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"There it is again. That scowl. You have to tell me, and I won't let you tell me 'nothing,' again. It's something. What is bothering you?'
Agnes looks up from her book, which she is not really reading. Tom is staring at her from his end of the couch, his back against the arm rest, one leg curled up in front of him and the other stretched along the floor so that his toes brush against her ankle, periodically.
"What are you talking about?" At least it's not "nothing," she thinks.
Tom sighs, his expression showing strained patience. "You read for a few minutes, and then you look away, and there is this scowl on your face. Right here." He leans forward and brushes his finger against the space between her eyebrows, trailing down to the bridge of her nose. "You look pained. You're thinking about something that's upsetting you. And I'm begging you to tell me what it is."
Agnes turns her head away from Tom's touch. It's been over a year since they officially became a couple. In that time, they have lived by very different rules than most couples. In this day and age, all of them would have been living together by this point. Not Agnes and Tom. She will not even sleep with him. This has not been an easy thing for Tom to accept but a near-breakup a few months ago made him see the light. And for some reason, he's still with her. Apparently, he is truly in love with her -- something that has taken nearly all of that year for her to accept. He has taken great pains to read her, and so far he's done a good job.
So she has to tell him. As much as it hurts her to admit it, because she knows it's going to hurt him.
"I don't want to go to the premiere with you."
She almost can't look at him once the words are out. Almost. Her head swivels on its own, without her turning it. She sees him frowning in confusion.
"To The Age of Ultron?"
She nods. "Yes. I don't want to go. I'm dreading it."
"It's two weeks away. How long have you been stressing over it?"
"Since you got the invite."
Tom falls silent, hand against the side of his head. She knows this is a shock for him. Tom is never prepared for people to reject things he is uncontrollably excited about. Tom is always so optimistic and positive that there are days when she can't take it. There are days when she wants to smash his face into the cold dark realities that she cannot help but see every day. Sometimes he is just downright naive. It irritates her, probably as much as her pessimism and cynicism irritate and grind on him. Yet he is still with her so he must cope with it in a successful way, as she usually does.
Except when it comes to things like this.
Tom is such a natural celebrity -- he is gracious and polite and holds his head well in sticky situations. He takes command without making it look like he's taking command. And he belongs with someone who can match him in every way. Someone just as affable, as effervescent as him.
She is not this person. She is the dark little troll that lives under the stairs. As least that's how she sees herself, on bad days. On really bad days she is a complete sack of shit (physically) and can't bear for anyone to even look at her. The idea that Tom is with her is absurd. In reality it wouldn't happen. She is convinced she is living in an alternate universe where certain laws are totally fucked upright and bass-akwards.
Yet she can't get rid of him. Not for lack of trying, in the very beginning, until he made her stop.
"And you've waited this long to say anything."
"I wasn't waiting," Agnes replies, closing her book and setting it on the coffee table. "I wasn't going to say anything. Just suffer through it in silence. Either that or fake being sick that day. I was trying to figure it out."
Tom moves his legs and scoots over so he is sitting directly beside her. One arm has gone around her shoulders. "Aggie, you can't do that. We can't have a relationship where you're hiding things from me. How would you feel right now if I'd done that to you?"
She shrugs. "You wouldn't feel this way. About anything. It's not in your nature."
"You know what I mean," he says with a hint of a growl. His fingers go under her chin and turn her face to look at him. "I have to admit that I'm a bit confused. I mean, you went with me to the Olivers last year."
"Award ceremonies are different," Agnes sighs. "I have to support you, that's what a girlfriend is supposed to do. So I push it aside and then stay off the internet and keep away from entertainment shows for the next week. Usually works, but I do catch a snippet."
"A snippet of what?" he asks with a scowl.
She just quirks the corner of her mouth.
"I'm not going to spell it out for you."
He can't be that blind. It's like being in school all over again. She is not the only person who sees how terribly mismatched she is to him. Everyone else sees it, too. And Tom is so loved they all just shrug their shoulders and wonder why he is dating so far below himself, but as long as he's happy that's what is important. Maybe she's a Shakespearean genius and is made of chocolate.
