The Lighthouse: A Tom Hardy FanFiction

The Bad Guy

I stop dead just inside the door and let out a groan of frustration. Tom peers over my shoulder and takes in the sight with a short sharp intake of breath.

"Ohhhh fuck..." He exclaims quietly.

Forrest lifts his head and gives us both the eyes, oversized saucers of innocence despite the mask of potato and gravy over his face.

"Down, Forrest!! Now!!" I roar and he obeys immediately, diving down from the table and darting between us both and out of the kitchen door. I cross to the glass bin and tip in the contents of the shovel before going to survey the damage to the pie. It's ruined. Tom immediately begins cleaning up the mess.

The pie that isn't on Forrest's face is on the table and the rest of it, the corners mainly, look unappealing and covered in dog. The green beans are scattered across the table, the buttered bread about the only salvageable plate left. Thankfully, the bottle of wine is still upright and still almost full and so I lift that and refill my glass. Then I drink in silence as he continues to clean away the mess caused by the dog. When he's finished wiping down the table he turns to me.

"Dogs eh?" He smiles. "Who'd fucking have them?"

"I knew I should have stayed a bloody cat person..." I grumble, lifting my glass to my mouth again. "I wonder how dog tastes?" I shoot a glare out the kitchen door.

He chuckles but nods a few times in understanding. "Like chicken probably. That pie looked fucking great though. Hope he enjoyed it, cheeky fucker."

"Oh he enjoyed it alright. He always bloody does. Ugh, I'm not sure what else I have that won't take another hour to make," I muse, wandering towards the fridge.

"Let me sort it, yeah?" he says. He walks toward me and moves himself in front of the fridge, blocking my way. "Least I could do." He bends low to survey the contents making thoughtful noises as he sifts through the various items. He closes the fridge and goes to the cupboard, pulling open a few doors before nodding conclusively. When he comes back to the fridge he looks more like a man on a mission. "You can take that in there and I'll sort this." He says indicating my wine glass. Part of me wants to stay and watch him cook for me but relaxing on the couch with wine while he cooks for me also appeals.

"But I do love seeing a man in the kitchen," I smirk.

He holds my eye a moment, a challenging almost flirtatious look in his eye. Flirtatious? Yeah, in your dreams Frankie. In any case, it makes my breath catch again. I only just manage to hold his gaze so that he looks away first. "Just do what you're fucking told woman, will you?" He says with a playful wink. The words and the wink almost cause me to have a coronary.

Speechless, I simply nod and decant myself back into the living room. Forrest is nowhere to be found which I'm thankful for. Bloody dog. I settle on the same spot I'd found him sleeping in earlier and turn the volume up to watch the end of the musical.

Less than twenty minutes later he calls me me back through with a loud gruff shout of my name down the hall. Lifting my glass, I wander back through to find him by the cooker with a blue and white dishtowel thrown over his broad shoulder. He's re-set the table and put the wine bottle back in the centre - a small half filled glass by his place - some fresh bread in a basket and new plates and cutlery. It smells good whatever it is he's made; tomatoes and herbs something mouth-wateringly sweet.

Taking a seat at the table, I refill my wine glass and watch him plate up our latest attempt at dinner. Okay so Tom Hardy just made me dinner. What bloody planet is this? It had become almost normal though, being here with him, as though this odd alternate universe where Tom and I drank wine and ate together was just a slightly altered version of real life. A heightened parallel existence. A dream. A fantasy.