The house was cold and unwelcoming and Tom was already desperate to leave, despite having only arrived an hour ago. The cabbie had been friendly but Tom wasn't really one for trivial discussion and only offered grunts in response to his remarks about the weather. He even joked that Tom might be out to commit a murder, so late was the hour and so isolated the destination and so frozen was his nature. At that, Tom's frown had deepened and the cabbie kept chatting to a minimum. He had grazed infuriatingly close to the truth, though. That was what Tom had been like.
Not anymore.
He offered a strained smile as he handed the notes to the cabbie and watched him drive back up the gravelly path effortlessly, leaving him stranded with a hooting owl in the distance for company. Tom pulled his coat tighter around his chest and shivered, pacing up to the front door and fumbling for the keys in his pocket, fingers cold and temporarily inactive due to the brisk chill the night provided.
It soon became apparent that being inside wasn't much better. The whole place was tiny and quaint, which in polite terms meant boring. Then again, when you're suddenly unemployed and lacking cash there isn't a great selection of housing on offer. Tom was at least thankful that the theme wasn't minimalist snobbery which he was all too familiar with in the profession.
Ah, the profession. A term that Tom would now have to use in the past tense. He wondered what he would do with the endless days ahead, but pushed that thought aside hurriedly by exploring the house.
The kitchen was poorly stocked but Tom had noted a small grocery store in the village on the way to the house. There was a bathroom with a patchwork shower curtain and rough, orange carpet. Two bedrooms, both small, and a room tucked away behind the lounge that Tom knew he'd probably end up using as a study. Although, a study for what work he had not decided and didn't want to dwell on.
Glancing through the kitchen window, Tom saw a small stretch of grass which he assumed to be a garden, which he instantly knew he would leave in its current state of dishevelled clusters of weeds and grass as high as his knees.
He checked his watch efficiently and noted that the hands were just skimming midnight. Tom rolled his rucksack off his shoulders and propped it up neatly on the sofa, moving aside some paisley green cushions. He hadn't bothered to take off his shoes and tiny pieces of twigs and gravel chunks had gathered under his feet and patterned the carpet.
This was home. And it felt absolutely suffocating.
Danny and Zoe would be at their apartment, probably sleeping, probably with sufficient amounts of alcohol inside them. Would they miss him? The watery smile Zoe had given him suggested that she would, but in a few weeks the cool Adam Carter would probably ease the blow of his absence with his grinning and encouraging shoulder-clapping and calling everyone 'mate' like they had been his best friends for years.
Ah, that bastard. Tom hated Six and he hated guys who revelled in the fact that they were good at what they did, and Adam Carter was a combination of both of these evils. Tom knew that he had been one of the best officers the Service may have had in a while, but he never showed it. He was conscious of keeping his face neutral and not indulging in expressing much emotion because it never did any good, and then bastards like Carter would prey upon your weaknesses.
He probably had Tom's bloody desk and all.
Harry would be in his office of course; he practically lived there. Ruth would be big-eyed and hesitantly trying to approach him. Tom knew that he didn't truly hate them, no matter how hard he could try. A tiny part of him even hoped they might be happy because Harry was a good man and Tom knew it, no matter how many times they had clashed, and Ruth was one of those genuine people who was rather difficult to dislike.
Of course, he had jeopardised an operation and knew that the end of his career was his fault. But after the Herman Joyce incident and Adam's cunning rivalry, Tom was having too many doubts and knew that eventually they would come flooding to the surface.
He had crawled onto the sofa, staring at his shoes. Sleek leather. Classy worker.
Unemployed and alone. Questioning everything.
Tom kept his eyes on the watch secured around his wrist for the most part of that night - the time he had was the only thing he could be certain of anymore.