Tom Holland ❖ imagines

home

you were already home

third person
warnings: language, angst
word count: 2,977
9:34 pm

Maybe be all of them were right. The tabloids did a killer job describing all your fears. Down to every detail, voicing every concern. He had assured you not to listen to them. He had assured you that nothing they said was true, that most of it was only partial truth and the rest a dramatic interpretation. The world had given you every reason not to trust him, and he had given you every reason to ignore them.

His phone wasn't working. The international plan he scheduled with his phone provider was miscommunited, and he wouldn't have service for another day at the least. He couldn't tell you that he was running late, that his flight had been delayed, that everything that was supposed to go right was veering completely off-course. He couldn't tell you that he was sorry, he couldn't tell you that he loved you, and he couldn't tell you that he wanted nothing but to be right beside you.

The silence was all you had. You were sat, staring at the empty seat in front of you as you twirled the sterling silver fork in between your fingers. The restaurant was quiet, the waiter was beginning to look at you funny, and you were becoming more and more disappointed as the minutes passed. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to hours, and the anxiousness that had been building in your body waiting for him to come home was slowly trickling into frustration.

He knocked three times, slowly. You called out that the door was open. You knew it was him. Only he knocked like that, and you didn't want to let him in willingly. The door swung open quietly, and you were seated on your couch with the remote in your palms. The television was going, but you quieted the volume when you heard him set his belongings down onto the kitchen table. You stood up, collecting the blanket that was on your lap, and wrapped it around your sunken shoulders. Some of the belongings on the table included a bouquet of flowers.

"I'm glad you decided to show up," you said in a low voice, checking the time on the wall, "only...five hours later."

Tom was already looking at you. There was a darkness under his eyes. He had had a long day, and coming home to your beautiful self was all he was looking forward to. But when he realized the time of day, when he realized how much he had taken from you, he realized it wasn't going to be the reunion he anticipated. He had taken more from you that just the day; the look in your face was about more than just a lost dinner reservation.

"God, love, I-I am so sorry," Tom said softly. He ran a hand through his distressed curls, avoiding your eyes as he thought of every scenario that could play out. He was hoping you would forgive him, just like always, just like every time. "I-I couldn't get ahold of you, the bloody phone—"

"It's not about the damn phone, Tom," you interrupted, laughing bitterly. You let the blanket fall onto the edge of the couch. You crossed your arms over your chest, leaning against the kitchen table as you let the fire of anger in your chest burst into flames. You were fed up, frustrated, consumed by selfishness.

"B-But I would've been able to tell you how late I was running, my flight was delayed, the bloody cab driver put in the wrong directions, I-I—"

"Just, please, save it, Tom," you snapped. His head shot up from the ground. He swallowed hard. His heartbeat was quickening as his breath faltered in his throat. The conversation he so helplessly was trying to avoid was beginning, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't scared. "Please, save the excuses."

"They aren't excuses, they're—"

"They're the reasons you didn't make it," you finished. You shook your head at him. "They're the reasons you stood me up this time, the same conversation we had when you stood me up in the past and the same conversation we will to continue to have when you stand me up again! And I won't have it!"