A/N: If you don't like smut, you don't have to read it to understand. It's marked with ***

Beth paces her little kitchen as she waits for her – what is it now? – fourth cup of coffee to brew.

She hasn’t slept at all, except for maybe dozing off a few minutes here and there. But every time she closed her eyes, she could hear the shouts of her name – last and first – in front of her door.

They weren’t really there of course. Well, at least they didn’t really shout, Beth thinks. It’s not like she’s checked. She’ll find out soon enough, though, because how else is she going to get to work?

But it’s not the only reason, she hasn’t slept. Tom called. Sometime in the middle of the night he was on the phone, making excuses why he couldn’t come over and speak face to face.

Beth understands. She really does, because of course he shouldn’t be seen at her front door right now. Don’t add fuel to the fire. But he called. And he made it very clear that they would find out, who was behind this. Who couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Also, he – and his publicist apparently – were very sure it was someone from their circle. Someone not as trustworthy as they – Beth knows they mean ‘her’ really – may think.

But she refuses to believe that. It can’t be their friends. They’ve known them for so long. They wouldn’t do that to them. To her. She tried to say that to Tom, but of course he wouldn’t listen.

She paces some more, until her phone rings. When she answers, Beth is immediately greeted with a – slightly hysterically – female voice. “Beth, I am so sorry!”

She frowns. Is that Linda from across the street? The one who bought her family's house? “Linda?” Beth asks, just to be sure. Because why should she be sorry? If someone should be apologising right now, it’s Beth for all the commotion on the street.

“Yes. Right. Sorry. It’s Linda. I’m so sorry.”

Before Beth can really ask why, Linda starts explaining. Beth hasn’t read any articles and Tom has yet to call back, so she's apparently not up to date. The media runs the story of how they’ve found out. Linda's little daughter opened the door when Tom first came to the house when he thought it was still the Lucas' place. It had taken Linda awhile, but when her daughter asked, if that was Loki at the door, she'd known she recognised him.

Apparently, Linda's daughter likes to talk. Not to just anyone, but to her 13-year-old cousin living in the south of England. And that cousin is very excited when it comes to Tom. So excited in fact, that she posted on Twitter that Tom is visiting Oxford. Visiting her aunt's neighbour. With tags. And apparently, so called journalists are better at reading than they’re at writing.

Beth suspects that from then on it was only a matter of research to find out exactly who is living in that house. Probably it must have also been easy to find out there is more than one person called ‘Hiddleston’ in town.

It’s a mess. Beth knows that. A mess, far from perfect, but by no means as bad and as backstabbing as Tom made it seem.

When they hang up, Linda saying sorry at least three more times, Beth glances at the clock, realising with a start that she now has to face the crowds outside.

She pours the coffee in her to-go-cup, grabs her bag with her washed work clothes, takes one last deep breath and leaves her flat. She waits another few minutes in the downstairs hallway, sending a silent apology to the neighbourhood for probably causing another scene, and leaves the house.

It’s not as bad as she thought. There aren’t as many paparazzi as yesterday evening. Most of them probably already got their golden shot of Tom Hiddleston's wife and come back later. Not that Beth knows anything about that.

However, as she starts her walk, there are still more than enough men for her liking, shouting after her, walking on the other side of the street. Some even run to get ahead of her, taking shots from the front. Never in her life Beth felt like the Duchess of Cambridge when she still was Kate Middleton. All those pictures from years ago when she dated the prince.

Well, she’d gladly take the prince now.
To keep herself busy, Beth takes out her phone, dialling the first person that comes to mind. Liesa always knows how to cheer her up, is the only one up at this time of day, and knows the backstory.

“Oh, goodness, Beth. I am so sorry.”

“Huh?” This is getting weirder and weirder today. “What for?”

There's a slight hesitation on the other end of the line, and Beth fears what might come next. “I just found out today, and I’m so sorry I posted that picture without checking it first. I deleted it now. But I guess it’s too late.”

Beth forces herself to walk on. “Can you explain please?” she whispers harshly, trying to keep the frown off her face. “Because I have no idea what’s going on except a bunch of idiots following me to work and my neighbour apologising to me as well.”

“You... haven’t seen?”

“Apparently, I haven’t.”

