*A/N: Thanks for reading. You're all the best. I hope you enjoy....

As soon as we get back to the house, Santos and Emily spring into action, trying to get together a drinking game.  Mrs. Hiddleston’s neighbors have stopped by for some Christmas eve drinks, so they are busying themselves in the kitchen. Tom was quiet on the way back, hardly speaking and obviously mulling something over in his head.

I had an idea what…or who, it was. He disappears as soon as we get back, so I don’t have a chance to talk to him.

I go to my room, deciding to change into something comfortable. I’m still cold from the tree lighting, so I pull on some yoga pants, a tank top and a thick knit cardigan on top of that.  The room I’m in is only a tiny bit larger than my usual room, but it has a queen sized bed, which takes up most of the space.  Normally, some of the cousins or aunts stay in this room, but since it’s just us, it’s nice to have a big bed for the stay.  I slip my feet into a fluffy pair of socks, and then head back downstairs to try and find Tom, and the others.

I make my way toward the kitchen, the main room darkened except for the glow of the Christmas tree.  I stop short as I’m about to round the corner, when I hear the Mrs. Hiddleston’s hushed voice.  I hold my breath, pausing before I get to the doorway.

“If you have feelings for her, you need to say something. Do something, Thomas.” I hear Mrs. Hiddleston say, her voice a loud whisper.  I know that I shouldn’t be listening in.  I’m not sure who they’re talking about, but I’m pretty certain it may have something to do with the woman that Mrs. Hiddleston saw at the tree lighting.  I feel my stomach tighten, and I wait for his response.

“Mum. Please. I…” Tom sounds frustrated, angry.

“It’s been years.” She says gently.  I lean against the doorframe, hiding just out of sight.

“I know it’s been years. It’s not that easy.” He says. “Mum, I love you, but please.”

“I just hate seeing you like this. You know—“

“Don’t worry about me, really.” He states, his voice gentler, quieter.  “You’d be surprised, I’m smarter than I look.” He says with a soft laugh.  I hear Mrs. Hiddleston chuckle, and make a few tutting noises.  There’s silence, and I stay still, pressed against the wall.  A part of me feels terrible for listening in, but mostly I just feel a little like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me.  A moment later, I hear movement, and then I’m jolted quickly into action when Tom comes around the corner.  He hesitates when he sees me, and I try my best to look like I’ve just gotten there. 

“Tom! I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to play the game with us.” I say quickly, pushing my hands into my sweater pockets.  Tom’s jaw is set, and he looks at me with serious, dagger-like eyes.

“Are you…alright?” I take a step back, and hope he hasn’t figured out I was eavesdropping.

“I’m fine.” He says slowly, and I see a muscle in his jaw clench.

“Right. Well. We’re playing some card games—“

“I’m probably going to relax in my room.  This is the first few days off I’ve had in awhile, and I’m knackered. Thank you, though.” He shakes his head swiftly.  He’s still watching me carefully, as if trying to figure out how much I could have heard of the conversation he was just having.

I hear Santos and Emily cackling from somewhere downstairs in the basement, and then a low rumble of yells from Mark and Cillian.  Apparently, they’ve already started drinking and games.  They won’t miss me.

“Do you…want some company?” I say quickly, before I can properly think my question through.  I look up at Tom, and he breathes out softly.

“Yes. Sure.  I’m going to go change.  Do you want to grab some wine? And meet me upstairs?” He asks, gesturing to the kitchen.  I nod, feeling a bit too relieved that he didn’t totally reject me. 

“Okay.” I agree and turn quickly. 

I grab a bottle of red and two glasses from the empty kitchen.  Mrs. Hiddleston is in the small room off the kitchen with her neighbors, and I can hear them talking quietly. 

Dear Mrs. H, I promise I’m not going to go defile your son. Not this time.  This time, I’ll be good.  I promise. Amen, forever and ever, etcetera.

I grab a bag of cookies as I leave the kitchen and then I make my way up to Tom’s room.

He doesn’t have his door closed, but it’s cracked.  I stop just outside, and just inside the sliver of an opening, I can see Tom.  He has his back to me, and he’s shirtless.  He has on sweats, which are hanging so low on his narrow hips, I’m surprised they haven’t fallen off.  I hold my breath, feeling like the ultimate creep, but I can’t quite bring myself to knock.  Not just yet.  He pulls a tshirt on, and then turns and reaches for the waist of his pants, pulling at the drawstring.  Okay. Okay. Enough.

