So, 2017 is going to be a big year for you and Tom: New house, Homecoming premiere, wedding planning, oh and there's that whole illegitimate daughter coming to visit. Not a damn thing could possibly go wrong! The sarcastic, sweet, and sexy saga con...
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"Please don't," you shrugged Tom's hands off of your shoulders and threw another pair of panties in your suitcase. He'd been insufferable since you got the news. You just wanted to get back home, New York that is, and his doting, puppy dog eyes were only adding to the cauldron of emotions that were about to overflow.
"Y/N, what can I do?" He asked softly. And sweetly. The boy's so sweet, but what can he do? Nothing really. He can't rewind the past few months, the ignored phone calls, the unanswered texts. He can't rewind the past 20 years of emotional fuckery.
"Nothing. I just need to get home," you said a little harsher than you intended. You didn't have to look at him to know those puppies were in full effect now and it shouldn't piss you off, but it did. You hated being fretted over, especially when you were trying your damnedest to keep it together. Every consoling touch and kind word out of that boy's mouth threatened your resolve. There was just too much to do. Too much to think about. Too much to avoid...like wedding planning.
"I wish I could come with you," he sighed from behind you. He was still shooting in London, with a few trips to Atlanta in between for Avengers filming. Homeboy had a full plate and a tight schedule. He also had a tight ass, but dat ass was too busy any sort of bereavement interlude. You promised yourself, promised Nikki, that you'd never be a distraction from his career, never be a reason for the impending I-told-you-so's from family or fans alike that Tom should never have proposed to you.
You ignored him and looked at your phone, tapping away at a list and muttering to yourself. "I have to meet Aunt Doris at the funeral home, shit, what time was that again? I need to call ConEd and make sure they cut the electric after Thursday..."
"Y/N...," Tom said, touching your shoulder again.
You moved away from his hands and paced across the bedroom. He sighed again and sat on the edge of the bed, watching you unravel manically.
"Celia's going to take care of flower arrangements," you continued, "Fuck, I have to write an obituary. Shit," you said, lowering your phone. You stared at the space in front of you.
"What the fuck do I say?" you asked yourself then finally looked at him. Tom opened his mouth to say something but you cut him, balling up another pair of socks.
"Nevermind, I'll figure it out," you said, "I can figure it all out."
"Okay, that's it," Tom stood abruptly to pull his phone out of his pocket.
"I'm coming with you," he said, tapping away at its screen.
"No, Tom," you sighed, shutting your suitcase. The lid hovered over your pile of clothes, like some grinning mouth, mocking you. The lock never seemed to latch. Ten years you've been lugging this piece of shit luggage around and ten years you've wrestled with the fucking lock and ten years it never latched without a fight. You grunted in frustration, banging the latch several times before slamming your fists with a growl. Tom swooped in to save you.
"Darling," he whispered, grabbing your hands to gently stop you. You noticeably stiffened at his touch, damping down the embittered tears that wanted to badly to fall, but they seemed to swell inside of you.
"Fix it," you said sadly. So sadly. Finally sadly. "Please, fix it."
Tom kissed the top of your head and leaned his forehead against yours with a sympathetic sigh.
