There's not much I can say about Tom's apartment.  He goes into tour guide mode as soon as we pull up in front of the house.  It's dark out, but I can make out a brick building with white trim, and a tree in the small front yard.  On the drive from the airport, we passed by gorgeous old homes and buildings.  His house is more modest looking, but still lovely. He tells me it's an old coach house that's been converted and updated into 2 large apartments.  He has the middle and top floors, and another tenant has the smaller flat on the first floor. 

            Once inside, I wonder why he would ever want to leave the place. I've been to his apartment in Los Angeles countless times, and it seems like a shack compared to this.  I could see holing myself up inside on a rainy London day, with a book and a warm drink and Tom. Lots and lots of Tom.

 It's beautiful, and warm and 100% him.  The floor plan is open but narrow due to the old building, with skylights and a mezzanine level that overlooks the first floor.  The floors are warm, amber wood and most of the walls are white, though it is not boring or void of personality.  There's hints of Tom everywhere.  Floor to ceiling bookcases, full to the brim with books, comfy couches and overstuffed chairs in the living area, art on the walls.  It smells like him too.  I breathe deep, as I wander around the first floor, running my hands over the nubby little throw blanket on the back of the sofa and the rows and rows of books.

Tom's bustling around, buzzing around me like a bee.  I'm a little speechless at first.  It's a truly magnificent place.

"What do you want to see first? The garden? Perhaps we should save that for the day time.  Come into the kitchen, I'll show you that half of the flat first, and then I'll show you upstairs." He takes my hand, pulling me from the wide open living area.  We walk by an open wooden staircase, boxed in by a clear glass wall.  It is a strange mix of modern and classic, not unlike Tom.  There's a small display case at the bottom the stairs, and I see some of the awards Tom has received.  His Olivier, some MTV awards, a few others I don't immediately recognize.

"This is so beautiful, TW.  I can't believe you didn't tell me you owned an apartment this...gorgeous." I whirl around, walking backward as I look up toward the mezzanine.  He chuckles and tugs me along.  We take two steps down into his kitchen, which is small but still light and airy.  He grabs the kettle and puts water on for tea.

"I'm glad you like it." He watches me as I walk around the space, touching the smooth, cool granite counters.  I see mail on the counter, and he's got photos and other papers hanging on his refrigerator.  His apartment in LA isn't like this.  His apartment in LA feels much more...impermanent.  This is Tom's true home.

I walk over to the fridge, leaning down to look at the photos.

"Did your niece do this?" I point to a child's drawing of what looks to be some sort of animal.  He grins proudly, and leans back against the counter.

"I'm pretty sure she'll be better than van Gogh." He shrugs.  I smile and keep looking.  There's a few movie and theater tickets, and some photos with friends.  I recognize a few people as actors and I skim over a picture of him and Keegan.  I try not to let it sort of punch me in the gut, but oh...oh yes, there it is.  That terrible, ugly, asshole green monster.  I skip past the photo of him smiling, with his arm around her slim shoulders.  They look like they are on a beach somewhere, and it is at least a few years old.  My eyes keep moving and I notice he has a photo of us as well.  A series of photos from a photo booth in Santa Monica. I can't help but smile.  I haven't seen these silly photos since we'd taken them over a year ago.

"Aw, look at us." I pull the strip off the fridge, and Tom pushes off the counter, moving toward me.  He chuckles softly and looks over my shoulder.

"I had a stomach ache." He says simply, grimacing.  He's smiling in all the photos, but I remember how sick he'd felt that day.  He's still insisted on coming, because it was right before he was going away for some time for work.

"Oh, yes. You were so sick the next week.  The flu or something." I tap the photos, and then put back on the fridge.

"Yes. I wanted to see you though.  I was going to Canada for two months." Tom gives me a small smile and then reaches over, pulling gently at my chin.

"I remember that now." I nod. "Didn't you say something about a bath?" I ask softly, suddenly feeling really tired.  I feel weary and dirty from the traveling, and I sort of just want to sink into a hot bath for as long as I can stand it, and then climb into bed.  Tom shakes his head just as the kettle starts its whistling, alerting us that the water is ready.  He goes over and turns off the burner, and quickly readies two mugs with tea bags.