“I posted a picture from our night at the pub on Instagram. I didn’t even worry about the account not being private,” Liesa starts her story. At least Beth now has something else to focus on instead of those men walking with her. “Tom was in the background. Drinking and laughing. Someone recognised him. And of course I tagged the pub. They must have gone through my followers and found you. I’m so sorry, Beth.”

Now, she does stop walking. “Liesa, it’s not your fault. This is all a horrible mess, and a series of mistakes.”

She truly believes that. And what would change anyway? If anyone else was to really blame? She’d still be shouted at, they’d still know all about this. She wasn’t tagged on Instagram, she's not on there with her last name – obviously – and her account is set on private. There's nothing more they can do.

“Still. I feel so horrible.”

Beth sighs as she finally reaches her work place. “Me too. Really, me too.”
___

She has a day from hell. It’s not like she expected it to be great, she’s been prepared for it to be horrible. But Beth hasn't thought about just how bad it would be.

The mothers-to-be have been staring at her all day. Her colleagues have been staring too, until she’s told them – rather passionately – that she's still the same person.

And when she's managed that, the other problem occurred during lunch time. Sure, she would be chased. So, she stayed inside.

What she didn’t think about however, was those paparazzi harassing her co-workers. She got the most angry looks when they came back from lunch, having hundreds of questions shouted at them. Beth apologised then.

She was still told to maybe take the day off, and not come back for the Friday as well. And that somebody else would be on call on the weekend.

So, she’s calling a cab now – there’s no way she's walking through those crowds again – and hurries downstairs and into the car. After the shortest car drive she's ever experienced, she’s back in her flat, closing the door behind her, locking it twice.

Beth is exhausted. She would also kill for a vodka right about now. But as it is, it’s not even 3 on a Thursday afternoon, and she shouldn’t drink now. Instead, she takes off her shoes, dresses in her sweatpants and a t-shirt and turns on the TV. Mindless afternoon television. That’s what she needs now.

She almost shrieks as her phone rings in her bag, she’s just so lost in her thoughts. Not the tv, she can’t focus on that.

Beth doesn’t want to talk. Not to anyone. She doesn’t want this day to get any worse. But her phone – that shrilling sound of her phone – annoys her to no end. So, she stands up, gets her phone and checks the display. She doesn’t know the number, but it’s an American area code. The same one as yesterday, she realises after a few seconds. As soon as she picks up, Tom’s voice greets her.

“Open the door for me?”

“What?” What is he doing here? Why should she open the door? She can’t. There are paparazzi all over the place. Why would Tom be so stupid to even show up here? Where are those advisors of his? “Tom, you can’t come here!”

“I’m already there,” he answers. “At the backdoor. They haven’t seen me yet. So, please. Open up.”

Beth is torn. She really wants to be alone. But goodness, wouldn’t it just feel cathartic to have someone to yell at? Yes. That’s what she's going to do. Let it out.

So, without answering, but hanging up instead, Beth unlocks her door and rushes downstairs. Tom’s at the backdoor just as he said.

He’s pacing almost, looking frantic. “Oh, thank god,” he says and rushes past Beth. “I hoped they wouldn’t go to the back.” Without waiting, he walks upstairs. “Put on your shoes, yeah? We’re going to go for a little walk.”

Well. So much for yelling. Instead, she goes after Tom back to her flat, closing and locking the door again.

“What... how? Why?”

“I came through the fields. That hasn’t changed much, has it? Still by far not the closest way to get to you, especially now since you live on the other side of that fucking street, but still an effective way to not be seen.”

He’s grinning at her now. It’s not that horrible, smug, “look at me, I’m better than you"-smile he’s sported since he got here. It’s an honest Tom smile. One she's seen last before he even left for Hollywood. She likes that smile.

“I still don’t understand.”

“You need to get out of this house. I’ve seen the pics. Brian sent me links. This is all a massive fuck-up, but you need to get out of here.”

Beth shakes her head in disbelieve. Where does this come from? Why is he being so... nice?

It must show on her face, because now Tom huffs. “I know I haven’t been exactly nice. But this is the last thing I’ve ever wanted for you, Libby. You didn’t want a Hollywood life. And I brought it here. I’m sorry for that, I truly am. And I know I’m waiting for this divorce, I know we’re not exactly married in the traditional sense. But I am your husband, I brought this to you, and I’m going to make you feel better today.”

