Chapter 18
“What’s that?” you screeched, spotting the package outside your apartment door as you trudged up the stairs.
Two days back at work–not even with kids yet, and you were absolutely exhausted. Your birthday was technically tomorrow, but it had been decided that you’d celebrate with Tom this evening. It had been a busy week for you both–him more so as training for Loki picked back up.
“I haven’t a clue what you could be referring to, my dear,” came Tom’s sing-songy voice, nestled between your ear and shoulder.
“We said no gifts,” warning him as you performed the juggling act of unlocking the door, setting your bag down, keeping your phone against your shoulder, and pushing in the package with your foot.
"You said no gifts,” he corrected with the same carefree air. “Besides, you aren’t fooling anyone. We both know you love a good present.”
“But what do I hate, Mr. Hiddleston?” a trademark tone you usually reserved for students, but it seemed he would be on the receiving end of it—for at least a little bit.
“Horses. You’ll be pleased to find out that there isn’t a horse in the box.”
“Not what I meant…”
“Hm, you strongly dislike ice skating. That seems rather ludicrous to think I would package one of those away in a box,” he went on. Even if you couldn’t see him, you knew there was a smirk on the end of the line.
“No…”
“While I do enjoy a good cup of tea, I believe you refer to it as ‘hot brown water. Not in the box either.”
“Excuse you. Ted Lasso refers to it as hot brown water. I just whole-heartedly agree,” closing your front door behind you and locking up for the evening. Tom made a mental note to not leave you alone with Jason Sudeikis. Honestly, anyone with facial hair–it made him feel far more comfortable to just stop that from ever happening all together. “Give me a second,” he heard you grunt, obviously shifting around and repositioning until the phone call switched from just voice, to facetime as well.
Despite your unamused expression, Tom’s face lit up at the sight of you. Brown hair highlighted from time in the sun over the summer pulled-up into a bouncy ponytail, little lightning bolt earrings working as a subtle nod to your first literary love of Harry Potter, and a t-shirt that sported the phrase “They call me Darth Grader” topped off with an apple in the shape of the Death Star.
You were an absolute nerd. And he adored it. “There’s my gorgeous, birthday girl,” he beamed, settling up against his kitchen counter.
Fighting a smile (and the subsequent blush anytime he gave you a compliment while looking at you), you forced your jaw to draw a hard line. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Hiddleston.”
“I beg to differ. It’s gotten me this far with you,” his grin was all teeth and unstoppable. He pushed back a stray curl behind his ears, working on growing his hair longer for Loki. Upon your not so subtle request, he was holding off on shaving until the bitter end.
"What is it I hate, Tom? What is it?” But this time you didn’t give him any time to make a witty quip. “Surprises, Tom. I hate surprises. Why? Because my face doesn’t know how to handle a surprise.”
Tom settled in for the rant that he knew you had prepared for this very situation. Should he have tried harder to take you seriously? Perhaps. Could he hide his amusement? Absolutely not.
“What if it’s something magnificent?! Hm? Then I have to make sure my face reacts accordingly. You can’t give me a car and I react as though it were a pair of socks!” hands flying up once the phone was secure on the kitchen bar.
“I did not buy you a car…,” and he knew you were being dramatic, yet he did very little to calm you down. He knew he’d have to ride this one out. “I could certainly send you over a Jaguar if that pleases you,” biting his bottom lip as he knew you’d say—
“No! See?! You’re the type of person that could give a car to someone if you wanted to. How am I supposed to prepare myself for that?!” Now you were beginning to pace, having thoroughly worked yourself up.
Alright, it was time for some sense to step in. As humorous as he found all of this to be, Tom knew he'd have to assuage your concerns without completely giving away the surprise. “Darling, everything in that package could have been sent from anyone.” That was his way of saying the price tag was outrageous. You both made it a point not to talk about money. However, he was very much aware that this was your worry—that he would give you something that you would never be able to match.
