Tom Hiddleston Oneshots

Maybe It's Too Late

Everyone surrounding us clapped joyously, cheering, laughing at the host's humorous and witty remarks regarding some big film that starred George Clooney. I was having a decent enough time, accompanying Tom to another grand awards show. He sat quietly beside me, fingers rapidly brushing the on screen keyboard of his smartphone, barely paying any attention to anyone around him including me, his girlfriend.

He had only looked up for the briefest of moments, pasted a charming smile on his face for the camera that scanned the large audience, quickly returning back to his damn phone without a beat missing. When he seemed to have finished typing up emails and responses to whoever was so important, his hands fidgeted with the gadget, twirling it mindlessly in his hand as his eyes glossed over whoever was on stage. I was brimming with annoyance when he hadn't as much glanced over at me the entire night.

By the time the night was winding down to an end, I was thankful that Tom had declined the invitation to attend the after party and instead choosing home. Although once I was physically trapped inside a moving vehicle with him, I wasn't too sure if home was the best choice out of both of them. I folded my arms across my chest; eyes fixated outside my window where the city blurred passed us in sharp vibrant lights.

"You're upset." Tom commented drily. He seemed impatient as if he was annoyed himself. How dare he speak to me in tones like that when he hadn't paid any attention to me the whole night? I was the one who was forced to make polite conversation with the people at our table during dinner while he was off socializing with his other famous friends. I might as well enter the show by myself and without his escort.

"What could have ticked you off?" I threw back sharply, turning my narrowed gaze at his face that was covered half in shadow and the other half bathed in light. It didn't help he looked extraordinarily handsome today in his tailored suit and slicked back combed hair. For a moment my anger wavered like an unsteady pile of books balanced on the edge of a table but I thought back to how I had tried to get back his attention by lightly joking on the events to happen later on tonight. He had brushed it off, feigning tiredness and yawned for emphasis. His rejection had been a slap to my face, stinging long after the blow hit.

"Look, I don't know why you're angry but can we...not tonight." Tom sighed deeply as he wrung out his tie to loosen it from his neck. His brows furrowed together when another annoying chime came from his phone. Immediately unlocking his phone, the brightness from the screen burned my eyes, flaring another onslaught of words to spew out of my mouth.

"No. We can't keep pushing this argument off." I stood my ground, spitting out each word with venom. "You're addicted to work. You never pay attention to me anymore and you're hardly ever present!" My voice bounced off the expensive rented automobile's walls, echoing in our ears. I was breathing heavily now, waiting for him to refute it, counter any argument I had but instead his lips twisted into an ugly snarl, something he had been doing now every time we got into an argument.

"I'm busy." Was all he said after a long silent pause. "I have things to take care off and I hardly think you can ever understand the pressure I'm under every single day." He punctuated every word until they grew heavier and heavier in the air.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, fists curling at my sides.

"I'm working. While you're playing the dutiful role of my girlfriend, I have a career to build—" He didn't get enough time to finish his last thought by the time my hand connected with his cheek. Anger, hurt, and sadness coursed through my veins. I had never expected in a million years he would ever say anything as low as he did.

When we first started dating after he asked me out during an art showing of mine in downtown London, the press had been all over us. I was a recent art student graduate, painting my works for my first show, borderline penniless but rich with dreams and goals of owning my own studio one day or at least a small school where I could teach. And he was a handsome actor who had been invited to the showing by a friend of a friend, instantly stealing my heart away with a quick flash of his teeth, and the twinkle in his gleaming blue eyes. The press had a wonderful time hounding us, calling me a gold digger, a person thirsty for fame and glory, riding the coattails of someone of higher status than I was.