She’s stunned. Beyond stunned. “You don’t have to protect me,” is what Beth comes up with.

“Believe me. I know. I know you’ve changed, I know you’ve always been strong. But I feel guilty. Let me help.”

So, that’s what this is about? “You want to feel better about it?” Tom actually flinches at that. “And how is this your fault anyway? I thought this horrible town with its avaricious habitants is to blame?”

“Brian traced everything back. We know how this developed, it was...”

Beth stops him. “I know. I know. Everyone called me. Seems like honest people are worth just as much as a good PR-person is.”
Another flinch. “Seems so,” is all he answers.

“Will you let me help you?”

She shrugs. It can’t get worse than this, right? And she also still needs to yell at him.
Beth turns and before Tom can protest, she grabs her pair of sneakers and puts them on. She leaves her mobile where it is, grabs a hoodie and her keys. “Lead the way then.”
___

Tom feels horrible. He hasn’t slept all night, there are paparazzi everywhere, in front of James’ house, in front of Libby’s house and her work, as well as following him as soon as he leaves the house.

He’s been on the phone with Brian on and off. Brian was also the one who found out about tagged pictures and tweets. Okay, so Tom was wrong. Nobody in town really talked. It’s just what modern life is like now. People with phones and social media are everywhere.

The media reaction is actually not that bad. Not as bad as it could be, at least. Sure, they’re all wondering, asking themselves how Tom could hide a wife. But Brian prepared a statement that’s been released just about an hour ago, to make it to the American news in time. Yes, a wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife. They’ve been separated even before Tom left for Hollywood, they’ve always been good, he never cheated – he really never did that.

And of course, Julia knows about this. Always has. Just because the media doesn’t know, it doesn’t mean it's secret. Julia will even be at some kind of event tonight. Smiling for the cameras.

They move quietly, Libby following behind him. It’s a path that hasn’t changed in the past years. It still winds through the fields until the old barn comes into view. Thankfully, because Tom hasn’t been sure it still exists.

“Tom, why?” Libby asks from behind. Before he can turn around, she continues. “Why all those fucking memories?”

Tom feels his shoulders drop. This is a bad idea, isn’t it? “Sorry,” he mumbles. “You always felt good here.”

“When we were children.”

Still, she doesn’t stop, Tom can still hear her steps as they get closer. He smiles to himself. Yes, she’s still stubborn. But she's also still as curious as she used to be.

“And a bit more grown up as well, if I remember correctly.” Tom still doesn’t turn around. There's no need to. He can almost feel the blush radiating from Libby.

“Shut up,” she mumbles.

He laughs, the first real one since he’s got here. At Libby's slap against his back from behind, Tom chuckles. “Sorry.”

He opens the door for her. It doesn’t smell as good as it did all those years ago, but it seems as there are still children playing in here every now and then. The roof seems to be fine, no puddles forming anywhere. There even are some blankets lying around.

“Looks nice,” Libby comments. “Not as nice as before obviously. But not bad.”

Tom nudges her shoulder. “Not everyone can be as good as decorating as we were.”

“You mean I was good at it. You just came in here and brought the food.”

“The cake from my mum.”

She chuckles and he’s basking in it. He made her chuckle.

“That was always tasty.”

They both don't say much more for the next couple of minutes. Libby studies the wood and the blankets, and looks out of the windows.

Tom studies her. She hasn’t changed that much actually. Maybe she looks a bit surer of herself. A bit more grown. But maybe he’s also just so used to seeing her. They’ve been together almost everyday for more than ten years after all.

“Tell me about you.” It’s out before he’s even really thought about it. But it’s true. Maybe it’s his protective strike. Maybe he feels guilty. Not maybe. He’s definitely feeling guilty. And it’s not just guilt for coming here just out of the blue. Or for her to have what must be a horrible day as well. He also feels guilty for never actually giving them both the chance to say goodbye. God, they wouldn’t be here, if he just had said goodbye.

“What?” Libby turns from the window to meet his gaze. “You’ve known me for almost 25 years. You know everything about me.”

“Maybe I did. But I didn’t pay much attention to you the past years, did I?”