“Now, before you open your present,” he began softly. “I’ll need you to join the Spotify session with me,” to which earned a tilt of the head from you. “I made a playlist for the evening. I’m in charge of tonight’s soundtrack. Be a good girl,” he gently instructed, to which you had no choice but to obey. Oh, the things this man could tell you to do and you’d gladly follow through…
Once you scanned the code that Tom had sent you, you configured the technology until your living room hummed with a familiar tune. It was the Overture from Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing… Apparently Tom was trying to woo you this evening. Little did he know he had already achieved that goal.
You pulled the box back a tad so it would be in frame as you opened it. It was roughly the size of a—toaster? Maybe a large toaster? Air fryer? You had no sense of spatial awareness. As soon as you broke the seal, you recognized the smell jumping from the box.
“Bath bombs!” an excited squeal, sitting before the box to dig beneath the tissue paper that hid the items.
“Card, first!” Tom called out who had now hopped up on his kitchen counter.
“But—”
“Card,” he instructed, tilting his head as though that would give him a better angle on the event. You stuck out your tongue towards the phone, your bratty tendencies not stopping just because you were a year older. “I’ll remember that for when we’re together” it was a warning, but the type that left a warmth between your legs.
You two had started speaking as though a meeting would happen. It didn’t matter if you hadn’t been able to get anything down on the calendar yet. You would see each other. It would happen. There would be no more what ifs. Did that make it hurt any less? Not a chance.
Plucking the card from the box, you found yourself surprised at the emotion that instantly washed over you. It was your first card from Tom, ever. Your name was scrawled on the front envelope and when you opened it, a separate piece of paper came falling out. The card was simple, blue and without the frills of so many greeting cards out there these days. It had nothing printed on the cover to show that it was a birthday card and when you opened it up–nothing was printed inside as well. All there was to see were the words written in the same scrawl as the front envelope.
‘Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, Did my heart fly at your service’
(The Tempest – Act 3, Scene 1)
The instant I saw but a glimpse of your heart, I knew there was no place I would rather explore, nor journey I wish to travel without you by my side. Let my heart be at your service, for it does so freely and of its own will.
And as you grow another year older, I am eternally grateful to be at your service, my darling. Happiest of birthdays.
All my love,
Tom
The emotion had built upon itself, until it held you by the throat, forcing you to gasp as you had been holding your breath while reading the letter. Although neither of you had actually said the words ‘I love you’, it was clear to you both. It wasn’t until you felt the tiny tear trickle down your cheek did you realize the song had stopped.
“Did you mean for the song to stop at the exact moment I finished the card?” laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion. There’s no way he would go to such trouble as to try and time these songs.
He gave no answer, besides a smile. This was nothing compared to what he wished he could do with you on this day. The fact that you picked up on his efforts, appreciated his attention to detail—it was all worth it. To make this evening special? He would move mountains. “You have an itinerary, love,” he pointed out, just as he switched songs.
The familiar tune of Kiss’ I Was Made For Lovin’ You brought you out of your emotional state, immediately causing you to wiggle back and forth. Soon the itinerary was off to the side, as you began to lip sync the lyrics towards Tom—who immediately joined in.
I was made for lovin' you, baby
You were made for lovin' me
And I can't get enough of you, baby
Can you get enough of me?
For the next four and a half minutes, you two bounced around your separate homes, but directed all of your lyrics to the other. Your best dance moves were on display–which for you mostly meant a rhythmic bouncing and for Tom meant slipping and sliding along the hardwood floors of his kitchen. Finally, catching your breath, you noticed the discarded itinerary.
“Oh no, Tom! I’ve completely sidetracked your present. I’m so sorry!” you called out, reaching down to pluck the paper from the floor, and opening it to inspect the times. Tom followed through with his job of changing to the next song—Buble’s Haven’t Met You Yet.
- Argue about Tom’s inability to heed warnings about surprises
- Attempt to not cry, because then Tom certainly will
- Enjoy carefully crafted dance party as Tom hides any signs of tears
The mixture of the comedy from the beginning of the list, plus the upbeat track set such a pleasant mood.
“Being in your life is going to change me, hm? Seems bold,” you quoted the song, the smirk tickling at the corners of your mouth.
