„Libby?“ Tom whispered in her ear, his breath leaving goose bumps on her naked skin as they were lying in bed, blissfully naked, the duvets covering just their lower bodies. 
Beth was on her stomach, one arm draped over Tom's abs, her head resting against his shoulder.

“Hmm?” she murmured, way too tired after their lovemaking. Repeatedly.

“Do you want children?”

Her head snapped up, almost knocking Tom in the jaw. “Huh?”

“Children, do you want them?” His eyes were sparkling, and a grin spread over his face.

“Well,” she started. “At the moment we're too broke and too young and too busy.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “As far as I know, you’re not pregnant right now, Ms Smartypants.”

“Mrs Smartypants-Hiddleston, please.”

“I love that sound.”

“You love me.”

“That I do.”

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon two months after their small wedding. They were lying in bed – in the living-room, because that’s where you put the bed in a flat that only has one room, a small kitchen area and a tiny bathroom – enjoying the feels of their bodies after the sex. And probably before the sex as well, because what else were you supposed to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon when you were young and in love? And broke. But they were living in London, like they wanted to.

Beth closed her eyes. She could feel the smile on her face. Tom smelled nice. And goodness, she was so in love with him.

“Libby?” She also loved her name on his lips.

“Hm?”

“Kids? Ever?”

“What is it with you and kids now?”

“Well, we're married,” he shrugged. “Guess it’s time to talk about it.”

“Two months.”

“Best months of my life.”

She rolled her eyes. “Smooth, Hiddleston.”

“You love it, Hiddleston. So. Kids?”

Beth shifted. Her chin rested on Tom’s chest as he grinned down at her. Her fingers trailed patterns on his sides, making him chuckle.

“Yes, Tom. Children. Of course. Not now, not without having a steady income or enough time. But yes. I wouldn’t have married you, if I didn’t want a family.”

His smile grew. “Okay.”

“Okay. Just promise me you’ve got enough time for me and our five children when you’re a big Hollywood heartthrob. And that you’ll leave your three girlfriends waiting in your penthouse.”

Beth screeched when Tom suddenly turned to pin her to the bed. He planted a wet kiss straight on her mouth. “Always.”

***
“—right?”

Beth jerks, shakes her head and blinks once, twice. She stares at her patient in front of her, both hands holding her big, round baby belly.
She shakes her head again, trying to get rid of the last remnants the daydream left in her mind. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“Are you alright?” her patient, Sarah, asks.
This time, Beth nods. “Yes. Yes, sorry. And I should ask you that. You’re the one 38 weeks pregnant.”

A smile, almost giddy, graces her face. “I am. I can’t wait. And I wanted to know, if there is a chance that I can come in before the baby’s due. There is, right?”

“You come in at week 40 again, that’s correct.”

Beth tries – and fails – to tear her eyes away from Sarah's stomach. It’s not easy. Not at all. She suppresses a sigh. Damn Tom Hiddleston and him coming back into her life, bringing all the memories with him. She managed just fine before. Has been managing for six years now.

She shakes her head. No. No, Tom’s definitely not back in her life. They haven’t talked all weekend after the night in the pub. He’s not tried to contact her again. But why would he? He was drunk, they were drunk, nothing happened, nothing happens, nothing is going to happen.

Well, maybe she should sign those papers.
It’s just that all these thoughts have been in her head all weekend. And it doesn’t help that she's meeting all of these pregnant women in her job.

Still, Beth is 32. There's enough time. Eventually, she’ll meet the man of her dreams. Again, her mind chimes in, something she shuts down immediately. Tom obviously isn’t the man of her dreams. That never worked out.

There's enough time to have children on her own. Rationally, she knows that. But one doesn’t get married – even at the age of 21 – if one doesn’t want a future with someone. At least, not normally. And Beth wanted a future with Tom. And at the time she thought he wanted that too. He’s told her he wanted that. So, he either lied to himself, her, or in the end she wasn’t important enough.

All of these options hurt. Still hurt.