"Come on, sweet."  He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to the second floor.

The mezzanine that overlooks the first floor is small, but there's enough room for more bookcases and a lounge chair.  Tom tells me there's two bedrooms.  One is an office and a guest room, and the other is his bedroom. 

Someone should probably explain to me why, at the mention of his bedroom, my stomach does this little flippy flop.  I feel my entire face blush, and I feel like I am a teenager.  No, scratch that, I didn't ever feel like this when I was a teenager.  I would have had no idea what I was feeling if that were the case.  I slide behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and I push my face into his back.  We pause out on the mezzanine, and rock back and forth.  Tom wraps his hands around mine, looking over his shoulders and laughing softly.

"You are delirious, aren't you?" He asks after I haven't let him go for some time.  Yes. I'm delirious.

"Maybe." I say finally.

"Come on, delirious girl.  You said you want a bath." He turns in my arms and is facing me.  I tilt my face back, and Tom kisses me.  If I die here and now, then I would like it known that I died happy and a bit overwhelmed and that Tom most definitely killed me.

He pulls me into his bedroom, and I pause at the door.

Muffins and bagels, the first thing I see is his bed and all I can think about when I see it is sex.  What has become of me? I'm like a 13 year old boy. 

"Charlie?" He turns when he sees me standing at the door, unmoving.  His bedroom is white, like the rest of the house, but he's got a dark, charcoal gray area rug that looks like it would be heavenly on bare feet.  His furniture is all dark, rich wood.  His bed is massive, with simple wooden posters and lovely, luxurious looking cream and gray duvets and blankets.  It's straight out of an advertisement for posh, cozy looking furniture.

"Is this really your house? Or did you just rent it for the weekend to impress me?" I narrow my eyes at him and he lets out a legitimate, loud laugh.

"Are you kidding?" He shakes his head.

"I can't believe you've been staying with me in that dumb little hobbit shack, and you normally live in this interior designer's wet dream of an apartment." I blink.  He laughs again and then sinks down onto the edge of his bed.  I swear, he sinks at least six inches into feather duvets and some sort of fuzzy blanket. 

"Come here." He pats the spot next to him.  I shake my head.

"No. If I touch anything, I might ruin it."

"Come here now, Charles." He says again, still smiling.  I shuffle forward, and when my feet hit that plush, gorgeous gray rug, I can't help but squish my toes into it.

"Can I live here? Like on this rug? I'll pay rent and everything." I point down at the rug and Tom rolls his eyes and grabs me by the hips, then tosses me onto his bed. I sink in with a yelp. 

"Will you stop? It's just me. This is just a flat.  Nothing else.  It's the same me." He rolls next to me, then slides over so his body half covers mine. I look up at him, and take a minute.  He does seem like the same Tom I've always known, not some crazy, wealthy, wildly successful actor.  Blue eyes.  Crinkly laugh lines. Expressive eyebrows, especially the right one.  Lovely, classic nose.  Sweet, kissable lips.  Perfect teeth.  He's not smiling now, just looking down at me, all serious and concerned.

"This is a lot different than your place in LA." I say softly.  He nods and then reaches over, brushing my hair from my eyes.

"It is.  But it's just me, you know.  It's still me." He leans down rests his forehead on mine.  I reach up, putting my hands on either side of his face. I take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I got overwhelmed, I think.  Just those people taking photos at the airport, and this charity thing tomorrow, and now this apartment ...I feel a little out of my element." I press my lips together.  Tom nods, and lifts his head.

"We don't have to go to the charity event tomorrow.  It's okay.  I'll still have donated the money and that's all that matters." He says gently.  I can tell he means it.  He wouldn't be mad if I asked not to go.

"No, let's go.  I bought a dress, and I want to be fancy." I shrug.  He nods, his eyes searching mine.

"I know that I don't...involve you a lot in this side of my life." He licks his lips, and I feel my breathing get shallow.  "It's the work part of my life.  I want to share it with you.  It's a part of who I am. But I'm still Tom.   I'm still your Tom.  None of that has changed.  But this is me too." He dips his head and looks as if he wants to kiss me, but he doesn't.

