Tom Hiddleston Oneshots

Messages I'm Keeping

The birds were chirping merrily outside in different tones and levels of volumes. Outside the weather was as beautiful as the most perfect spring day in March there could ever be in London.

The winds were light and warm, delicate on exposed skin while the sun reached great heights above the crowded city, shining beams of warm light down on all surfaces.

Tom stared blankly out the window, still curled up in bed, underneath the sheets. He draped one heavy arm over his forehead, contemplating what he could do in the next minute, the next hour, and even the whole day. He knew he had an easy day ahead of him.

No meetings in town. No costume fittings. No interviews.

Sighing deeply, he sat up in bed, planted his feet on the cold hardwood floor and paused for a moment, mind thick and numb.

Tom had been feeling like this for quite some time now but he managed to pull himself out of it before he spiralled down the pit of emptiness he felt inside his chest.

His bed groaned in protest when he stood up and entered his master bathroom. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion.

He looked absolutely horrible. Large dark puffy bags hung underneath his eyes, making him look much older and more tired than he was.

He turned his head left and right, studying the sharpness of his cheekbones that seemed to jut out more than it was since last month. Tom knew he lost weight but enough to make this much of a significant difference?

Man, he felt even more under the weather.

Climbing into the shower, Tom set the water to the hottest setting, allowing the burning drops of water to cascade down his head and run down his back.

He stood there, not moving a single inch, concentrating intensely on every drop that fell on his head.

His blond hair clung to his forehead, blinding him entirely. He concentrated on breathing. He concentrated on clearing his mind.

He concentrated on moving on. But it was fruitless. He couldn't stop thinking about her.

Leaning forwards, Tom pressed his forehead against the cool tiles that covered the shower walls, not leaving the small cramped tub until the water ran icy cold.

When he finally got himself out of the shower, he tugged on a pair of black sweatpants, an old gray t-shirt that had several holes along the side but he couldn't care less about that.

Grabbing his phone on the bedside table, he stumbled down the stairs, grumbling under his breath about what a pathetic excuse of a human being he was as he entered his brightly kitchen.

He grabbed a mug, said a silent thank you to the coffee gods and creators of coffee machines that had timers for brewing the rich dark stuff, and poured himself a steaming cup of it.

Gulping down nearly half the contents, he sat down on the same chair he had been sitting for the past two years and looked dead straight ahead where an empty chair sat in front of him.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes tightly, and pushed back the onslaught of memories that haunted him for the past six months.

Memories of her sitting across from him, newspaper in one hand, a piece of buttered toast on the other. She would be wearing the same t-shirt he was wearing right now with her hair tossed back, soft and wavy past her shoulders.

She would have greeted him with the same warm smile he loved so dearly once he entered the room and would have drawn him in for a kiss.

Tom swore loudly, slamming the palm of his hand on the glass table so hard a few droplets of coffee flew out of his mug. He missed her so damn much, it made him feel pain physically.