Beth clears her throat as Sarah does too. Apparently, she's been lost in her thoughts again.

She checks the clock on the wall. 8.45. She sighs. This is going to be the longest Monday she's had in a while.
***

“Okay, Hiddleston. Man up,” Tom whispers to himself as he makes his way to the old Johnson place. To Libby’s flat.

It’s Monday evening, he’s given them both the weekend to recover from Friday night. Or well, has given himself the Saturday off to wallow in self pity induced by a hangover from hell. On Sunday he was too ashamed to meet, and now it’s time to talk business. And by business he means papers.

Time’s running out, it’s not like he wants to spend his time here instead of London with his friends. He needs to get this done before Julia arrives in England to meet his family.

Tom’s here without his car – fresh air does him some good after all – but with food from the Indian place between his flat and Libby's.

She's always loved Indian food. Maybe it makes both of them talk to each other like normal human beings.

He sighs and rings the bell. After about half a minute he rings the bell again for good measure. She has to be home, right? Matt is back to work and their friends are home doing coupl-y things. Surely.

Just as Tom puts his finger on the bell to ring yet again, he sees a shadow on the other side of the door.

“Dammit, yes, I'm here!” Libby grumbles as the door flies open. Then she stops, her mouth hanging open for a few seconds, before she shuts it and blinks at him instead. Then she opens her mouth again to utter a, “Tom?”.

He doesn’t answer right away. No. Just a few seconds have passed and now he’s the one staring and being gobsmacked. He hasn’t seen her like this in forever. Well. He hasn’t seen her in forever. Period. Neither like this nor in any other form.

Libby’s apparently had a shower quite recently as her wet hair is combed back, little droplets still falling on her shoulders. Her shoulders that are clad in his old dark blue Cambridge t-shirt he’s never seen again after he left for Los Angeles. Damn it, damn her, she still looks good in it. Especially paired with his old dark grey jogging bottoms she obviously didn’t get rid of either. It was her favourite sleeping outfit back in the days when they would sleep dressed at all.

Brought back to the present by the clearing of a throat, Tom looks back at Libby's face and into her brown eyes. He can’t help but grin as he sees her cheeks darken with a red tint. So, she knows that he’s recognised her outfit. Does she still sleep in this? Is it some sort of melancholy? Hell, he knows he himself feels rushes of memories during his stay here. But then again, he is sleeping in his old room at his father’s house.

“What?” she hisses now, not moving an inch from the door or looking like she would let him into the house anytime soon. Keen on making him leave, obviously.

Tom knows he shouldn't do it, but he can’t stop himself from teasing her. At least a little. A tiny bit of old times. “Nice outfit.”

“It's comfy,” Libby snaps, her cheeks reddening a bit more.

“It's also not an outfit I thought I’d ever see again.” Stop it, Tom.

“Well, here you go. I’m wearing it. Look your fill and then you can go back to--,” A noise from one of the rooms downstairs makes her pause and close the door a bit more. “What do you want?”

Tom holds up the bag containing their food. “I brought dinner.”

Now, Libby stands up little straighter, her lips forming that adorable pout of hers and her eyes squinting at him. “Why?”

“I thought we could talk.”

“Again, why?”

Well, damn it all. Now, he’s the one sighing. “Please, Libby? I think you know why. And can we not do it here? Also, it’s Indian.”

“Is it spicy?” It’s almost a whisper, and Tom has to suppress his grin at that.

“Of course, it is.”
***

Libby’s flat is larger than Tom imagined. He probably thought of a smaller space, because the last time they've been in Oxford together was when she was living in her parent's house.

Not that she's shown him more than the hallway – which admittedly he had to somehow cross – and her living-room with the very comfortable looking sofa, her tv and a massive book shelf along with a dining area. From his place on the chair at the table, Tom also has a good view into the kitchen, which looks bright, woody and inviting.

Munching on her rice and curry, Libby studies him from across the table. She swallows as Tom rises a brow, takes a sip from her beer bottle and then fixes him with a look she's already perfected about ten years ago.