I reach forward, tapping lightly with the back of my knuckles. 

Tom opens it a second later, looking relaxed and a little bit tired.

“Fancy meeting you here.” He grins and then lets me into his room.  It’s the same as it always looks.  A single lamp on toward the far end of the room, casting a golden glow.  His big, wide bed covered in pillows and a dark blue comforter.  His suitcase sitting on the floor, a few of his things scattered around the room. 

“This is for you. And I brought these as well.” I hand him the bottle of wine, and then hold up the cookies.  Tom’s eyes light up and he breaks into a happy, almost childlike grin.

“You brilliant girl.” He sighs and reaches to grab the bag, but I hold it back out of his reach with a laugh.

“Wine first.” I say, setting the cookies on his nightstand.  He nods obediently, and takes the two glasses from me.

“Did you have a good time at the lighting?” He asks, his voice casual and carefree.  He glances over at me as I take a seat on the edge of his bed.

“I did. Very festive.” I say, not sure what else to say without bringing up the mysterious Kelly.  I’m dying to ask. “How about you?” I ask, as Tom hands me a glass of wine.

“Great. Very festive.”

Well, this is getting us nowhere fast.  I’ve known the man for two years, and yet I’m struggling to have a coherent, interesting conversation with him. 

“How’s work?” I ask. I might as well as him about the weather, while I’m at it.

“Hectic. A little stressful, all the traveling. But I’ve got some good news recently.” He sits down next to me, his thigh bumping into mine.  Tom looks over, his face expectant and excited.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve just signed on for a play at the Donmar at the end of the year.  Which means I’ll be able to stay in London for a good bit of time.” He looks at me happily, his eyes wide.

“That’s amazing!  That’s a big deal.” I raise my glass, and we clink them together.

“It really is. And it’s Shakespeare so…” He trails off, looking thrilled and a bit mystified.  “I’m so excited.  But you’re the first I’ve told. I haven’t told mum yet, or Em. I didn’t want to tell them unless I was sure it would happen.  And just before break, I got the confirmation.” He laughs and then runs a hand over his jaw.  “It’s going to be a brutal show, but I’m just so excited for it.”

I feel myself laughing, simply because he is.  His enthusiasm is contagious, and I reach for him, grabbing onto his bicep.

“How long will you be around?” I ask, squeezing his arm and then letting go.  He bobs his head back and forth and then takes a sip of wine.

“The show runs mid December through beginning of February.  I have rehearsals and all of that for the three months before.  I’m looking forward to being home for longer than a week or two.” He grins at me and takes a deep breath. He seems content—satisfied.

“I’m going to be in London for awhile as well.” I say softly, looking down at my hands as I wrap them around my glass. 

“Oh?” Tom’s voice is surprised, softer now. 

“Mary offered me full time at Cleredon.  I haven’t told anyone either.  Not Santos.  She just offered it to me the other day, and I told her I’d think about it, but I already know I want it.” I look at Tom, not sure why I’m telling him this.  I don’t think I was entirely sure I was going to stay on until I just verbalized it to him.

“That’s amazing, Gracie.  Congratulations.” His smile widens, and he puts an arm around my shoulders, squeezing.

“Thanks.” I smile.  “I don’t think the gallery was really working out.  And I love the historical part of my job.  I didn’t think I would but…” I shrug. Tom nods.

“It’s funny what catches us off guard.  You don’t think it’s what you want or what you’re looking for and BAM!” He moves his hands, as he always does, his eyes popping.  “And bam, it’s the right thing for you.”

We’re quiet for a minute, sitting next to each other, sort of staring straight forward.  I don’t want to think too hard about this.  About any of it.  I take a deep breath, and move backward on his bed, getting comfortable against his pillows.

“Do you have the script yet? For your play?” I ask.  He turns and smiles, then stands up quickly.