“You being in my life has changed me,” he corrected. “Now, now, Miss L/N. I thought you would have paid closer attention to that lesson. Songs are but a form of lyrical poems. Interpretation is left to the audience,” having slid off the counter during his dancing moments to now be facing the camera. Tom's hands had been placed behind his back—donning every bit the professor stance.
“Is that so? I’m so sorry, sir. I should have paid more attention in class, sir,” the second time you used the term, something settled over you both. A kink undiscovered? Oh, you were more than okay with the thought of him telling you want to do—-for certain topics. One of the most alluring things about Tom was the fact that he was perfectly at ease with you voicing your opinions, no matter how vastly different than his. But—neither of you could deny just how satisfying the thought was of him telling you what to do and how to do it…
As that silence lingered over your conversation, it left the lyrics of the song to be the star..
And somehow, I know that it'll all turn out
And I’ll work to work it out
That hope radiated between you two as the lyrics filled the room and more importantly, your hearts. It all would work itself out. It was going to be okay. It didn’t matter if this was just a moment of peace in the storm that was your relationship—it was enough to keep you going.
And promise you, kid, I'll give more than I get…than I get…than I get…than I get!
As the music swelled, there was no fighting it. You both belted out the rest of the words, continuing the bouncing and dancing from earlier. Tom had created a playlist to counteract any sort of darkness that could fall upon you this evening. A birthday was meant to be spent with those you love. While this wasn’t ideal—he had gone out of his way to make it the best it could be.
When the next song came on, you were equally excited by Bowie’s Magic Dance—but you knew that Tom hadn’t gone to all of this trouble just so you could dance. During your dancing spell, you had set the list down and for the life of you, couldn’t remember where you placed it.
“I’m going rogue,” you announced, digging into the rest of the box to find a bottle of red wine. “Look how fancy you are, Tom dear, “ you cooed, examining the bottle like you knew what to look for—you were oblivious when it came to wine.
“I have the same bottle here. I thought we could enjoy a glass together,” lifting up an identical bottle to the one you were holding in your hands.
“Are you real?” you questioned, letting out a content sigh. “The only thing is–”
“Check the box. New wine bottle opening is inside, since you never remember to purchase battering for your electric one,” and the way he phrased it would let anyone know that he had likely reminded you countless times to purchase batteries.
With wine properly acquired in both of your glasses and Florence’s Hunger playing in the background, you were ready to continue exploring your package. “Dinner is on me?” tilting your head as you read from the small note that was left in the box with a silly little cartoon drawing of a slice of pizza. The realization hit you with such absolute happiness. “Did you order me a pizza?”
“Should be there in—oh, ten minutes?” grinning as he rotated the camera so you could see that he had a pizza box on his counter as well. His likely arrived much earlier in the evening.
“Wine and pizza? You’re perfect,” and you meant it entirely. Pausing, you started laughing at the lyrics of the song as Florence chanted the chorus. “Hunger, really? Timed it to go right along with me finding out about dinner? How much time did it take you to plan all of this?” Has anyone ever spent this much time on you?
“You’re worth every minute of it, darling.”
That same content silence settled over the two of you. You could say it now. You could tell him you loved him. Throw caution to the wind. It didn’t matter that you’d never met him in person—or you hadn’t even really given each other labels. You were in your thirties and he was in his forties–did people still have boyfriends and girlfriends? However, just before you could declare your undying love for this man—pizza arrived.
Luckily, Tom had a perfect mixture of upbeat songs to accompany dinner. You both laughed, chatted, debated—as always—about how pineapple most certainly belonged on pizza (though Tom was dreadfully opposed). The only way the evening could have been better was if he were here.
“What’s next, party planner? I know I smell bath bombs in there,” finishing off your glass of wine and peeking into the box. All of your movements felt more fluid, leaning over seemed exaggerated. The wine was quickly having an effect on you.
