Chapter 3
What in the world was he doing? In what realm was any of this a good idea? These thoughts and more prompted Tom to push away from his desk and head to the kitchen. Pacing seemed like a useful strategy at this moment. He needed to move. To think. Although his hangover kept him from going on a morning jog when he first woke, the culprit now was the London rain.
He was supposed to change his password. He was supposed to sign-off the browser and never stumble upon Instagram or you ever again. You had asked who you were speaking to this morning and his act of cowardice was supposed to get you to show your true colors. Perhaps, send message after message incessantly, expecting an immediate answer until it escalated to the point when he wouldn't feel guilty for his silence? Or—you could have lost interest at the prospect of potentially not speaking to a 'movie star'? This morning was supposed to be a fluke.
"What am I doing?!" he shouted to himself, running long fingers through unruly curls. Palms slid down his temples and rested on beard-covered jaws.
If you were supposed to be a fleeting memory, why could he not get you out of his head? You lingered in his thoughts. He wanted to ask you questions about your profession, your 'kids', your life... He wanted that energy that's created when two complete strangers learn about one another, piece by piece. The heartbreaking realization was this: he wanted a friend.
Now, Tom was a pleasant guy, affable to a fault, and certainly had plenty of friends. The majority of them all held the same common characteristic: their friendship was based on their shared profession. Being friends with those who hold the same career came with its own set of difficulties. Whether he wanted to feel it or not, there would always be a level of comparison between actors. Hell, Chris was one of his closest friends, but that friendship was born from competing to earn the role of Thor. It all worked out as it was supposed to in the end–that was true enough.
The fact still remained—he just wanted to be Tom. Not Tom Hiddleston. Not Loki. Although, Tom was having some troubles of his own at the current moment that had absolutely nothing to do with acting.
"That maddening picture," he muttered to himself. The comical aspect of his frustration was highlighted as he directed his statement to a sleeping Bobby. The dog laid in silence, but Tom reacted as though he received an answer. The frustration morphed until a softer wash came over his visage. "You're right. It was just a picture of her shirt. In fact...," he paused, thinking over the pun that adorned the t-shirt.
He didn't want to admit it out loud, but the words left him before he could stop. "Adorable. It was absolutely adorable," shaking his head as he circled the living room coffee table. His eyes glanced at the standing clock along his mantel. In the privacy of his home, fingers came down to his side as he did the time difference math with slender fingers as a guide. He hated maths. Numbers didn't click in his mind the way words could—but more importantly, numbers never moved a person. Numbers didn't convey emotions.
"It's not even the afternoon for her. It's still morning. What time must it be there? She barely got any sleep. I couldn't have helped matters with my messages earlier. I kept her awake—." It wasn't until an alert came from his computer, that he was pulled back to the moment.
cgfan0820
What would people be thinking when they first saw that picture? I'm all ears.
By the way, that would be an idiom. In case you didn't notice, like you didn't notice poor Scott's exclamation points.
Hovering over his chair to read the messages sent, he adjusted his glasses to get a better look at the screen. A deep exhale mixed with laughter came as he read your words. Would you ever let him forget that you hadn't paid close attention to the boy's words? Immediately, he appreciated the way that you continued to question him, yet still added humor to the comments. It eased him enough that he was able to settle back into his desk chair, studying the message. Your humor provided him with enough courage to respond how Tom would want to respond.
twhiddleston
Hardly seems fair that I should answer your question, when you've yet to answer mine.
Type. Type. Stop. Type. Type. Stop. His tongue absentmindedly slid across his lower lip, analyzing the typing pattern with curiosity. Was he pushing too far?
cgfan0820
Did I wear this shirt for you?
twhiddleston
Ah, so you did read the question.
cgfan0820
I chose to ignore it, much like you ignored all of Scott's exclamation points.
twhiddleston
Will you ever forget my transgression?
cgfan0820
What sort of teacher would I be if I didn't help you learn from your mistakes?