“I do. Do you want to see?” He sets his wine down, and starts shuffling around the room, digging through his bags as he mumbles softly to himself.  I watch him, feeling my stomach in my throat.  What would it be like to spend every evening like this? Drinking wine together, talking about things that mean something to us, Tom bumbling around the bedroom searching for things he misplaced…

I can’t think of that.  Not now.  It’s a fantasy, and not even a very realistic one. We’d rarely have evenings like this.  He’s never around.  It’d probably be more like a text, or a phone call and a cold empty bed.  Which, isn’t much different from what I have now.  Except…I’d have Tom.  He may not be there with me, all the time, but I’d have him.  I’d know he was mine.

What a terrible, hopeless thing to think. 

I glance at my glass, wondering if I’ve had more to drink than I thought.  Nope, still mostly full.

“They’re here somewhere.” Tom murmurs, breaking my train of thought. 

“Will you get in trouble for showing me?” I ask, scooting back so I’m a bit more comfortable. I wonder if I should get up and move to the chair in the corner, but it would seem to obvious if I did.  It feels wrong to be so comfy on his bed. 

Tom looks up from his bag, pulling out some rather hefty looking scripts.

“It’s a 400 year old text.” He deadpans. “I don’t think it’s a secret.”

“Excuse me.” I say with a sniff, and he smiles widely at me. 

“I could get in trouble, but you’ll keep your mouth shut, right darling?” He raises an eyebrow, handing me the large stack of paper.  I nod.

“Of course.  But what if I don’t?” I say absently, looking at the plain cover with the simple word “Coriolanus. William Shakespeare.” on the front.

“Then I’ll keep it shut for you.” He leans in, whispering into my ear as he slides next to me on the bed.  I tense, and then shove him over with my shoulder.

“This is intense.” I ignore him as I flip idly through the lengthy text.  He’s highlighted a lot of things—all his speaking parts, and there’s a bunch of notes written in the margin in his scrawling handwriting.

“As familiar as I am with his works, I wasn’t all that familiar with this one.  So I’ve spent a lot of time picking through this piece.  We don’t start really working on it until mid year, but I’m so excited.” His eyes light up, and I can’t help but smile.

“Read some of it to me?” I ask, handing him back the text.  Tom purses his mouth thoughtfully for a moment, before nodding and looking down.  He flips through for a moment, before coming to a long section of dialogue.  It looks to be a monologue for his character.  He points to the text and then hands the packet back to me.

“I talk of you: why did you wish me milder? Would you have me false to my nature? Rather say I play the man I am.” He starts reciting, his tones intense but hushed, so he doesn’t wake up anyone.  He speaks for a few minutes, and I leave the script sitting on the side of the bed, immersed in his voice.

“That’s beautiful.” I say softly.  Tom laughs and leans back on the bed.  I watch him, noticing the length of his abdomen, the way his sweats sit on his lean waist, his tshirt flush against his skin.

“He’s being exiled.” Tom points out. “He’s saying goodbye to his family. To the city that has turned it’s back on him.”

“Well, the way you speak is beautiful.  I could listen to that all night.” I say and then immediately regret it.  “all night” infers something.  Something else.

“So if you’re staying at Cleredon House, you’ll be in London for the play?” He asks, changing the subject.  I turn, moving to a more comfortable position.  I sit with my legs crossed, facing him.  Tom reaches over, idly pulling at a loose thread on my sweater.  He’s always seems to be moving, touching things.

“Perhaps.” I give him a little smile.

“I’ll get you tickets. If you want.” He says, suddenly looking a bit bashful.  I laugh and nod.

“Of course.  They better be good seats.” I swat his hand away, as he keeps trying to tug on the thread at the edge of my sweater. “At least I’ll get something out of this set up.” I say jokingly, though I regret it as soon as I say it.

Tom laughs though, shaking his head at me as he lies back, putting his hands behind his head as he does.  His shirt rides up, revealing a bit of bare skin and stomach.  His skin is milky white, dappled with hair near his belly button and disappearing down under his waistband.  I can see the defined dip by his hips and I look away quickly, trying to remember I shouldn’t be ogling him.  Is he doing this on purpose? Because if so…he’s doing it far too well.

“That’s harsh.” He doesn’t look at me, though he’s still smiling.

“I’m just kidding.”

“I know.” He turns his head and looks at me.  “You’ve not really dated anyone.” He says it simply, gently.  I know he’s not trying to be rude or prying.  The statement is somewhat out of the blue, but honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t asked this before—at least not in this way.

