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writerunsolved · 5 years

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The Drunken Mistake - Ch. 6

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: F/M

Fandom: Real Person Fiction

Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Reader

Genres: Fluff and Humor

Language: English

Chapters: 6/?

Summary: You're a young up-and-coming singer based in London who has just released her first album.

After a wild night at the VMAs and some heavy partying and drinking at the afterparty, you write and publish a drunken tweet about a certain celebrity and one of their friends. You only realise what you've done the next day when a slew of texts and calls wakes you up to a dreadful but expected hangover. You immediately delete the tweet, but you're left to deal with the consequences. A public apology would probably be enough to make everything go away if you hadn't been invited to a movie premiere where said celebrity is most certainly going to be.

You decide that the best course of action will be to try and avoid them, but your plans almost never go the way you want them to.

Author’s Note: And it is happening! I have so many things I’d like to say about this chapter that I have no idea where to start!!! Let me hear from you guys, feedback makes my day! ♥

Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3 - Ch. 4 - Ch. 5

Chapter Six - Dine With Care

It took you exactly seven minutes to get to the restaurant. You could tell because you’d been checking your phone obsessively the whole way, afraid of being late. You made the last turn and looked around for the Mama Thai sign, a fluttery rumble lodging itself in your lower abdomen.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath with the aim of calming down the undercurrent of anxiety that had completely taken over your mood. Its persistence was a loud cacophony blocking out any other emotion from seeping into your brain. It didn’t work as well as you’d hoped and when you reopened your eyes, your attention zeroed-in on a silhouette on the other side of the street, immediately recognising it as Tom.

He was standing a little ways from the entrance to the restaurant with a hand in his pocket and the other around his phone, wearing a dark wool coat, collar raised up to his ears, and underneath a pair of soft jeans that looked well-loved. You stalled for a second, making time to take in his slack expression and his flowy reddish curls, which fell gently on his forehead and framed his features. You smiled.

You quickly shook yourself out of your reverie, trying to regain control of your face, and looked at both sides of the road before crossing to where he was, looking down on the phone in his hand. You took the last few steps that separated you and gently tapped him on the shoulder. He immediately turned towards you and pocketed the device. As soon as he realized it was you, a bright smile bloomed on his lips that you instinctually reciprocated.

“Hi!” he greeted you, going for a hug and kissing you on both cheeks. You rested your left hand on his side, the right gripping the strap of your bag, unsure of what to do and barely having time to realise what was going on. When you finally did, you had already separated and you could feel warmth spread all over your face, a deep blush sure to follow.

“Hey,” you greeted him back, smile turning shy, “I hope I'm not late. How are you doing?”

“You’re not, I was just early,” he reassured you, “I’m very good, thank you. I’m glad to see you!” He had yet to stop smiling at you, “How are you?”

“I’m also good,” you smiled again and nodded. Unsure of what to say, you pointed to the entrance with your thumb and asked, “Shall we go in?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied and gestured with his open hand, “Please, after you.”

You thanked him quietly and walked in, a small bell rang above the door announcing your arrival to the staff. Once inside, you moved to keep the door open for Tom, who thanked you and followed you in. You took a few steps to the side, getting closer to the high desk where the cash register was, the seat behind it empty, and you both looked around while waiting for someone to direct you to a table.

The restaurant was a small place with about a dozen tables, most of them seating just two people, but others pushed together for slightly bigger groups. The furniture was a rich dark brown, and the walls were lined with high mirrors to the ceiling alternated with beautifully detailed wallpaper depicting illustrations of landscapes and maps of Asia. It was almost impossible to grasp every single detail of the pictures, especially under the low golden lights that lit the place, which gave the space an intimate glow. The room didn’t feel crowded, but only a few empty tables remained to be filled, and you really hoped they hadn’t been booked in advance.

“There are quite a few people,” you observed, finally breaking the silence, “I guess that’s a good sign, right?”