"I can take care of you Charlie, if that is ever something you'd...want me to do.  All this is for naught if I can't share it with someone. With you.  I know you've been worried about Tiny Baker, but you shouldn't.  Tiny Baker will always be yours.  I'll take care of you." He says this so tenderly that I feel my heart swell and burst in my chest. I would have never, ever believed those kinds of words would make me want to sell my soul ten times over.  But I know where he is coming from, and it is without any ulterior motive, and it's sweetness nearly breaks me. I run my hands over his cheeks, and then brush my fingers against his lips.

"What if I want to take care of you?" I ask, my voice getting caught in my throat.  He looks shy for a split second and then he nods.

"Then I guess we take care of each other." He runs a hand across my cheek and down to my jaw.

"I like it here." I say softly.

"Where? Here in my flat?" He smiles.

"No, here...under you." I laugh.  His words have left me breathless, but I keep talking in true Charlie fashion. "The flat's not bad either.  It's fantastic and lovely and fancy." I smile, but then it wavers.  "I'm just worried about where I fit into it all.  I'm worried I'm...not good enough for this part of your life.  Keegan was—" I say quickly, but I stop when I see the look he's giving me.  Hard, disapproving, incredulous.  I swallow hard.  It is one thing to hear about the fancy parties and the ridiculous rich people.  It is quite another to actually be a part of it.

"Don't do that." He shakes his head. "You don't ever have to worry about that, Charlie." He leans forward and kisses me. He slides over, and I relish the weight of him on top of me.  I move my hands up his sides, slipping them under his hoodie.  His skin is soft and warm, and I feel him react to my touch.  Tom keeps kissing me, bracing himself slightly on his forearms, so he doesn't completely crush me.  I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him down onto me.  We both groan, and Tom slowly grinds his hips into mine.

"Can you feel how crazy you make me?" He breaks our kiss and whispers against my ear, cradling me in his arms as he presses me into the bed.  We're moving as if we are already making love, and I can feel him hard against me. I nod, and whimper.

"I think about you constantly, Charlie.  You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met.  If anyone should be worried about not being good enough, it's me." He rolls his hips into me, and I tremble, feeling it all the way to my toes.

"You're beautiful." He kisses my lips.  "You're hilarious." He kisses my chin.

"Yes?" I smile, urging him on.  He chuckles.

"You're smart and very clever." He bites me.

"Tell me things I don't know, Harrison." I say with a joking groan.

"You make me so fucking hard." He lowers his head and growls this, low and slow into my ear.  I still.  Oh.

"I...okay...yes, that's new." I stutter.  He kisses me and I push my hips into his, feeling achy and needy and terrible wanton.  Okay, basically like the sluttiest little slutty slut ever.

"God, I'm so glad you are here." Tom pulls both of hands into his, and presses them up above my head.  His biceps flex on either side of my head and I fight the urge to bite him.

"Tom." I say his name, arching underneath him.  "Make love to me." I beg, my earlier insecurities seeming to completely disappear.  He makes me feel beautiful. 

"I'm not done telling you why you're amazing." He grins.  I shake my head back and forth. 

"I don't care anymore.  Just..." I bite my lip.  He still has my arms pinned to the bed and he intertwines his fingers with mine, pressing me into the blankets.

  "One more." Tom licks his lips and I lift my head, trying to kiss him.  He pulls back, smiling.  "You are the most talented baker I know, and I'm not just saying if for the free cookies." He kisses my throat, licking me.  I giggle.

"But you love the free cookies." I say breathlessly.

"I do love the free cookies." He nods, tugging the neckline of my shirt down.  I arch against him, hungry for his touch.

"I thought I was going to take a bath." I pull my hands down and push them through his hair, tilting my head back and giving him full access to my neck.

"I'm just helping you undress." He laughs and then sits up, kneeling on the bed over me, and pulls his hoodie and tshirt off in one easy swoop, revealing his lean, muscled chest. I suppose the bath can wait.