“I do hope I ordered the right ones. I’ll admit that was the hardest part of this endeavor,” and he left it at that. Tom didn’t go into details about how difficult he found the experience because he couldn’t keep himself from picturing you naked in the tub… No, that certainly was not the actions of a gentleman.
“And did you plan for us to take a bath this evening?” you questioned, noting the blush that crept into his cheeks.
An audible gulp as he busied himself with cleaning up the pizza remains. “That is entirely up to you.” Did his voice just crack? Fuck. He would blame the wine. Yes, the wine.
You could watch him squirm all night, but thought better of it. “Could we raincheck the bath? If only I had an itinerary telling me a bath was planned tonight before I ate my weight in pizza. A glimpse of this food baby would not be the way I want to take a bath with you,” giving a small groan as you leaned back on the sofa, giving your slightly distended belly a little pat.
If your newly discovered kink this evening involved calling him ‘sir’, then Tom had found his. The idea of you being with child–more specifically, his child. It caused a certain member of the party to twitch against his jeans. Jesus Christ—get a hold of yourself, man.
“Your glass is empty. You should fill your glass. I need to fill my glass,” he spouted off quickly, moving off camera for a few moments to add some more wine to the mix.
“Oh–I found the itinerary! It says ‘Game Time’. That could be taken so many ways, Mr. Hiddleston,” he heard you coo, which very much did not help the situation in his pants.
“You choose!” Tom called back, splashing some cool water onto his face. He had to pull it together. The most important moment of the night hadn’t even occurred and he was going to lose it before he had a chance to come out with it. When he finally came back around to the camera, he was relieved to see that you had sat up and no longer had your hand resting on your belly.
“Let’s play ‘Never Have I Ever’! We can drink every time one of us has actually done–the thing,” you struggled with your wording, a sure sign the alcohol was affecting you as well. “Do you have your drink ready?”
“I don’t know if this is the best idea, love.” If he had to finish one more glass of wine, he was going to be a goner. About that time, Tina Turner’s The Best came on, instantly causing you to shake your shoulders back and forth. It was alluring in its own right, but the ultra serious expression you were donning as you moved made it more comical than anything. God, he was at your mercy. Had you not decided to be an utter goofball at this moment, his whole plan would have been ruined.
“Oh, no. It’s a terrible idea. I fully admit it. There is no way this can end well for either of us,” you claimed, oh so serious as you continued to wiggle back and forth.
“Then tell me exactly why we’re doing it?” smirking, matching your shoulder shakes.
“It’s a shameless attempt to get you tipsy, Tom. Anything I can do to make you splash water on your face again.” Caught.
Eyebrows shot up at your remark. And of course, that’s when he realized that because of the camera angle, you had seen his attempt to ‘pull himself together’. “Shameless is right. Have you no mercy?”
“You don’t have work tomorrow and neither do I. In just a couple of days, I’ll be starting back officially. We have to squeeze in all the fun while we can. Besides, I’m the birthday girl,” as you attempted to copy the moves from the Single Ladies music video—to Tina Turner.
“And the birthday girl wants to play a drinking game?” utterly amused by how seriously you were taking this choreography—glass of wine in hand.
“To be fair, it’s not really a drinking game. I’m just turning it into one,” half a glass finished.
“To take advantage of me,” Tom pointed.
“To take advantage of you. Alright. Never have I…gone to another country.”
“Wait just a minute!” another enthusiastic point towards you. “You told me you’ve been on a cruise to the Bahamas.”
“Does that really count?” you asked, twirling in a circle.
“You used the opposite argument on me when I was astonished that you didn’t have a passport!”
“Fine. Fine. Never have I ever…been to a movie premiere. Boom! Bring it on, Hiddleston!” lifting your arms into the air like you had just scored a goal. A goal for what? You didn’t know.
“Cheap shot,” he muttered, taking the smallest sips of wine he could muster. “Never have I ever…taught a classroom of students.”
“Ah! Not true! You’ve held seminars in acting schools, haven’t you?”
“Does that really count?”
“We’re either going to be dead sober or—”
“Completely pissed…” he took a drink, even though he didn’t even have to— Were you going to correct him? Nope.