“Yeah,” Tom nodded, looking at you, “I really hope so.” He laughed, bringing a hand to his neck and delicately pinching the skin with a nervous movement.

You smiled back, somewhat comforted by the thought that you weren’t the only one feeling insecure. You gathered some courage and decided you’d had enough of being embarrassed, “You know, I was actually surprised when you sent me the address,” you started, “I live just a few minutes away.”

He seemed surprised, “I had no idea.”

“Of course,” you laughed slightly and he did too, realizing that he’d said something very obvious. “It would have been worrying if you had known,” you joked.

“Definitely,” he agreed, “I swear I didn’t.” He lifted his hands, showing innocence.

Right then a waiter, a chubby Asian man with soft features, approached you and gently asked “Table for two?”

You were about to respond, but Tom stepped forward and preceded you, “Actually, I called earlier to make a reservation. Under Wilson?”

You frowned to yourself, confused but amused. The waiter stepped behind the desk and slid open a small journal where they supposedly kept a log of the reservations, and finally said, “Wilson for two, 7:45.” He closed the journal and grabbed two menus from a pile on his right, then he said “Please, follow me.” and started walking between the tables.

Tom gestured for you to go ahead and followed after you. The waiter stopped at a table toward the back and set the menus down with a cheery “Here you go.” and went ahead to a different table where another couple of diners had called for him.

You set your bag down next to the wall that surrounded the side of the table and placed your coat on the back of your chair, Tom doing the same, before sitting down.

He passed you one of the menus the waiter had left, and absentmindedly picked up the other, opening it but not reading it. “You were saying you live around here?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” you nodded, “Just a few minutes away on foot. I have an apartment in a building on Waleorde Road.”

“I have a friend who lives in the same area,” he noted, “Near the Elephant & Castle tube station, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s actually where I take the metro to get to the label building,” you told him, “It’s the closest stop from where I live.”

“Have you lived there long?” he asked interestedly.

“Not really,” you replied, “Just around six months now.” You fiddled with the laminated pages of the menu, unsure of what to do with your hands. “I made the down payment for the apartment with my first paycheck,” you laughed, “Some people go for a shopping spree, others buy a new house.”

He laughed, too. He was about to say more when the waiter interrupted you again, “Are you ready to order?”

You looked at Tom, who had the same chastised expression as you. “We need a couple more minutes if that’s okay,” he told the waiter.

The waiter responded with a soft “Sure.” Then asked, “Can I get you something to drink in the meantime?” You asked for water, Tom went for a glass of white wine. The waiter nodded and left again.

You smiled, “I think we should probably look at the menus,” you said.

He agreed, so you both looked down at the enormous list of dishes available. You were slightly disoriented at how many choices there were, you had no idea where to even start. “Uhm...” you hesitated, “These are a lot of dishes,” you announced, and looked up at Tom.

He seemed just as lost. “Yeah...” he murmured, still looking at the pages with a deep frown.

An idea struck you, “What do you say we choose a couple of dishes each and share them?” you asked him.

He looked at you and smiled, “That’s a good idea,” he replied, “Let’s go for it.”

“Okay, so,” you started resolutely, “let’s find… I’d say… two dishes each -” you made a V with your index and middle finger “- that seem appealing and order them, okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded firmly, and you both went back to the page.

After two or three minutes, he closed the menu, and shortly after you did the same. “I think I'm done, you?” you asked him.

“Yes,” he replied, “I think I’ve made my choice.”

“Cool,” you said, “You first.”

“The rice cakes with aromatic herbs and spices look pretty interesting,” he started, “and the Sateh Kung sounds amazing.”

“I saw the Sateh Kung, too!” You exclaimed, “And I didn’t notice the fishcakes, but I’m totally up to trying them,” you continued, “I was also thinking we could get the Green Curry if that’s fine with you?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed.

The waiter noticed you putting down the menus and approached your table again, bringing the drinks you’d ordered with him and settling them down in front of you, “All done?” he asked.