It's not surprising. Even in her own circle she's an odd duck. Her morality, which so many called "old fashioned," and "from another time," is constantly mocked. Her continuous support of chastity and abstinence is derided. When sex is as necessary as air, what do you do with someone who stands up and says, "You are all doing it wrong?" You call them stupid and put them down. You insult them. She's used to that. She can handle that. Take her spiritual beliefs and intelligence to task all day, she can respond and deal or throw up her hands at their transparent stupidity -- their arguments aren't even complicated or creative, usually. It bugs her a little but she knows that's the price. If everyone liked her, she would be doing something wrong.
But this. She can't take being judged for her physical appearance. She agrees with them when they call her euphemisms for fat and ugly. Because she thinks them herself. All the fucking time.
So it's just best if she keeps hidden in her hole. Not stick her head out. Not put herself out there, on Tom's arm. He's the sun and she's the shade. He's diamonds and she's the tarnished setting.
Tom grabs her hand with his other, pulling her tighter to him with the arm around her shoulders. "You know you have to ignore that, right?"
She nods. "I do. When I have to. But I'd rather not have to run the obstacle course when I don't have to."
He shakes his head. "No, I mean, you have to remember that it isn't true. None of it. Not one word. Because you're beautiful."
She laughs. They've had this talk before. Tom seems determined to fix her broken self esteem, but if therapists can't do it, what chance does an Eton/Cambridge grad have?
"No, Tom," she tells him, reaching up to brush her fingers through his burnished curls. "You're beautiful."
Tom flusters and shakes his head. "Stop that," he says, but he's grinning.
"What, I have to take it and you don't?"
"Half of my physical appeal is make-up artists, hair stylists and wardrobe consultants," Tom says.
Agnes almost laughs again. "I'm sitting here on the couch with you and none of those people are present. Trust me, you're beautiful."
If it's possible, he pulls her even tighter. "Then we're done. We're both beautiful."
She laughs, shakes her head and starts to withdraw from his grip. He won't relent. His expression has taken on an edge.
"Why do you do that?" he asks. There is an undertone of such gravity in his voice that it makes her stop struggling against him.
"Tom," she sighs, "you think I'm beautiful because you love me."
"I think you're beautiful because you are."
She shakes her head. "You know me. You know me inside and out. You are in love with the person that I am, and that brings beauty to my appearance. It must bring a lot since you've been subjected to my 'no makeup' face."
"You're even more beautiful then," he murmurs.
"Shut up," she says lightly. "But you, you're beautiful regardless. There are two kinds of beauty, you know."
"Oh, really? Enlighten me."
"Object and subjective," she reasons out. She always was the more logical of the two. "Subjective beauty is subject to the eye of the beholder. Some people are attractive to selective other people, or based on the situation. Other people are beautiful no matter what. Like Monica Bellucci. Or....God, take your pick. Leonardo DeCaprio. Orlando Bloom. Lee Pace. Attractive physically no matter what's beneath. Why do you think your friend Chris Evans uglifies himself so much? Because he wants people to see who he is and not what he looks like."
"Well, what if I'd turned out to be an asshole?" Tom demands. "You wouldn't think I was beautiful then."
She shrugs. "I'm a writer. I have. I've imagined you in many different scenarios. Each time I still adore you because of your beautiful face." She cups his chin, her fingers brushing against his dark golden goatee. "I'm a twisted individual. But that I know you inside and out? And the fact that you let some of that glorious personality and vulnerability out into the world for everyone to see? That's why your fans make an army. That's why they're loyal to you. You aren't just beautiful, Tom. You're radiant. You literally are a star."
He has flushed deep red by the end of her speech. For a moment, he doesn't answer -- maybe he can't.
She pulls back a bit. "And that's why none of them think you should be with me. So I don't want to antagonize them because most of the time I think it too."
Tom gives a bit of a growl and then leaps onto the couch, practically pinning her to the other arm rest.
"You will never say that again," he warns, looming over her.