“Not really, no.”  I sigh, and then toss back the rest of the wine in my glass.  He rolls onto his side, propping up his head with his bent arm and hand.

“Why?”  Good lord, is this an inquisition?

“I don’t mind being alone.” I answer.

“No? Fair enough.” He sighs. “You don’t mind it? You don’t get lonely?” He asks.  I look away. I wish his eyes weren’t so blue, so probing.  Then maybe it would be easier to lie. 

“I do but…I guess I’m used to it. And, well, you can’t be hurt if you’re alone.  I’ve been alone mostly my whole life.  I’m not close to my parents. Don’t know where my mother is.  My father is a mess.  My last relationship was…well, you know.  Sometimes it’s better to be alone.” I’m honest with him, because I don’t really have anything to lose.  And it’ll be Christmas in about 45 minutes. And his room is sort of dark, and cozy. And this wine is making my head feel fuzzy, but mostly it’s him that’s making me feel all fuzzy.

“I hate being alone.” He murmurs, sort of to me, but maybe more to himself.  I ache to touch him.  His face mostly. The sweet, gentle way his cheekbone curves into his cheek, the long, strong column of his neck.  I want to feel the slight stubble on his chin, and brush my fingers against his lips.

But I don’t touch him.  Because it will only lead to one place, and it’s a place I’ve put off limits. Finally.  I’d settle for a hand hold, or maybe a firm pat on the head.  But I know it all leads back to the same place.  The ache, the deep, thunderous yearning for Tom to touch me, and to be able to touch him.

“Tom?” I say his name softly, and he turns his head and looks at me.

“Gracie.” He answers, furrowing his brow and looking sternly at me.  I smile.

“Who is Kelly?” I ask the million dollar question.

“Who is Kelly.  Who…is…Kelly. That’s a good question.  I’d love to know myself.” He laughs and then looks up at the ceiling.  Oh. I’ve hit something here.  Some sort of sore spot.  Tom’s had quite a few girlfriends since I’ve known him.  But they’ve all been passing things.  Blips on some amorphous, foggy trail.

“Who is she?” I push gently. I reach over and touch his side with just my fingers, feeling the warmth of his body through his cotton shirt.  I poke him in the ribs and he laughs, ticklish, then grabs my hand and yanks me toward him.  I could do one of two things in this moment—fall forward against his sturdy looking chest, or brace myself and pull back. I choose the latter, and gently take my hand from his. 

He takes a deep breath, glad for the momentary distraction.

 “Kelly was my fiancé.  We broke up about four years ago.” His voice is soft, and he breaks eye contact as his eyes flicker to my hair, which is a mess around my face.  His words are not surprising, but it is a little bit shocking that he was once engaged.  He’s never mentioned it.  Emily has never mentioned it.

Tom reaches forward, and without warning, he reaches up and tucks a few strands of fallen hair back behind my ear.  His fingers graze by my ear as he does, and I try my best to stay still.  Maybe he’s trying to distract me. It’s working.  He seems to be lost in his own thought as he pushes his hands through my hair, then starts wrapping it around his long fingers, running it through his hands. I can’t help myself, I lean into his hand and he pushes back gently.  His fingers brush against my cheek, and I tilt my head to the side, pressing my lips into his palm and fingertips.  He watches me do this, his eyes serious.  I smile against his fingers and then nip at him.

Tom chuckles and then moves to sit up, pulling his hand away.  I watch him from where I am, lying curled up at the head of his bed amongst all his pillows.

“I didn’t know you’d been engaged.” I frown.  Tom rubs a hand over his face.

“Well, I do try to forget it.” He clears his throat and sits up all the way.  For a moment, I think he’ll get up off the bed, but he just sits like that, turned slightly away from me.  I reach forward, my hand hovering over the flat, wide planes of his back but I don’t touch him.

“What happened?” I ask, pushing forward.  I slide my hand against him.  Tom makes a grunting noise and then shakes his head.

“Ah.” He pushes a hand through his hair, pulling gently.

“You know you’ve got to tell me.” I sit up, sliding up behind him.  I kneel on the bed beside him, my knees bumping into his thigh.  Tom stays still, not speaking. 

“I know practically nothing about you.” I chew nervously on my lower lip.  I want to hug him, or just wrap my arms around him, but he’s shut off from me.  It feels the wrong thing to do, and I know it is.

