Close Quarters (a Tom Hiddleston fanfiction)

Racket (prequel)

( as previously seen in Nov Notes & Nothings )

     You jolt awake, heart hammering as you blink blearily in the darkness of your bedroom. Then you realize why and let out a not-entirely-quiet groan as you roll to look at the clock to find out what ungodly hour it is this time.

2:37 am

2:37 in the damned morning is no time to be shoved out of dreamland and forced to listen to his crooked crooning. It's halfway tempting to get up and attempt to be just as loud, just as boisterous – if such a thing is even possible – that or pummel one of the connecting walls with your fists like a frustrated five-year-old.

Tantrums will get you nowhere. Neither will quiet requests, or even noise complaints to building management when dealing with the source itself proves ineffective.

It's because they all love him.

Sunshine.

Another hard thump makes you jump, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you exhale an unhappy sigh. At least you hadn't heard his arrival to the floor. You'd gotten the precious few minutes it took for him to disembark the elevator and meander to his door, right? Can you take any solace in that?

The lurching laughter reaching through the walls suggests the answer is a definitive: NO.

You roll onto your side and shift, squeezing your pillow this way and that around your head until you're able to fold it into position, in place over your exposed ear. Doesn't really help to block out his voice, but maybe if you pretend it's the low drone of the tv on in another room? Unquiet murmurings on the radio, meant as white noise to help you fall asleep?

Yea. No. Damn him.

If only your bosses would take 'sleep deprivation due to wild work schedules of one's neighbors' as a reasonable excuse for schedule accommodations. They've only begrudgingly accepted it as a reason for your irritableness, and even that comes with warnings that you're an encounter away from being reprimanded.

Even that looming threat doesn't diminish the best thing about your job: the fact that being at work means 8 ½ hours of absolutely no possible chance of Sunshine.

Miracle of small miracles the coast is clear upon your return to the complex. There's no need to rush through the hallways or take convoluted paths to get to the safety of your apartment. He's clearly out. No tell-tale signs of typically reclusive neighbors milling about the public spaces in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him. Still. Still after so many months of him in residence.

There's time for a little indulgence. A coffee care of the carafe in the lounge and a cookie, or two, or three. Don't you in your sleep deprived condition deserve a little reward? Crunching on a cookie and focusing on the warmth loosening up the ball of stress that is your insides, you aim yourself for the mail room to see if your box holds anything other than the typical bills and junk.

Just junk, which you deposit in the bin at the door leading out into the lobby. You pause to sip a little more of the liquid from your cardboard cup, contemplating a top up before finding your way up to your place, but then blink at the scene before you.

You'd lingered. Tempted fate. Sunshine occupies the lobby. The irritable portion of your brain offers a conspiracy theory: he's somehow working his schedule to inconvenience you no matter the hour. You frown over the rim of your cup, not quite tipping it up enough to continue sipping your coffee as you watch him hamming it up for the pleasure of seeing how the inhabitants of the complex all coo over him in return. He's putting on a show, holding court, and clearly relishing every bit of the attention the amassed group is willing to lavish on him. Everyone but you.

It's been like this since the first time he set foot in the building. His 'tour' of the place was met with such fanfare. His presence had rippled through the building's grapevine and throughout the rest of the complex, proving the gossip chain was well and thriving. Everyone'd stopped what they were doing, having something they suddenly desperately needed from the lobby... all for the bragging rights to say they'd seen him, talked to him, just in case the place hadn't been quite what he'd been looking for.

Rolling your eyes, you start the process of skirting the outside of the room, praying that he'll do you a favor for once and hold the attention of the growing crowd. With any luck you just might make it to the far side of the lobby where the elevators and stairwell access are without being snared by someone and forced to observe for the sake of niceties.

You, more than anyone else in the building as a result of being the last of the residents that had lived on the floor before his arrival, have far more exposure to him than you care to. Unbeckoned, his off key (and thankfully muffled) early morning snippets of song rattle around in your brain just as you're passing the densest part of the group. You shudder as the memory of this morning's rude awakening ripples through you.

It doesn't go unnoticed.

"Alright there?"

Giving your head a minute shake, you close your eyes for a fraction of a second and inhale a short breath. Blinking, you pucker your lips before you turn, locking eyes with him. The fact that he noticed is annoying enough. The fact that he then questioned what he witnessed – the attention of the group is now on you, gazes curious.

"Peachy," you nod. "Just finally dislodged that earworm from this morning."

His eyebrows shift up a fraction even as he seems to fight to keep from reacting to your curt response. He doesn't have to believe you, and you don't wait for a reply. If he cares to explain to the rest of them, he's more than welcome.