A bit flustered, Agnes says nothing for a moment, but she's not one to buckle under pressure. She adjusts herself so that her knees are between her and Tom, giving her a bit of protection. "I'm sorry, but you asked! And I guess I'm just afraid one day you'll realize it too. So I prefer...not to go. Unless it's important."
He shakes his head. "So all your arguments before about not coming with me to my premieres or telling me that it was work and you wanted me to focus on my fans and interviews and everything--"
"All of it true."
"But not the real reason. So why did you agree in the first place for this one?"
"Because you were so excited at the thought of me being there with all your friends!" Agnes cries. "I know you wanted me to meet them, and I knew Elsa would be there, but before you've always let me go around and meet you inside and didn't subject me to the red carpet for more than a few minutes, but now you made it sound like some huge party and I saw how much it meant to you...so I said yes."
"You said yes...didn't you think I was going to be crushed if you came down with some mysterious illness the day of the event?"
"That's why I was leaning toward just suffering through it," Agnes groans. She collapses against the couch, and Tom stops applying pressure to her shoulders. "I just...was dreading it. Quietly, or at least I thought. But I obviously can't hide that kind of shit from you, Mr. Student of Human Nature."
Tom falls silent for a few minutes, processing.
"And Chris and Elsa are a perfect example of what I'm talking about," she pipes up. "I mean, talk about a power couple. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Even when he was with Jennifer Aniston."
Tom sits back down and pulls her to him again. He grabs her knees and lifts her lower legs positioning himself under them so he is as close to her as he can get. For a moment she is concerned he will pull her onto his lap -- as nice as the idea is, when it actually happens, his bony knees press into her round behind a bit uncomfortably. When he gets a bit more muscular for roles it's easier but in his natural sender state, not her ideal.
"So tell me why you think this about yourself," he says, his voice soft but serious.
She frowns. "What?"
"I mean, it's one thing to compare your level of attractiveness to someone else, but you don't even seem to see yourself as subjectively beautiful. Even though," and he rubs her legs and pulls them closer when he says this, "I think you are radiantly beautiful. And anyone who knows anything about you at all thinks that, too."
She just smiles at him.
"See? You don't believe it."
"I accept that you believe it."
He shakes his head. "No, I want to know. I mean, obviously what I think doesn't mean much--"
"Don't be stupid," she digs in one of her heels in a mild kick. "What you think means everything."
"No, it doesn't. There are voices in your head much louder than mine, and those are the ones you listen to. What do they say, Aggie?"
She hesitates. Her smile is gone now. She doesn't want to have this conversation anymore. Having them in her head is one thing. Out loud, with him of all people, is another entirely. So she looks down at her lap and falls silent.
"Tell me, Aggie. Please? Let me in." His eyes are so big, so pleading. And she has committed to this relationship to him. If she really wants to keep it, she has to take this risk. "I want to know what those vicious things are that something in your head keeps telling you."
It hurts. It hurts so much to even think about it. Most days, she manages to brush them aside simply by agreeing and moving on. Yes I'm disgusting. But I have to keep on existing so tough. But that's only when she's feeling really bad. She doesn't feel really bad right now, not really, just pensive, but all this talk has stirred things inside her that she doesn't want to talk about. It's hard enough just knowing they are there, but giving them voice gives them more power.
Tom's hand cups her calves, running his fingertips up and down the muscle through her yoga pants.
"It's not some magic voodoo," she says, attempting a deflection. "It's pretty simple, really."
"And?"
She takes a breath. God, it hurts so much. "That I'm fat and ugly."
Tom stares at her. Disbelief is genuine on his face.
She lets out a breath. "Oh come on, Tom. My weight is hardly ideal."
"Your weight is fine. Period. A little more or less, who gives a fuck?" He eyes her. "I think it's perfect. I like how you're shaped."
"Perfect is bullshit, everyone has room for improvement," she says.
"But you said fat," Tom stresses. "And these days that word is an insult to fuller figured people."
"You are so fucking politically correct," she sighs. Bickering with him is good. It keeps her from focusing on what she's said.