“That’s not true.” He says softly.   He turns his body toward me, and then suddenly he’s crawling on the bed, making his way toward the pillows.  I sit back, thinking for a second that he’s going to tackle me, but he collapses into the pillows, on his stomach, gripping one under his head.  I swallow hard, put my wine glass on the nightstand and crawl after him.  I slide next to him, turning on my side so we are facing each other.   

“No? I do know you?” I ask, softly.  He nods, but doesn’t say anything.  I look at his face, half hidden by the pillow.  His mouth set in a straight line, one blue eye on me, the other hidden by the pillow. Tom moves his head up and down, just ever so slightly.  We’re quiet for a moment before he speaks.

“You know me really well.” He says softly.  “Better than most.” I can’t help myself.  I reach over, taking his hand, which is moving back and forth across the comforter between us.  I wrap my hand around his, then bring it to his face, touching him.  His skin is soft, warm, and strangely comforting.  His stubble is rough against my palm.  Tom’s hand wraps gently around my wrist, but stays unmoving, letting me just touch the side of his face.  I trace a line, smoothing over his eyebrow, down over his cheek bone and then down the slope of his nose.  His grip tightens, and he moves my hand to his mouth, where he kisses my knuckles.  He opens his eyes then, and places my hand between the two of us on the comforter.

“Kelly and I were together for almost two years.  We met after she’d just gotten out of something.  But we really clicked. I proposed after a year together. She said ‘Yes’.  Turns out she was still in love with her ex.  And she forgot that she had made…promises to me.” He watches me as he speaks, as if waiting for my reaction.  I’m not sure how to react.

“Are you still in love with her?” I ask.  Tom chews on his lower lip, then shakes his head, looking down as he does.

“No. I haven’t been in love with her for a long, long time. My family loved her too.  Mum was sort of devastated by the break up.  But they got over it. I think.” He laughs softly.  Ah, a bit of clarity to the conversation I overheard downstairs.  Mrs. H is still holding onto hope.  The idea sort of makes me sad, but I push the feeling away.

“It’s hard to move on when someone hurts you like that.  I would know.” I whisper.  He looks at me then, his eyes quizzical. 

“We’re better off without them.” He says with a little smile.  I grin and roll onto my back, taking a deep, cleansing breath.

“You can say that again.” I nod. 

“Hey, how about you break out those cookies? I need some sugar after all this serious stuff.” Tom says with a laugh, nudging me in the side.  I grin, reaching over and grabbing the bag from the nightstand.  I rip open the top, handing him two cookies, which he starts in on immediately.  The first cookie is gone in two bites. 

Tom makes some joke about staying in bed the whole holiday, eating cookies and gaining weight until our exes see the error of their ways.  It’s a silly joke, but we both are laughing hysterically.  The kind of laughing where you hold your sides, and find it hard to breathe.

We end up in a pile, my face smashed against his arm, Tom’s breath in my ear as he wheezes with laughter.  I can barely catch my breath.  I shove hard into him, pushing him away as I sit up, trying to take a clear breath. 

We spend the next few hours like that.  Alternating between telling ridiculous jokes, usually at the other person’s expense, and then talking about serious stuff.  Nothing too serious.  Nothing as serious as the fact that Tom used to have a fiancé.  Instead of this endless parade of windmills he calls girlfriends, he at one point, dated someone seriously.  Someone with substance (or so he thought).  A shocking change from what he’s been doing for the last few years.  But I sort of get it.  He’s doing what I’ve been doing.  Healing.  He hates being alone, so he buries his pain in fast, painless relationships.  I bury mine in my loneliness. In being by myself.  We’re completely different, but for some reason, I get it.  And I think he does too. 

And maybe it’s why we end up talking until nearly half past three.  We’ve gone into hushed tones, after we heard Santos and Cillian go to bed, followed closely by Emily and Mark.  Mrs. Hiddleston had said her goodnights long before that.  We chat until our eyes hurt, and we can barely focus.  We talk until Tom starts slurring his words, more from exhaustion than the wine—though I’m sure the wine had something to do with it.  I keep listening to him talk, as his voice is the nicest sound in the world.  I keep listening even when I’ve closed my eyes.  I fall asleep to the sound of his voice, and the last thing I hear him say, I’m pretty sure, is my name.