"Extra towels, Mr. Hiddleston," you call out after issuing a loud knock on his dressing room door.
This is your ritual as an intern for Donmar. Coriolanus is one of the messiest productions the theater has ever seen and most of it is because of Tom Hiddleston. When he takes a role, his really takes it. He doesn't just memorize lines and rehearse stage direction; he becomes the character. He is Coriolanus.
When he finally answers, he is as he normally looks during intermission. His body is smeared with fake blood. Water and sweat have streaked the mess all over his beautiful face. With all the grime, his gorgeous white teeth stand out even more as he offers you a grateful smile. You avert your eyes as you always do when you come to visit.
"Darling, I've told you a thousand times to call me Tom."
He has told you a thousand times. At least. But you've never given in. Coriolanusruns for two more weeks. After that, he'll be on a plane to Canada to start filming for Crimson Peak. You've been trying to stay distant, hoping the pain of seeing him leave will be less so if things aren't personal. Unfortunately, he makes it impossible. Every smile, every gesture, every laugh is warm and inviting. He's literally the nicest person you've ever met. His personality is so magnetic it's hard to stay away.
"Would you mind bringing them in? I haven't even had time to wash my hands yet." He holds up his massive hands in illustration. You know he's trying to show you how messy they are but you can't get past the length of those elegant fingers and what they might be capable of.
You offer a hasty nod. "Sure, of course."
He pushes the door open farther to let you in. His dressing room smells like him and it's intoxicating. You make a dash for the couch hoping to drop the towels and hurry away. You can't be in here too long. It's going against the "keep your distance" rule. You practically throw the linens down. Just as you spin to leave, you catch him out of the corner of your eye. He lifts his smeared shirt over his head. He has his back to you but it's enough to stop you mid-stride. A flutter goes through your chest and causes your breath to catch in your throat. The muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple as he tosses the soiled garment in the hamper. He's gained about twenty pounds of sheer muscle for this role and fucking hell, he looks fantastic.
When he starts to turn back around, you dive for the towels, pretending to refold them but you know there's no hiding the blush on your cheeks. You keep your face low and say "Good luck tonight, Mr. Hiddleston. See you at curtain."
You head for the door, eyes glued to the floor when you see his long legs enter your vision. Your heart skips a beat. Had you forgotten to bring him something? You go over the checklist in your mind but thinking is becoming more and more difficult.
"Will you please look at me?" He asks. His voice is polite but firm.
When you lift your face, you lock gazes with him. His blue eyes are filled with worry. His thin lips are pursed and his brow is furrowed. You've obviously done something wrong. He's so damn distracting, you must have fucked something up. You're ready to spew apologies when he finally asks, "Why won't you call me Tom?"
The question catches you off guard. Your mouth opens and closes but no words come out. What are you supposed to say? He notices your hesitation and urges, "You can be honest with me. If I've done something to offend you, I'm sorry. Give me a chance to make it right."
Your eyes go wide with surprise. "You? Offend me? No, that's not it at all!"
"Then what is it?"