“Yes,” you were the one to answer this time, “thank you for the patience.”

“No problem at all,” he said, “What can I get you?”

You glanced to Tom, then back to the waiter and decided to go first, “A Green Curry and a...” you looked at Tom again, for confirmation, “...Sateh Kung,” you finished.

He nodded and added, “And the rice cakes with aromatic herbs and spices, please.”

“Is that all?” the waiter asked, noting the order down on a small notepad.

“Yes, thank you,” Tom answered, “Could we get two plates, too, please? We’re sharing the dishes.”

The waiter nodded, finishing writing. “We serve rice with every order,” he informed you, “What kind would you like?”

“Oh, yellow fragrant rice for me, please,” you answered. “Brown rice, thank you,” said Tom.

The waiter nodded again and added the rice to the order. Then he pocketed the notepad and reached for the menus. You both thanked him, and he was gone.

“Now that I think about it,” you began, frowning lightly, “What’s up with Wilson?”

“Oh,” he laughed, his cheeks reddened imperceptibly, “I don’t usually give my surname for restaurants,” he explained.

“I’d guessed as much,” you noted, “But how come?”

“Well,” he seemed hesitant, so you stopped him before he could continue.

“You don’t have to say if you’d rather not,” you retracted, afraid you’d hit a sore spot.

“Oh, no, it’s completely fine,” he hastened to reassure you, “It’s just slightly embarrassing...” His smile turned into a grimace for just a second and he finally explained, “Right after the first Thor movie, I called to make a reservation at this one restaurant in Edinburgh,” he paused, “And of course I used Hiddleston,” you nodded, “When I arrived they had put up garlands, the type one would usually find at birthdays, and they spelt out ‘Welcome Mr Hiddleston’.” He covered half his face with his right hand, the other half displayed a deep red blush. “It was incredibly flattering,” he almost mumbled, “but also quite embarrassing.”

You couldn’t stop your grin and tried to cover it with a hand. He peered at you through his fingers, you could tell you had done a poor job of covering your mouth because he was smiling too, with an exaggerated look of betrayal in his eyes. That sent you over the edge, an unflattering snort coming out of your mouth, followed by a suppressed laugh. “I’m so sorry,” you apologised, but your laughter made it sound insincere, “I really am,” you tried again.

“It’s fine,” he brushed your apology aside with his hand, finally uncovering his face. He was still smiling when he said, “When my older sister found out, she called me Mr Hiddleston for an entire month, texts included.”

“Oh, no,” you had finally stopped laughing, “That is some dedication.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, closing his eyes briefly and readjusting his glasses on his nose with a smooth gesture.

“I guess sisters are just like that,” you chuckled, thinking of Amelia, “My sister spoke and texted in a very heavy French accent for two weeks last year, just because I said her imitation of the French accent was annoying.”

“She… texted you in a French accent?” he probed, bemused.

“Yes!” you exclaimed, exasperated at the memory, “She put accents all over the place and just wrote words as they would sound in French.” You sighed, “It took me half an hour to decipher a text every time she sent me one.”

Tom widened his eyes and laughed loudly, amused and impressed by the spite you sister was capable of. Then, between chuckles, he said, “She seems like a fun person, are you two very far apart in age?”

“Not really,” you replied, “Just about a few years.” You took a quick drink from your glass and continued, “We were never in the same classes in school, but sometimes we hung out together,” you explained, “Although, we also made very different close friends… It was halfway through spending all waking hours together, and avoiding each other at all cost.” Your smile turned fond.

“As siblings do,” Tom agreed, “It was more or less the same with my sisters.” He started playing with his glass, sliding it in circles and making the wine slosh around the chalice slowly. “Even though I’m the middle child, I was the only boy so I got away with a lot.” He had a far-away look in his eyes, distracted by memories, “My sisters were not happy at all, especially my older sister. She had to fight for some of her privileges but, after her, my younger sister and I had guaranteed freedom,” he finished.

