You've Only Just Arrived (a Tom Hiddleston fan fiction)

Part 85

"Is there anything you can tell me about Touring Sundays?"

Richard snorts at Tom's question, muttering under his breath as she hems, more than likely rifling through the more recent activities on set. "Can, or should?" He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but he was trying to keep an ear out to better be able to update the group chat. At least the others hadn't requested a play-by-play ... yet.

"Tsk, who are you talking to over here?"

He gives a slight start in the booth when she bumps into him, realizing that she's up and turned around in her seat to be able to bend at the waist and reach over him, snagging another of his fries from his plate. "You. I – hey. That's why I put in the other order!"

Her shoes are in the booth where he'd previously been sitting, and now she's on her knees and turned around to lean over the seatback? Thank heavens Mark can't see her. Richard sends up a silent plea for the others in the diner to continue to resist photographing the actors. Their luck probably won't hold. After initial interest when they arrived, most have settled back at their tables and focused on their meals. It was perhaps one of the small blessings of the late hour.

"Yours taste better. Don't they, Tom?"

Richard considers arguing the point further, but it's the middle of the night, she's stubborn as hell and... yea it would just be wasted breath. Instead he abandons his phone next to his plate and half-turns to look past her and try to enlist Tom's help – Tom, who is grinning openly at her and clearly plans on being no help what-so-ever.

That's it. He must've pissed off someone to no end to end up being in charge of both of them tonight. John and Bruce got the proper ratio. Two to one. They could swap days. They could tag team. Richard exhales and rolls his eyes, turning back around to sit properly in his booth. "You two are impossible."

Lightly annoyed as he is, he still smiles when he hears her playful laugh and the following swish of fabric as she turns around to face Tom again. It's been painful watching her struggle through the effects of the breakup. Hell of a thing, having your head fight with your heart, and having to pretend that you were ready and willing to forge ahead.

He'll give them... maybe another half hour to dance around each other. An hour, tops. Then it'll be time to call it a night, get her back to the hotel, and crawl into bed in his own room for a precious few hours of sleep – if he can manage it – before their flight.

Richard sets his phone aside again, tuning his ear back to the pair sitting at his back. Winding down? Made any actual progress in the meantime?

"What?"

It's not a startled question, not even the slightest bit defensive. Richard can hear the smile in her voice.

"Nothing," comes Tom's reply.

"Seriously. What? Do I have –" There's a rustle and lightest protestation of the cushion of the booth as she moves, "ketchup on my face or something?"

Richard looks towards the ceiling, resisting the urge to perform the same motion as the gif he'd just sent the pair across the pond.

There's a low laugh from Tom, and then the scrape of a plate being moved. It takes all Richard is worth to keep from turning to watch the pair of them rebuild what they'd tried so very hard to destroy. "No. You're – I'm just happy. Happy that you're here, that we're here."

"Here in a diner in—" she breaks off answering, apparently unable to keep from yawning, then gives a sharp yip and Richard feels her bump around in the booth seat, "Oh! Rich!... What time is the flight, again?!"

He was wondering how long it would take her to remember that little detail. Presented with an opening to pretend like he wasn't eavesdropping, he makes a show of turning and jutting his legs halfway out of the booth and then standing to stretch. Damn that she'd yawned. He can't keep from doing the same, now. Contagious things, yawns. Eyes watering a bit, Richard watches Tom dip his gaze down to look at the time and give a little start all his own. Neither are looking exactly sheepish, but there is an awareness that wasn't there before.

"Early enough. Ready to head back to the hotel?"

Head back and pretend to sleep. At least it was a longer flight. Long enough to play catch up. Attempt to be halfway presentable. Halfway alert.

She's biting her lip, nodding but also looking a little crestfallen at the thought of abandoning this conversation, this new momentum found with Tom. Richard can't exactly fault her for it. But then he sees the thought occur to her, and a small smile start to form before she turns back to Tom. Oh no.

"Do you, where do you want us to drop you?" She asks, focusing on Tom as though trying to will him to give a certain answer.

Arcing an eyebrow, Richard turns his attention to Tom as well, not entirely surprised to find the other man darting those blue eyes in his direction before returning them to her again. Waiting for a nod of resigned permission? As though he, Richard, could do anything about it if the pair wanted to stay together, retire to her hotel room and talk - potentially only talk - until it was time to leave for the flight. They were two consenting adults. What they did behind closed doors was only half his business.

"Erm..."

Tom's hemming makes her brighten, of all things, seeming to make her all the more confident in her next suggestion, "Or you could come back to the hotel with us. Right, Rich? We would drop you off on our way to the airport or something? We could..." she pauses to let her focus drift from Tom to look halfway over her shoulder to lock onto Richard to check and see his opinion, see if her bodyguard was in agreement with this potential new plan. "It's just you, me, and Colleen. Right? There's room in the car for another."

And everyone's bags. But he doesn't remind her of that. Richard just sighs and offers her a half-smile along with a half-shrug, "You two figure out what you want to do. I'll let the driver know."

And the pair across the pond. They'll be sending high-fives and congratulatory gifs back and forth for the duration of the flight, probably.