There's something about Daria Morgendorffer that keeps Tom coming back.
He doesn't know what it is, because there really isn't anything about her that should leave him wanting more. As far as the more shallow aspects of life go, she's plain – her hair is some common combination of red and brown, forever styled in some drab, lifeless way; her dress never shows off any of the positive features she might be trying so hard to hide; she's always frowning like something has personally offended her, and the sour expression is off-putting to say the least.
Her personality is a whole other can of worms entirely. For as long as Tom's known her – ten years, for christ's sake – she's always been the same person. She's always been so bitter, and cynical, and she never lets herself go and just be happy. He doesn't know what it is that's made her like that (because she's never trusted him enough to tell him), but he can't even begin to imagine how horrible it must have been to shape her into such an eternally disdainful human being.
And she's always been immature, too. She's never been one to willingly admit that she was wrong, even when she definitely was. She's never been one to go out of her way to apologize, even when she really should have. She's never been one to put effort into a relationship, even when the relationship really deserved it.
But somehow, even after the countless stupid fights they've had over the years; after the numerous half-hearted make-ups followed by swift unfazed break-ups; after the inestimable stubborn falling outs and the distant unapologetic reconciliations – Tom still doesn't do what he knows is the best for him. He still doesn't stop letting her reel him back in.
Which is how he finds himself in the living room of Daria Morgendorffer's apartment, staring at her over a coffee table sparsely decorated with books about Goya and Kahlo and Tom really doesn't care who else. It's how he finds himself staring at the girl – the woman – that he doesn't even have the pride to pretend he isn't still completely in love with, while she informs him very quietly, very unemotionally, very characteristically, that she's going to be married. To Jane.
It's not exactly a surprise to Tom. He'd always had his suspicions about the pair of them – there were friendships, of course, and then there was an utter dependency on one another that can only result from real, honest love. The kind of utter dependency that keeps bringing Tom back to Daria every time she calls, because he can't get over how goddamn perfect she is to him.
But it's that same utter dependency that Jane has for Daria, too. The only difference between Jane's utter dependency and Tom's utter dependency is that Daria reciprocates Jane's, and Tom's is forever rebuffed.
Tom doesn't tell Daria that he's happy for her. Even if thought that he was – even if he wanted to pretend that he was – he knows that she wouldn't believe him. Because even if Daria doesn't love Tom, she at least knows him, and she would be able to tell that it wasn't the truth. So Tom doesn't bother. He just keeps staring at her, staring into those exceptionally unexceptional eyes of hers, and trying to remember when things really went wrong.
When Daria sighs, and turns to face the wall where a painting – a painting of Jane's – hangs imposingly against the stark blankness of the rest of the room, Tom thinks that it might have been when he first ended up falling for her. When he first started noticing her instead of Jane, and when he first started falling asleep thinking about her instead of Jane, and when he first started wishing that he was with her instead of Jane.
When Daria cracks a small smile at the painting on the wall, without any apparent provocation, Tom thinks that it might have been when he first let himself fall for her. When he first started being able to call her without a Jane-related excuse, and when he first started going out with her on Friday nights for pizza, and when he actually was with her, and not Jane.
When Daria remembers that Tom's there, and is startled out of her reverie, Tom knows that it was when he tried to pretend that Daria could love him, too. When he first started pretending that he didn't notice when she was more interested in conversations with Jane, with whom she had so much less in common, and when he first started pretending that he didn't see the way that her eyes always lit up whenever Jane came into the room, and when he first started pretending that he didn't think it was possible that Daria could want to be with Jane instead.
"I'm sorry," Daria says, her tone delivering the words unapologetically, though her expression says so much more and makes the statement actually seem sincere.
Tom catches her eyes once more, before he laughs wryly, and picks up one of the books buried beneath the purely decorative ones that he knows Daria would never buy on her own. It's a worn, illustrated copy of Animal Farm, and Tom just has to take a moment and smile. Because that is something that he knows Daria selected personally, and that is something that he would have expected from her all along, and that is something that he can tell is worn from actual use.
And that is also the same thing that he has resting on his bedside table back in his own apartment. The apartment that's a two hour drive away, but that he was so willing to leave unattended (there goes another innocent goldfish), just because Daria called and wanted to see him.
"What do you have to be sorry for?" Tom responds softly as he flips the book open and sees a picture of Boxer being carted away. The illustration is humorous, and the other animals' reactions are comically overstated. It almost looks like it should be aimed at children. Tom understands that that's one of the reasons why Daria likes it so much – because Daria, despite having always been so mature and dry, has always been longing for fantastic tales of childhood whimsy.
Tom wonders for a moment if Daria and Jane intend to have children soon – maybe artificial insemination, or adoption. Though she'd probably deny it in a second, Tom thinks that Daria would make a wonderful mother – and Jane too, though he's loather to admit it.
He almost makes the mistake of saying as much, but he catches himself just as his mouth opens. Daria gives him a look that's about as curious as her countenance can get, and makes an inquisitive noise, but he just shakes his head and shuts the book.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he murmurs thoughtfully, as his fingertips run over the deteriorated-smooth corners of the novel. "You have nothing to apologize for."
Tom really wishes that he could blame this on Daria. That this was one of those manymanymany occasions when she'd said something rude, or done something unnecessary, or was just being generally insensitive and owed Tom an apology. But it's not. Because this time, she really hasn't done anything. Neither has Tom, if he's being fair to himself and not trying to drown in his own self-pity.
It's not Daria's fault that she's so simple, so natural, and so pure. It's not Tom's fault that he really loves how straightforward, and honest, and genuine she is. It's not even Jane's fault that Daria loves her for being exciting, and adventurous, and different.
It's no one's fault, and there are no apologies to be given or received. Tom just wishes that that was the case under different circumstances.
xoxox
AN: TBH, I don't understand why people hate Tom so much. I've always liked him, and even though [Daria; Jane]/Tom isn't anywhere close to being my OTP, I still think it was a nice relationship that ended up showing a lot of character growth in Daria.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.