“It sounds like you’re quite close,” you commented. The look in his eyes made you feel at the same time like you were intruding on a private moment and incredibly flattered to be granted such insight.

He looked up at you, whatever thought of his childhood had been caught in his head was already gone, leaving behind a sunny smile. “Yeah, I suppose we are...” he trailed off, then added, “Although my older sister, Sarah, is a journalist in India, so we don’t see each other very frequently now.”

“That’s amazing,” you were genuinely impressed, “It sounds like quite the adventure.”

“Definitely” Tom smiled. “Are you close with... Amelia, right?” he asked.

“We are now, yes,” you answered, ”We weren’t as much before, but it was mostly on my side.”

He adjusted his glasses again, frowning and tilting his head to the side in question.

“I used to feel like I was leagues behind her when I was younger,” you explained, “She was always the popular type and so incredibly confident in what she wanted her future to be like, and pursued it from the beginning. But I wasn’t.” You paused, you didn’t want to be a downer so you considered what to say next carefully, “It took me quite some time to come out of my shell when I was small, and to make up my mind later on and finally move to London. It really felt like I was wasting my time and disappointing the people around me and it made me somehow turn sour against my sister who seemed to have everything figured out.” You smiled ruefully. “But they were just my own issues, she always did her best to be supportive,” you finished. “Sorry, I didn’t want to bring down the mood,” you chuckled.

“Oh no, it’s fine,” he reassured you, “I get what you mean. When I started acting I also felt like I was going nowhere for a long time,” he revealed, “I considered changing paths several times.” You nodded, understanding the feeling completely. Then he asked, “Amelia does seem like a very extroverted person. What does she do?”

You reached for your glass, still half-full of water, and tapped your nail against it delicately without thinking. “She works for a big company and has a very complicated job,” you answered, “She’s explained it to me so many times, but I’m not quite sure what exactly her role is, to be honest. I just know that she works like a mule,” you swallowed and sat up straighter, “I saw her just today and she was telling me how her boss doesn’t want to pay her for overtime but requires that she do it anyway.” You became quite animated, as you’d been when Amelia had told you the same thing earlier that morning, “Can you believe it?” you asked rhetorically.

“That’s awful,” Tom commented, “But it’s nice that you can meet regularly.”

“Well, to be fair,” you started, “It had been a while before today. She usually comes over and I make her lunch. She doesn’t have the patience for cooking, but I do, so she takes advantage to get a taste of home,” you laughed.

“You enjoy cooking?” he asked you.

“I do,” you nodded, “I find it relaxing, and sharing food is a good chance to just sit down and have a good chat, too.” At that, you gestured between the two of you, indicating that your current situation applied too. “Do you cook?” you asked in turn, then picked up your glass and took a drink.

“Yes, I do,” he replied, “I’m not an expert in any way, but I do have a couple of dishes I’m pretty confident in,” he winked playfully.

Just then, the waiter came back carrying a tray with the dishes you’d ordered. He put down the two empty plates in front of you and the rest on the table. You both thanked him and as soon as he’d left, you busied yourselves with dividing the food between your two plates. The personal conversation paused for a while, in favour of commenting on the food and agreeing that Tom’s friend had definitely found a gem of a restaurant. While you slowly worked through the quite big portions of food, he told you about said friend and how Tom had actually never had Thai food before. At some point, Chris came up and Tom recounted some of the anecdotes from filming with him and how they’d immediately clicked when they’d started working together.

In turn, you told him about the first time you’d met Nina, how she’s been the one to track you down after seeing your recordings online and how terrified and intimidated by her you were at the start. You told him a bit about Linda and Nadia, too, whom he hadn’t had the chance to meet yet, and the role the three had taken in your life beyond just being colleagues. How you could hardly imagine a life where they weren’t some of the most important people.

He shared similar experiences of meeting fellow actors on the various sets and theatres he’d found himself in and the easiness with which people became friends when you ended up sharing hours upon hours in such close contact. It became a delicate balance between talking about your past experiences and the people you’d both become because of them. It felt somehow like an approachable way to bare yourselves to each other.

