The Heart of a Villain (a Tom Hiddleston fanfiction)

Guilt

[Rose]

"I don't have time for the sentiment!"

And then his hands are on her.

Until that moment, truly, Rose never actually believed that Tom would hurt her. She didn't realize this, though. She had fear, she had doubt, she had an overactive imagination made worse by the things she knew Tom had done.

But until now, with his right hand pushing into her sternum at the base of her throat, thumb pressed against her clavicle, and the other hand grasping her shoulder, she had never once truly believed.

She is already so far back against the wall there is nowhere to move. His face fills her vision. She did not honestly believe she actually had the power to push him so far, cause him so much pain. But it is there, plain and unavoidable, no more denial could possibly fit into the small cramped space where Tom is pressing her and she cannot move.

She can only submit.

Something inside gives way and she goes limp, not resisting. Her eyes flutter shut, but immediately fly open when the pressure disappears. Tom looks utterly broken, and for the first time she can see his pain so clearly it's like looking at her own.

She did this to him. This is her fault.

The guilt doesn't make sense to her later but right now it's very real and she wants nothing more but to grab Tom and pull him back to her and comfort him. The irrational desire never makes it anywhere near the surface because Tom won't look at her as he turns and practically runs from the room.

She slides down, but her legs bend and instead of going back against the wall she goes forward on her knees, a puppet with cut strings. The tears have flowed nearly non-stop and they drip from her chin onto her lap. Her arms cross over her chest and she grasps the only thing she has -- herself. She feels more than hears the low wail that breaks loose from her chest, and in that moment, she wants to be swallowed, to die, to disappear, anything to make this feeling stop.

Someone is with her, but she knows it isn't Tom so she doesn't even raise her head to look. From a great distance she is being asked if she is hurt but she doesn't care to reply. And then close to her ear she hears a familiar and comforting Scottish lilt asking her if she can stand up, and mindlessly she obeys.

Unsteady, she gets to her feet, and strong arms support her to get her to bed. One arm around her waist and another around her shoulders -- the comfort is a lifeline in the despairing sea in which she is drowning and without thinking she throws her arms around a pair of shoulders that are nearly level with hers.

Poor Hadley has to stand and accept her hugging him for nearly five minutes before he is able to gently disengage her and set her on the bed. To his credit he doesn't squirm in discomfort, just patiently waits for the moment to pass.

She sits at the edge, her eyes opening to a blurry world around her, and Hadley seems to be satisfied that she is undamaged on the outside because he lets go of her and steps back.

"He hates me," she whispers.

Something fills her hand -- some kind of towel. She stares down at it, uncomprehending, not aware that her face is soaked in a combination of spit, tears and snot. After a moment of watching her stare at it, Hadley patiently kneels down, takes the towel and wipes her face.

"He doesn't, miss," Hadley murmurs to her gently.

The words make her jerk. She is finally able to focus on him, and realizes what she has been doing, how she has totally fallen apart. Reaching up she grasps the towel from him, although her face is mostly dry.