"You are not fat," he stresses.
"You are full of shit," she stresses back. "And you also haven't seen me naked--"
"Not for lack of trying," he quips.
"--and you have no idea what I've got under here. What I try to hide on a daily basis."
"I just can't understand why your self worth is dependent on this," and for emphasis, he reaches under the edge of her T-shirt and grabs her belly. It's not the first time he's touched her there but it makes her jump ten feet and her hand goes to his automatically to shove him away.
"Fat is unattractive," she reiterates. "Period. And I'm not talking about Marilyn Monroe fat. I'm not talking about voluptuous. I'm talking about flabby arm fat and thick thighs and celluloid and rolls of fat!" She shoves his hand away.
"And you have none of those things and I wouldn't care if you did!"
"You would," Agnes growls, narrowing her eyes at him. "I had them once and it is entirely possible I will have them again. Why do you think I have no pictures of me from high school until about five years ago? I don't want you to see that. EVER."
Tom sighs. "I'm in love with you. I will always be in love with you."
She gives a nasty little laugh. "Yes, but you won't always be attracted to me. You won't want me."
He shakes his head. He actually seems a bit hurt. "How you continuously underestimate me. You think I'm some shallow man---"
"That you're a man is enough." You want to yank you legs away from him, get up and get some space but he will not let go of you. "Come on, Tom. Yes, I know that some men are into fat girls. They like it. But men who are not, ARE NOT! They don't change their mind. I mean, maybe they want to try some variety, I learned in my fat years that I wasn't single because I didn't have options, it was because I didn't want the options I had. It took a while for me to discover that, but I was hit on enough times to figure it out. And I've seen your ex-girlfriends, Tom -- all petite brunettes. All of them."
"Curvy brunettes," Tom corrects.
"Yes, and I know I walk a thin line," she sighs, sitting back.
"Well, I'll just have to dig in and wait you out on that one," Tom sighs back. "Where did this idea come from, that fat equaled unattractive?"
"Any beauty magazine on the planet," she said flatly.
He shakes his head. "You never put stock on those things. You heard it from somewhere close. Somewhere it affected you and took root."
Now she really wants to stop this conversation. She feels the lump rising in her throat and the tears come to her eyes so fast she can't push them back. "My...my dad," she manages.
Tom looks boggled. His jaw literally drops. "Your dad told you fat was unattractive?"
She looks away. Hell, she doesn't want to tell him this, but he pulls himself closer to her, so that her thighs are now partially on his lap. He can see it on her face.
"When I was a freshman in high school, I went to my first dance," she says, letting out a breath to steady herself. "I wore a dress from my closet, this pretty white shiny thing with ruffles, it was very eighties -- it wasn't a formal dance, just something to celebrate the end of our first year. And I was having a great time. I'd never gone to a dance before. It was my first and everyone kept telling me how pretty I looked. And I got it into my head that I was going to ask the boy I liked, Andy, who I'd known since sixth grade, who'd always been nice to me, if he wanted to dance. And when I did, he said he couldn't because he'd already promised another girl, and I saw her come up to him -- she was ten times prettier than me, but he seemed really sorry about it. I didn't feel bad, I was fine. And then some little pig came up to me who was supposed to be my friend -- I think her name was Melissa -- and saw what happened and laughed at me and told me that he wouldn't want to dance with me. And I nearly burst into tears and ran from the dance. So I hid in the bathroom for the rest of the night until it was over and I could escape. I was shattered --" At this point Tom has his hands on her waist, really to wrap his arms around her, his expression clearly showing the agony he's feeling, hearing her recount this pain, "and I ran for my Dad's car, he was picking me up. I was crying in the car, told him what happened, and..."
No, she can't go on. She can't describe it. She was fourteen, it was years ago, more than half her life and this is still there, a wound that never, ever closed and just sent its infected poison into her bloodstream to cripple her throughout her entire life.
"Aggie," Tom presses softly. "What did your Dad say?"
