back to the present as James approached you. Automatically, you reminded yourself not to rake your eyes over his form, and instead to keep your gaze on his. His normally grumpy exterior changed as his eyes found your own. His thin lips lifted, slightly, into an almost recognizable smirk—not quite a smile—and his stocky gait turned into a decided prowl to reach you as fast as he could.

He was a sensitive soul, but, damn, could that man be cocky when he won a bet. And you loved it.

He was blocked from you, however, when two men—one large and one skinny—stood in his way. He frowned, his eyes flicking to you, and you swore he was about ready to growl at them. “It’s ok.” You mouthed, and James relaxed again, giving a curt nod to the gentlemen, following them to an empty table in the middle of the floor.