In isolation, it was an innocent question. To be honest, you could have meant it very innocently indeed. There was no proof anywhere in the conversation that should make him believe you were flirting with him. You didn't even know who you were talking to, whether it be him or someone who ran the Instagram account. Still, Tom found himself scrolling up to look at all the previous messages you had sent, searching for any clue as to how he should take your current conversation.
His oceanic hues settled on a picture–not the Star Wars shirt picture, but rather one of the images that contained Scott's writing. It was an image he hadn't spotted originally when you first sent it. He wouldn't tell you that he sent a message to you before reading over each page of his writing. When you reached the end of the story, you assumed that was all. Now he scanned the final picture with the word ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS printed on the top of the paper. The following words were obviously in Scott's handwriting.
Thank you to mis. L/N. She never gave up on me. even wen i was acting like a fool. And thank you loki and my dog.
Tom sat there staring at the image for ten minutes. Words conveyed emotions and Scott had done just that as a writer. His love for you was evident in his effort, not just his thanks. This was why Tom didn't change his password or log out of the browser. This was why he was already five minutes late for a conference call about season 2 of Loki.
You were the reason.
—-----------------------------------
Meanwhile, you were having a mild panic attack in the middle of the district wide meeting for various reasons. You had asked this stranger whether or not they wanted to take your shirt off. Not just any stranger—someone connected to quite the famous actor. The logical side of you knew that this person couldn't be Tom Hiddleston. He had better things to do than message you. However, the nagging inkling in the back of your brain kept whispering....'what if?' What if you had just sent Tom Hiddleston a picture of yourself? What if you asked him if he wanted to take your shirt off? What if he was flirting with you? What if he referred to you as 'darling'?
"Motherfucker," you muttered to yourself, crossing your legs in an effort to ignore the warmth that developed in a particular location.
The woman next to you raised a judgmental brow at your word choice. You didn't have the mental capacity to explain the movie montage rolling through your head of what you would allow Tom Hiddleston to do to you. Your word choice was the least of your problems. In your defense, you did a marvelous job keeping your language clean in front of the kids. When students weren't around–especially when you were flustered, all bets were off.
After ten minutes had elapsed, you were sure that would be the end of it all. Until...
twhiddleston
What if I promise to make it up to Scott? Will that be enough to have his teacher forgive and forget?
cgfan0820
What if you don't do enough to satisfy me?
Type. Type. Stop. Type. Type. Stop.
twhiddleston
I've never had that issue in the past.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Luke, I'm not angry about—yes, I know you were looking out for my image—No, I completely underst–," Tom attempted to speak with his publicist whom he called as he continued to type away messages to you. He already had a plan formulating, but in order to make it happen—he was going to need Luke, which was proving harder to carry on a conversation with the man when he was apologizing profusely. He rattled on and on to Tom about his thought process about the social media image, especially now that Tom was sober.
cgfan0820
Statement. One....love.
It took Tom a couple of rereads before he recognized the quote, but when he did—even Luke could hear Tom's amused humming on the other end of the line. "Everything alright, Tom?"
twhiddleston
Are we in a game of questions?
cgfan0820
Are we in a game of questions?
twhiddleston
Repetition! One...one.
cgfan0820
So you are familiar with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead?
twhiddleston
Isn't it obvious?
cgfan0820
Who am I speaking to?
"Tom? Are you there?"
twhiddleston
Wouldn't you like to know?
cgfan0820
Rhetoric. Two...one. Match point.
twhiddleston
Are you also familiar with Shakespeare?
cgfan0820
To be or not to be?
twhiddleston
Is that a question?
cgfan0820
OH! I see what you did there. That was clever.
twhiddleston
Thank you, darling. However, game, set, and match.
"TOM!" shouted Luke, yet Tom gave no indication of being startled. Actually, nothing could pull the actor out of his contentment. You knew Tom Stoppard, enough to partake in a game of questions which the characters Rosencrantz and Guildenstern play together. Not only that, but they were two characters from Shakespeare's Hamlet.
"Luke, I have an idea to increase my social media presence. I'll need your help though."
"You'll do this without kicking and screaming?"
Ignoring his question, Tom referred to his action items he had jotted down as the idea came to mind. "How quickly could I get my hands on a Loki wig...and costume?"