"When we got home, he looked at me up and down, shrugged and said, 'Well, you know, you are a bit chubby. What do you expect?'"
The horror on his face...."He said that?"
She shrugged. "It was what he thought. Where do you think I get it from? My Dad can never say anything but what he thinks is the truth. And that brutal honesty is what I've inherited. I almost slammed the bathroom door in his face but my Dad was all about facing the horrible truth. And maybe one of the reasons I never dated anybody seriously was because my dad called them all 'chubby chasers.' He thought he was teasing but he never understood that it hurt. It felt like an insult, to both them and me. That I was only attractive to men who saw fat as attractive."
Tom looks away. She can see the anger twitching in his jaw. "He should never have said that. Any of that. That was...awful. He was supposed to tell you that you were beautiful and that the boy didn't deserve you."
She shrugs. "If he'd said that, it would have been a lie."
"It was the truth," Tom snarls. His eyes are blazing -- both with rage and with tears. "My God, Aggie...you've been living with the voice of your father in your head telling you you're not good enough. Since you were fourteen. The man who was supposed to love you no matter what -- "
"He does love me, Tom," she corrects him. "He does. My dad had a rough time of it, you know, growing up. He never really believe that either of his parents loved him. So I forgive him for his mistakes--"
"You should talk to him about this. He needs to know--"
"No!" Agnes shouts, and at this distance the force of her voice is physical. "I'm not going to lay into my dad, he wouldn't understand, especially now. He'd just accuse me of starting a fight."
"Then I should talk to him. I swear if he ever says anything about me being a chubby chaser, I will have words with him."
"No!" Agnes insists, albeit a bit quieter. "Tom, you don't understand. It was what he thought. It was his truth. He would never lie to me. A lie told out of compassion or sympathy is still a lie."
"But he was wrong!" Tom insists. "His truth was wrong! Don't you see how fucked up that is? That this man who is the closest man to you in your life sees you this way? He's wrong to think that! He's wrong to say it, to believe it for even a split second!" Tom is so angry his fingers have bunched into fists in her T-shirt at her waist. And then, abruptly, he pulls her so that she is across him, one arm locked around her hips. It throws her off, and she can't look at him, can't let him see how much it hurts, what he's saying.
"Look at me, Aggie, please," he begs.
She turns her eyes to his. She is only a few inches above him on his lap -- he is so damn long -- and she gazes down into his eyes which are as teary as hers.
"I'm not your father. I can't replace him. But I am the man in your life who wants to be the closest to you now. You're not a vulnerable fourteen year old anymore, you are a grown woman in a relationship with a man you are going to marry someday. And I want to be the louder voice in your head -- I want to drown his out and make you forget it ever happened. It may never completely go away, but you've told me yourself about how you believe in the absoluteness of the marital relationship, the husband and the wife are everything for each other, and this is something I've finally come to understand. I am the sole male voice in your head now. I am yours as much as you are mine. And I will keep telling you how beautiful and perfect and wonderful and radiant you are until maybe one day you believe me. Maybe not for yourself, but because I will always believe it. No matter if you gain or lose fifty pounds, I don't care. Because this--" he taps her temple, "this is mine now. My place. And I won't give it up."
He is stroking her face as he speaks. Her eyes and nose are running. Her hands rest on his shoulders and then bury themselves in his hair. She presses her cheek to his, feeling him nuzzle the hair at her temple with his nose. He whispers his love, but it is his promise that has finally convinced her.
He wants to be the voice in her head. She wants to let him. It feels like an insurmountable task, but for the first time she is willing to try.
She goes to the premiere with him. She has a lovely time meeting everyone, and Robert Downey Jr. makes her blush by telling her how gorgeous she is, in his casual, state-the-obvious way. Elsa Hemsworth and Susan Downey wait with her when Tom goes off for the photo ops with members of the cast who insist he join them. Tom keeps her close when he returns, and whispers to her continuously how fabulous she looks in the custom dress he made her order that flatters her figure. But she doesn't care. She doesn't care how beautiful she looks.
Tom thinks she's radiant. It's enough.