“Never have I ever driven a Jaguar.” Drink.
“Never have I ever worn an inflatable shark outfit.” Drink.
“Never have I ever….had sex in an airplane.” You narrowed your eyes, challenging him to tell you otherwise.
And his eyes narrowed back… bringing the glass to his lips. “Low blow, darling.”
“Not a mile-high blow, dear?” You gloated, stroking your hair to add to your ever so humble demeanor.
“Never have I ever had sex in a public place. Go ahead, take a drink!” he commanded, knowing good and well you had done so according to your own tales.
“Are we honestly counting a parking lot as a public place, but not a plane?” you attempted to reason.
To which he responded, equally as boastful. “Private jet, love.”
Could you have rolled your eyes even more dramatically, they may have fallen out of your skull. “Oh, private jet, love…” you mocked, trying your hand at your best impression of Tom (which was still absolutely awful). You took your sip, eyes lighting up at your next idea. “Here’s one…” moving closer to the camera. “Never have I ever told someone ‘I love you’ without meaning it…”
You two had to be the most dramatic couple the world had ever (not) seen. The agonizing wait…Hands ticking by on the clock…until finally, Tom finished off his wine.
“OH! Heartbreaker, Hiddleston!” you called out, taking a drink from your glass—although you didn’t have to.
“My turn…” It was decided that he had to do this now or else he would be three sheep to the wind. Sheep? Sheets. What were sheets doing in the wind? What were sheep doing in the wind? Were the sheep in sheets? Oh fuck. “Never have I ever been to Dragon Con.”
That caught you off guard, as it didn’t quite hold the same gusto as the others. Dragon Con was another convention, similar to Comic Con—but was held just thirty minutes away from you. It had been part of your routine year after year. You weren’t entirely sure you would be going this year as you still hadn’t bought tickets and it was only in four short weeks.
“It’s a good bit of fun. Probably not as exciting as Comic Con, I’d guess,” pointing your glass at him. “The convenience is nice though.”
“Are you planning on attending this year?”
“I might. I have Labor Day off anyway. It’s a nice break,” you shrugged.
“Good. I’ll just give you the rest of my present when we see each other then,” he added as casually as he could muster.
“Ugh, Tom—this is all too much. This has been more than enough!” you called out, only to be met with silence on the other end of the call. Then, you replayed what he had actually said. No. You couldn’t have heard him right.
“Wait.”
“I did hear Atlanta is nice this time of year,” that signature Loki mischievous glint appearing on his face.
“No!” you shouted, sloshing the remnants of your wine around in the glass–barely missing spilling it everywhere.
“Yes!”
“You’re joking!”
“I’m not that funny, darling.”
“You’re going to be at Dragon Con?”
He nodded, sobering up almost instantly. “Disney requested it. It will be everyone from the Disney + series,” giving a slight explanation, but honestly it was all the explanation he had been given. Meetings had been moved around. Training had been canceled—-his life had the ability to be turned upside down at the request of a company. While normally that would irritate him to some degree, in this case it worked in your favor.
“How long are you here for?” You had no clue how you were still forming words at this point.
“I’ll fly in late on Thursday and fly out on Tuesday,” having memorized just how much time he could spend with you. The hours you could have together. The nights spent with one another. “Now, there will be a few panels and picture sessions—,” he warned.
“I don’t mind,” you responded quickly, a certain sober tone to your voice as well. “I’ll make sure that I sign-up to do the photo sessions and I’ll go to each of your panels. Being in the same room with you will be enough.”
Brows furrowed as he tried to understand what you were getting at—but when the reality of your words settled in, the all too familiar pain in his heart flared up. “Darling, I want to spend every moment with you. Not simply in the same room as you—every second I am not contractually obligated somewhere—I want to spend it with you.” A slight pause as his own insecurities came to the surface. “If you’ll have me, that is…”
At first he thought the call cut out, you were so quiet and absolutely still. But the moment he knew you had heard him was when he heard you sniffle on the end of the line, bringing a hand up to wipe at your face. “Best birthday ever.”