She shakes her head a bit, but eventually sits down on one of the blankets, allowing Tom to take a seat next to her.

And then she talks. They talk. Libby tells him about her parents, how they both died, and how Matt and her didn’t know what to do with themselves. Tom feels like he’s missing them too, which he does. It’s his own fault, he knows that. He knows a lot of things, sitting here next to the girl – woman – he used to love, in a small barn. It’s much easier to know all those things here than when he lives his life in the U.S. with everyone telling him what a nice, good and lovely golden boy he is.

Libby also tells him about her work, about how she helps women to become mothers and little families to settle down with their babies. She tells him about how she still loves to read and how she discusses books and plays – she likes to go to the theatre in London – with James. She's also still meeting their old friends, not just here, but in London as well. Tom knows that, after all they seemed more than comfortable together in the pub. They had a beautiful, happy life, hadn’t they?, she asks at one point. Yes. Yes, they had.

But Libby also understands Tom following his dream. He’s stunned at that. Back then it felt – and he’s not proud of that – as if she wanted to hold him back. She didn’t want to come with him. She wanted him back in London. Where her life was, not his dreams.

She agrees with him. Not that she wanted to hold him back, but that she and him wouldn't have been happy together at that time. They wanted different things, and one of them would have been unhappy.

Libby huffs at that again. Weren’t they both unhappy then anyway? Yeah. He has to agree with that.

And then Libby looks at him and there are tears in her eyes. Shit. He can’t see her cry. Never could.

So, Tom rubs her cheek with his thumb. “Please, don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

She just shakes her head and looks down. “It’s okay now.”

But it doesn’t seem to be, because she’s still crying. Tom feels like crying too. The first real conversation since he’s left six years ago, and he makes her cry. Back then, whenever they saw each other again after he came back from filming Wallander or a movie with Joanna, they would hug and kiss and – Tom is the one blushing now – have sex, losing themselves in each other.

So, Tom does what he knows, lets his body react and hugs her.

Libby’s stiff in his arms, but then he can feel her inhale sharply and then melt into him.

Eventually, she looks up at him. She’s so close. She still smells the same. They’ve never said goodbye, they didn’t know their last time was their last time. They never got the chance to kiss anymore. It’s his fault. He knows that. Those are the thoughts running through Tom’s head. And before he knows what he’s doing, he leans closer.

She mumbles, “Tom,” but doesn’t stop him. She still tastes the same as well. Her lips are a little salty from her tears, but she does taste the same.

Libby feels the same too, when she sits up a little, only to straddle him. Her hips are a little rounder as Tom holds her. Her breasts are a bit bigger as well. She still sounds the same, Tom thinks.

***

And then there isn’t much thinking anymore, just feeling. The feeling of their bodies moving together, grinding. The feeling of fumbling hands and hot breaths, tearing clothes away and nibbling on lips.

Somehow they’re not just moving together, but also lie down, Libby on top of him. They shed sweatpants and jeans and eventually underwear.

Tom groans as he feels Libby’s soft skin against him, her wet core against his thigh.

She moves against him and screams out as he uses a finger to find the soft spot inside of her. He adds another finger when she clenches down on him, rubbing with his thumb in time with his movements inside of her.

Libby’s silent when she comes, but bites his shoulder, making him moan in turn and her chuckle breathlessly.

The chuckle turns into a groan, when Tom turns them around on the hard floor only covered by a blanket.

“Are you...?”

“I’m clean,” she whispers and digs her fingers into his shoulders. “And on the pill.”

It’s all Tom needs to know – at the moment at least. He enters her, both of them breathless now. He can’t move. This will be over when he moves.

But Libby still knows what to do, what buttons to press. One hand moves to his shoulder blade, fingers scratching slightly. The fingers of her other hand curl in his hair.

And then he moves. They move. Together.

Tom can feel the sweat building, sees it on Libby’s face. When she can’t seem to hold open her eyes anymore, he shuts his as well.

There's a pleasure building in his lower body, he can feel himself stiffening. So, he reaches for Libby's soft spot between their bodies blindly, rubbing again. When she moans and clenches, Tom lets go as well. It’s lights and then it’s all black. He can hear his and Libby’s panting, then he rolls over. What...

***

“What the hell?” she asks.

Yes. That.