You tried to keep a neutral but interested face whenever he named someone you were familiar with, but you could tell that he sometimes noticed your concealed awe at some of the names and when he did, he happily recounted the stories he had of meeting them.

“...he just looked me straight in the eyes and said in the most monotone voice you can imagine: ‘I like French fries, sue me.’ I believe I turned into stone right then and there.” By the time Tom had finished telling you about the first time he’d ever spoken to Mads Mikkelsen, only an inch of water was left in the pitcher you’d ordered, Tom’s wine had long been gone, and you were doubled over with laughter. He seemed pleased by your reaction.

When you finally regained your composure, a deep but comfortable silence fell between you. At some point between enjoying your meal and conversing animatedly, you'd decided to split a Creme Caramel for dessert and had barely noticed the time pass. You both seemed to finally realise when all that was left on the table in front of you were just empty plates and glasses. He looked at his watch and declared, “We should probably ask for the tab.”

You agreed and glanced behind you, noticing from a small analogue clock above the entrance that over three hours had passed since you’d arrived. Most of the tables that had been occupied before were now empty, only a couple was still lingering, looking deep into each other’s eyes and holding hands under the table in a semblance of privacy. You quickly averted your eyes, uneager to intrude on the private moment, and caught sight of the waiter that had welcomed and served you seated now behind the high desk with the cash register. You turned back toward Tom who was fishing his wallet out of his pocket and told him, “I think we can go ahead and pay at the register instead.”

He nodded and stood up, adjusting his jeans and putting on his coat. You quickly did the same, closing up your own jacket and shouldering your bag, a hand already in it and pulling out your own wallet. You walked ahead of him between the tables, determined to be the one to pay for the food this time. He followed close behind and stopped at your side when you got to the cash register.

“Please, let me-” he started, but you were quick to interrupt him.

“Nu-huh,” you said, “You already paid for coffee the other time. And besides, I was the one to invite you to dinner.”

“I insist,” he repeated. You shook your head decisively. “Let’s at least share,” he tried again.

You smiled, “I genuinely appreciate it,” you reassured him, “But I really want to do this.”

At that, he finally conceded, although reluctantly. The waiter gave you your total, and you passed him your card, inputting your security number when needed. He gave it back with a “Thank you”, and you and Tom finally stepped out of the restaurant and into the darkness of the evening, the bell above the door jingling as if to signal the end of the night.

You both knew you had to say goodbye, but neither seemed to want to be the one to let go. You looked at each other hesitantly, and then around you, trying to find a thread of conversation to avoid the inevitable.

“Are you walking home?” he finally spoke.

“Yes,” you nodded, “It’s really quite close.”

“I don’t mean to overstep,” he started, “but it would ease my mind if I could accompany you home. It’s quite dark and I don’t want you to walk alone.”

There seemed to be a tacit understanding that it was in part an excuse to extend the time together, but you were just as unwilling to say goodnight quite yet and internally jumped at the opportunity.

“I would really appreciate it,” you accepted and led the way, crossing the road with Tom on your side and retracing the way you’d taken to get to the restaurant earlier in the day.

As if the several hours you’d just spent together sharing details of your lives had never happened, a thin veil of shyness fell upon the two of you again, the darkness of the sky shrouding you in an intimate bubble. The atmosphere seemed aeons away from the easy chit-chat over the meal, and you could almost taste secrets on the back of your tongue that were threatening to spill out without your control. You couldn’t tell if Tom felt the same, but the lines of his frown and his downward glance told you he was also considering himself carefully.

A tiny nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth unconsciously, and the intensity of the moment seemed to shatter, leaving room for new words to more easily flow between the two of you.

“Thank you for letting me pay and not insisting too much,” you told him with a small smirk.

“I should be the one to thank you,” he replied, almost chastised. “Actually, it was very rude of me not to, I apologise.”

