Take Me Out

8 - Forced Heartbeats

warnings: fluffy fluff, some angst, drug mentions, threats of murder and blackmail

***

The perk of being a serial killer is that you don't have a set work schedule. So when Tom wakes up with you snugly pressed to his side and he checks his watch, 1pm, he can close his eyes and go back to sleep.

If he's being honest, he could sleep like this forever, but he gets an itch in his side to do something, because his left leg is numb, yours is laying on top of it, so he carefully detaches you from him. He gets up, walking around to the other side of the bed and checking to make sure you're still asleep. He wants to press a gentle kiss to your forehead but he remembers how upset you got last night when he tried to kiss you, so he doesn't. Instead, he gets dressed and grabs his wallet, slipping out of your room.

As he pays for the coffee and breakfast, he wonders if you'll be upset with this gesture. Tom walks back to your townhouse with a nervous swing in his step as he hopes that you'll be happy with him. He knows that you tend to be grumpy in the morning before coffee, that you always take your coffee black even if you don't really like it, because you want to look like more of a badass in front of Jake and other men. Why does drinking coffee black equate to badassery? Tom isn't sure, but if it makes you feel better, who is he to judge?

***

You wake up to your bedroom door opening and you quickly grab your needle from your bedside drawer.

"Whoa!" Tom holds his hands up, both holding coffee cups, a plastic bag hanging from one arm.

"Sorry, thought it was someone else," you sigh, placing the needle back in the drawer.

"Oh, well, I'm glad you weren't planning on killing me," Tom jokes, moving to hand you a coffee cup.

"Is this poisoned?" you ask, raising the cup to your lips.

"Oh love, you know that's not my preferred method."

You roll your eyes but take a sip anyway, It's black and bitter and it burns your throat but you're grateful for the caffeine that will shortly start to course through your body.

"Thank you," you sigh, relaxing your back against the headboard.

"No problem, I grabbed some bagels too," Tom says, sitting on the edge of the bed and opening up the bag, "I got a plain bagel with cream cheese and a cinnamon raisin with peanut butter."

"Peanut butter please."

Tom hands you your bagel before walking around the other side of the bed to sit next to you.

"I don't know how you drink that," Tom grimaces, taking a sip from his own cup.

"Oh, don't be a stereotypical Brit, Holland. Are you drinking tea?"

"Of course, and I can assure you that it is much better than that cup of coffee of yours," Tom holds his cup out, inclining you to take a sip.

You reluctantly do, it tastes awful. Okay, not awful, but for some reason it tastes like some sort of flower.

Tom laughs when you hand the cup back to him and your face scrunches up in disgust.

"Not bitter enough," you laugh with him until you become cognizant about how much your throat hurts.

Tom's laughter quiets as yours stops all of a sudden. He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, seeing the skin of your neck littered with fingerprint bruises, dark purples and blues. He feels a surge of guilt because he caused that. Not directly, he would never lay a finger on you in a way that could hurt you. But indirectly, because he was selfish, and stupid, and simply not thinking right. He let Kline hurt you for too long before putting a bullet in his skull.