Unsettled

Betrayed

Every once in a while the memory overwhelms you again. You've worked hard to push it away - push it all away - but the memory always finds a way around whatever barricade you establish. This time it was triggered by the brown paper shopping bag, the weight and the rustling noise taking you back, against your will.

"Tom? Hey I was thinking lasagna for dinner? If you didn't have something similar for lun-" You hadn't expected him to be home, but it is a pleasant surprise. The pair of you can do something you haven't done in ages - actually prepare and sit down for a meal together. For once your schedules don't conflict. But you hadn't been able to finish the prompt for the sound of unfamiliar bumpings, of voices, stalling your words.

"Shit. Fuck."

That voice you recognize. That's Tom.

"What? Who is that?"

That voice you don't.

You tilt your head to the side, forgoing your path to the kitchen in favor of walking towards the voices. You know what you're about to walk into, but you can't seem to force yourself to move in any other direction.

"Fuck fuck bollocks shit fuck."

Tom again, the long streak of curses still going strong. Is that muffled giggling you hear under his cursing? Then you turn the corner, nearly slamming into him as he's trying to hurry out to meet you - to greet you. He's still buttoning up his pants, his shirt clearly only just thrown on - the hem uneven and the damned thing on inside out, besides.

You only look at him for a second before looking past him. At her.

Nausea comes next, usually. Mixed with the overwhelming urge to scream, despite the years that have passed. Tom cheated. Tom cheated on you. Tom, who swore he'd love you forever. Tom, whose immense talent it took you ages to be able to enjoy once more. Even his voiceover work had proved problematic for a while.

"Wait." Tom's first word spoken that isn't a curse. He has the nerve to reach out and touch you with the same hands that had just moments prior been all over her. Doing God knows what to her. You flinch backwards, pulling yourself away from him. "Wait. Please."

"Excuse me?" The nausea has momentarily passed, enough for you to gulp a breath and allow the anger to flow. "What, do you want me to watch? Join in?" You reel your attention around to the other woman, the woman flushed and taking her sweet fucking time clothing herself while standing in the middle of your damned bedroom. "By all means, take your time. He'll be free to resume in a minute."

She doesn't engage you, just continues collecting her things from where they've been scattered.

Tom follows you towards the door. He doesn't try to touch you again, too busy trying to tuck himself back into his clothes. You still have your purse, and the shopping bag from your errands, clutched in your hands. You couldn't drop either of them now if you'd tried, your body entirely too tense to do anything but shout, and walk out the door.

"Please stop. Please can we talk about this?"

"Talk? Oh you irresponsible.... selfish.... prat!" If you thought you could let go of the bag in your hands you might throw it at him, loose the contents of it at his head.

"Babe. Shhh."

It's laughable. He wants you to keep your voice down. For what? Fear that she'll hear this final battle between the pair of you? That's what he's worried about? "Don't you fucking dare tell me to shhh you, you bastard!"

"Babe."

"Shut up Tom. Shut up. Shut up. What - did you just fall into her? Your dick just slipped out of your pants all on its own and... Oh GOD you - how dare you even - I moved here for you! FUCK YOU Hiddleston." Your hand reaching the door, the cold metal of the doorknob sends another wave of fury through you, followed quickly by nausea again. Now you're able to launch the bag and its contents at him. You don't manage anywhere near his head. Honestly you don't even pay attention to where it hits - presumably somewhere near his abdomen judging from the arc. You don't wait to see him pull the items from the bag. You just storm out the door and don't look back.

Fuck you Hiddleston. Perfect last words - and they had been just that, at least until you'd been calm enough to take his calls without merely repeating the three words and hanging up on him. He apologized over and over and over again - in every method he could think of. After each apology you told him the same thing:

No amount of sorrys would ever bring you back.

But you owed him an explanation for the bag you threw at him. And the contents within.

Yes, they meant what he thought. No, it didn't change a thing between you. The pair of you would figure it out. You even tried to include him for certain momentous events. Photos of the battle between the pair of you following the first ultrasound still circulate. Tom, his face twisted in a mixture of anger, frustration, and pain - you holding your arms out, your hands held at sharp angles - both caught mid-argument forevermore.