“Oh no, please,” you reassured him, “It’s completely fine.”

“Nevertheless,” he reiterated, “Thank you for the dinner.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And thank you for the lovely night,” he added with a shy smile, “I had a wonderful time, I hope we can do this again sometime.”

His words roused a bright flash of excitement and trepidation in your stomach that the rational part of your brain had trouble controlling. You didn’t want to hope for something that might not be there, but you were too sated by good food and good company, and it was hard to squash the instantaneous optimism that awoke in your lungs like a spark. You felt like a hot yellow glow was alighting you from the inside out, and you hoped the smile you could feel on your lips wasn’t too obvious. “I would really like that,” you replied. His own smile grew more confident.

“I would love to cook for you at least once,” he told you, “Maybe even more than once if you’re not too put off by my far-from-excellent skills,” he joked.

You laughed, “I’m sure you’re just being modest.” You kept walking, looking in turn at each other and the road in front of you, “But I would be happy to accept your invitation, and maybe return the favour, too.”

“I’d like that,” he replied.

Silence descended between you again, but it was nothing like the awkward quiet of leaving the restaurant. You just kept walking, your bodies seemed to be getting closer, forearms brushing against each other with every step you took. Soon enough you could see the trees that surrounded your apartment building, and dread at having to separate came with it. The last few steps towards the main entrance felt simultaneously never-ending and incredibly short. You stopped, Tom doing the same, and you turned to each other, ready to say goodnight, but neither of you uttering a word yet.

You looked away for a second, the street was almost completely empty, just a passer-by or two hurrying away without paying too much attention to their surroundings. When you looked into Tom’s eyes again, you found an echo of the intensity from your first meeting on the red carpet. You didn’t feel intimidated in the same way, but your desire not to look away in fear of missing something persisted, anticipation brewing somewhere behind your sternum. You noticed a curved line of consecutive moles high on his cheekbone, next to his left eye, and you became transfixed, unconsciously leaning closer to him. You closed your eyes for just a moment, you could almost feel the warmth of his breath on the side of your nose.

A loud jingling broke you out of your reverie and you stepped back, Tom also seemed to shake off the tightening of his muscles that had kept him anchored to the spot during your strange moment.

A bike went loudly down the street, zooming past you and disappearing behind the first turn.

You giggled nervously, effectively putting a stop to whatever had been passing between you. “This is me,” you announced, quite uselessly.

“Right,” he responded, attempting a smile and brushing a rowdy curl away from his forehead, but only accomplishing to mess it up further by moving it to the wrong side of his head. The nervous gesture eased your mind just a little.

“So, now you know where I live,” you tried again, “Feel free to come around if you find yourself in the area, I’ll gladly make you tea,” you finally managed a natural smile, “or coffee if you prefer that.”

He returned your smile, his shoulders falling back and his posture turning more relaxed, “I will,” it felt like a promise.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you said softly, “Let me know you’re home safe, ok?”

“Goodnight,” he responded just as quietly, “I’ll text you.” He leaned into you one last time, gently kissing you on your right cheek, then started walking away in what you knew was the direction of the tube station.

You turned to the glass entrance of the building and unconsciously touched the spot where his mouth had been, chasing the feeling of his soft lips. You finally dropped your hand and pulled out the keys from your bag, inserting the one you needed in the door to the building. You kept turning to look at his back, unable to keep your eyes off him. Just before he reached a bend in the street, he turned around and your eyes locked again. He took his hand out of the pocket of his coat and waved once, a smile curving his lips. You did the same, then he disappeared behind the corner.

You finally entered your apartment building, your mouth felt like it was full of cotton and your eyes unable to grasp your surroundings. You took the elevator and arrived at the door to your apartment mechanically, only realising you were home when you took off your coat. You hadn’t stopped smiling once.

Chapter 7 coming soon

@honeybournehippy @namelesslosers @unlikelytigerqueen @effielumiere @theoneanna

@huntersvibe: still unable to tag you, so sorry!!! :(

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