Life Is What You Make It (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfic)

Part 13: Do You Feel Lucky?

What Do You Take Me For

Examining Tom's bathroom for a moment, I discover he has a wide assortment of soaps, cleansers, and exfoliants. When I find one that is pushed to the back of the linen cabinet shelf dedicated to these products, it is obvious that a woman purchased it. I push it back to its hiding place as I also try to push its existence from my mind.

It's not like Tom and I aren't both adults with our own experiences and partners in said experiences. Still, with this discovery, it may mean Tom's experiences are more recent than my own.

I turn to the shower and find body wash and shampoo in place. I sniff both, and they are definitely Tom's. I decide to use them because, you know, they smell like Tom.

As I turn the shower handles and step beneath the hot spray, I try to wash away any misgivings I have with the rest of the day's stress. Thinking about Tom with another woman not only makes me a little jealous but it also makes me sad.

I'm sad because it means Tom has been hurt by heartache. Even if the breakup was Tom's choice, I think I know him well enough to believe that would have caused him heartache as well, if not more.

Shaking my thoughts away, I turn off the water and step out while grabbing a towel not wanting to be a shower hog. I dry off quickly and reach for the sweats Tom gave me. In reality, he gave me sweat bottoms and a t-shirt to wear. The sweats are plain gray, but the t-shirt has Spock's hand with the words 'Live Long and Prosper' beneath it. I smile thinking how much I'll enjoy getting to know Tom's geekier side.

After I don my bra and panties and Tom's clothes, I examine my image in the mirror. The shirt is a bit long on me as are the sweats. My hips and butt fill the sweats out nicely, maybe a bit too much, so I pull his shirt down further as camouflage. I finally braid my hair quickly, and step out of the bathroom.

I wander down the stairs and hear Tom on the phone. He's standing in the downstairs library area, so I tiptoe past him to the entry table to retrieve my own phone.

When I pick it up, I see there are several missed calls and about a billion texts. Holy Sheba!

Most of the texts are from Anna, so I start at the bottom. "... so I was just wondering if you need bail money." Huh, this sounds interesting.

As I scroll through her texts, I see that she's found out about both the Prince Incident and the Fangirls Fiasco. Shit, that means it's on social media.

I quickly go to the Internet on my phone, and type in Tom's name under news. There are a dozen hits with titles like, 'Tom Hiddleston Saves a Princess', 'Tom Hiddleston and Prince Harry Fight Over a Mystery Woman', 'Tom Hiddleston and Mystery Girl Share an Intimate Lunch', and 'Afternoon Delight: Loki and Wonder Woman Get Frisky in a London Taxi'.

I open the last one immediately, and there are a few grainy photos of Tom and me: Tom stopping the taxi, me lying on the back seat, then the last one with the taxi speeding off and I can just make out Tom's shoes in the passenger side rear window.

Though I should be mad about this invasion, or at least shocked at how quickly this has become a story, instead I burst out laughing. I cover my mouth quickly, knowing Tom is still on his phone.

At the sound of my outburst, Tom rounds the corner with his phone to his ear. "Right. We'll talk later," he says, making eye contact with me, then he ends his call.

He breaks our eye contact, places his phone on the table, then he puts his hands in his pockets.

"So, do you know?"

"I haven't read all of the stories, but I know there are a lot of them out there," I say, looking down at my hands as I say this.

"And how do you feel about it?" Tom asks, still not making eye contact with me.

"Well, it could be worse," I say.

"How so?" Tom asks, lifting his head slightly to look at me.

"They could have thought I was canoodling in that taxi with Benedict Cumberbatch," I say, trying to get a smile out of Tom.

It works... a little. But he has his head down again so it's difficult to tell how much of a smile he has.

"Are you ready for this?" he asks, serious again.

"Yes."

"Are you sure? Because this is just the tip of the iceberg. Right now, you're laughing at the attention. In a few days or weeks, it could... it will get more brutal," Tom says, looking at me with a serious look in his eyes.

"Tom, it doesn't matter now. I'm already in this. I mean, even if you and I never see each other again, I'm in this. My career is like yours - I'll be followed, talked about, and put under the microscope to examine every little nuance of my life.

Hell, do you know how many people criticized my choice as Wonder Woman?" Not waiting for a response, I continue. "A bunch. And by a bunch, I mean oodles and gobs. And do you know why these people, these critics, thought I was a bad choice? I'll give you a hint: it had nothing to do with my limited experience or even whether I had the chops. No, sir, it had to do with my thighs."

At this, I stop talking, and look at Tom. He's just standing there, staring at me.

"That's right," I continue, "it was all about my fucking thighs.  All they could do was talk about a physical attribute that they considered too big, flawed, not perfect by Hollywood standards. Shit, a few even took to referring to me as Thunder Thighs. Not particularly original, but it got their point across."  With that, I shake my head and take on a rueful smile.

Tom steps closer to me and starts to take me in his arms, but I place my hand on his chest like a wedge between us.

"I guess what I'm saying is, are you sure you're ready for this?" I ask, looking hesitantly at Tom. "I mean though the stories have been mostly inaccurate and somewhat invasive that have come out about you, they've generally been pretty positive. Are you sure you're prepared to be labeled... to be called... Mr. Thunder Thighs?" I ask with a smile, though it's mostly to cover the serious case of jitters I have waiting for Tom's response.

He takes my hand from his chest and holds it in his hand as he steps toward me. "No."

I look at him in surprise. I swear that my heart has stopped with that one word. Then Tom continues.

"I refuse to be called Mr. Thunder Thighs as that implies you somehow deserve that horrid nickname.

Instead, I prefer to provide your critics with a selection of references for you. Off the cuff, I can think of a few...

First, there's the Venus De Milo, or Aphrodite of Milos, which is a statue of the Greek goddess of love and beauty, among other things.

Then, there's Botticelli's Birth of Venus, a painting of the Roman goddess of love."

At this, he pauses and runs his finger along his bottom lip in contemplation.

"Lastly, Delilah, as in Sampson and Delilah as painted by Rubens. Yes, I think those describe the goddess and temptress that you are. And, from this point forward, I will defy any critic to refer to you as anything else," he finishes, and on his lips appears his small, sweet smile that's just for me.