“You wanted to talk, Hiddleston.”

Tom swallows his own food, which is a bit spicier than he thought. He can also see Libby grinning at the light sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. “I did, yes. I wanted to apologise for Friday, actually.”

At that, she looks down. “For what?”

Ugh, she makes him say it, huh? “I probably was a bit drunker than I thought. That and all those memories... I just hope you don’t think I wanted to take advantage of you.”

She smiles a little at that. “It is full of memories here, huh?”

“Yeah.” He can only nod. “I can’t imagine what it must be like still living in all these memories.”

He knows he said the wrong thing the moment the words have left his mouth. He doesn’t even need to look at Libby and see the scowl on her face. He looks at her anyway.

“It's been okay with the right company actually,” is all that she answers, before chewing on another spoonful of rice.

Fair enough. “Okay.” He swallows. “I wondered,” he then continues, before he glances at his plate and puts his fork down. Then, he looks up again. “I wondered if these memories maybe help us talk about the papers like grown up human beings.”

Libby chuckles and rolls her eyes. But it’s not the chuckle he knows from years ago. It’s more grown up and it’s definitely not friendly. Tom used to make her chuckle quite lovingly.
He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to make her smile, laugh, or chuckle like that again. Julia – his fiancée Julia – has a lovely chuckle as well.

“Is that how you get your fangirls and co-stars to swoon, Hiddleston?”

“Hm?”

“The puppy dog eyes that you just pulled. Along with that tiny pout on your lips. And the furrowed brows. The look you’re sporting right now. You haven’t learned that at RADA. That’s all Hollywood. Surely works wonders on your fans on the internet.”

“I wasn’t--,” Wasn’t he, though? Isn’t he? He’s trying to convince her, and he also knows what works on her. At least he used to.

She interrupts him with a sigh. That he knows from previous arguments. She's always been good at that. “Just, shut up for a moment, Tom. I’ll read your damn papers, and then we both can move on without all these memories, huh?”

Well, isn’t that exactly what he wants? “I’ll bring them over tomorrow then.”
***

Ten minutes later – honestly, what’s the point in staying after dinner? – Tom leaves, walking in front of Libby through the hallway. The walls are full of pictures. Some look like they’re drawn and painted by children, some are photographs of babies and toddlers. They can’t all be related to Libby.

And indeed, as Tom stops to inspect them closer, he can see thank-you-notes written on most of them. She's helped these children into the world.

“Don't you want children on your own?” he asks and immediately feels the tension in the room shift. He looks back over his shoulder at Libby. She's glaring at him. “What?” he mumbles.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“Uh.”

“Yes, Tom,” she hisses, and he cringes. “Yes, I fucking want children on my own. I wanted them ten years ago, and I wanted them six years ago. You wanted them too. You wanted them with me. We got married, Tom. We got fucking married and we talked about children. How dare you ask me that?”

Just as he wants to answer, though he’s got no idea what he should even say, Libby continues. “I wanted children with you Tom, and you left me. I see children every day at work and they’re not mine. And you know what? That’s fine. Sometimes it doesn’t work out. We didn’t work out because of exactly that. Work. You chose work over a life with me, and you chose work over having children with me. I just wonder what changed.”

Tom looks at her, stunned. It was a simple question. She always loved children. And yes. They talked about them. Apparently. But now tears are streaming down Libby's face as she stands before him, shaking and holding herself, wearing clothes from his Cambridge days.

“I wonder, if it was just me that wasn’t enough for you. Because I couldn’t compete with your job. And Julia – that’s her name, right? – Julia can compete with your job. So. It was me.”

“Libby.”

She shakes her head. “You should leave. Put the papers in the mailbox tomorrow, I’ll read and sign them.”

“Libby, I...”

“Leave.”

And so, he does. Glancing at Libby, he turns and hears the door close behind him. He doesn’t know what to think. Has no idea what to do.

Tom sighs. That’s a lie. He does know. Leave the papers, have her send them to his solicitor and leave for London.