For The Cameras (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

Foreword

Tom bent at the waist, unlacing his trainers and sliding them off his feet before placing them in the shallow plastic bin alongside his wallet and keys. He straightened, setting the bin next to his small rolling suitcase and dark garment bag on the security conveyer belt.

"Sir, your jumper." An aging security officer nodded toward him, his dark eyes glazed with indifference as his bald spot shone in the glare of the fluorescent lighting overhead.

"Oh! Of course!" Tom flashed an apologetic smile, unzipping the dark hooded sweater and shrugging it off his shoulders. "Apologies." He folded the offending item and tucked it in the bin with his other belongings. He could see the nearby female officer who was screening the bags doing a double-take in his periphery. He smiled warmly at her after he'd passed through the body scanner, waiting for his items to reach him on the other side. She was a pretty woman, mid-forties, kind eyes; her already ruddy cheeks turning a deeper scarlet as she returned his smile.

"Omygracious." It came in out in one word and as a whisper. He wondered if she'd meant to say it aloud at all.

"Good morning!" He said brightly, enjoying this as he almost always did. He loved the fact that he could make someone's day simply by saying hello.

"You're Tom Hiddleston," she breathed, barely glancing down at the screen she was meant to be monitoring.

"That I am." His grin widened. "What is your name my dear?"

"I'm Maureen," she replied, finally seeming to find her voice. "My son William and I, we are such fans of yours!"

"Thank you so much, darling!" Tom shuffled down to collect his belongings, conscious of the queue of irritated travelers he was about to create if he didn't keep this interaction short and sweet. Maureen saw this, and she managed to pull her eyes from his face back down to the x-ray screen. After quickly pocketing his belongings and throwing on his jumper, Tom moved off to one side to put his shoes back on, then unzipped the front pocket of his bag, retrieving the dark leather journal and pen he took almost everywhere with him. Its pages were filled with scribbles of dark ink: character notes, addresses and phone numbers, drafts of grocery lists; he flipped through to a blank page and quickly scribbled

For William,

All my best wishes,

Tom Hiddleston

He tore the page from the journal, stuffing it and the pen back in his bag before darting back over toward Maureen.

"Maureen, give William my love will you?" he said, winking as he handed the incredulous woman the small piece of paper. "I hope you have a wonderful day." He pulled his hood up over his closely cropped curls and turned before she could form a reply, heading into the bustling terminal of Edinburgh Airport.

An hour and forty minutes later he was quickly crossing the pavement towards the short-term car park at London Gatwick. The morning air was crisp but notably warmer than it had been in Scotland and the sun was struggling to make an appearance in an otherwise grey sky. Scanning the crowded lot, he spotted a black Lexus flashing its lights and started towards it as a tall, slender man, his physique not unlike Tom's own, stepped out of the back seat and waved in greeting.

"Luke!" Tom exclaimed, grinning broadly at his publicist as he reached the car. Luke stood a few inches shorter than the actor, but he shared his lithe frame and penchant for slim-tailored suits. His features were smaller than Tom's, and more boyish, nonetheless people often said the pair could pass for brothers.

"How was the holiday?" Luke asked as the car began to pull away.

"Two days hardly counts as a holiday." Tom chuckled, "but I'll take what I can get." He could see a tension in his friend's jaw that he had become quite familiar with over the years, and knew something was amiss.

"How is she?" Luke's eyes remained fixed ahead, as if the back of the driver's head was something of compelling interest.

Tom's face darkened just slightly, his lips pressed into a tight line as fragmented memories flashed through his mind like film frames. His fingers tangled in smooth dark hair. Sun-kissed skin against crisp white sheets. Swollen cranberry-coloured lips. He turned to look at his friend.

"You know you don't really care, Luke." He sighed, passing a hand through his curls as he slid back the hood of his sweatshirt. "She's well."

"I can't say that's the answer I was hoping to hear." Luke chuckled darkly then exhaled slowly, finally facing Tom. "I've been getting some phone calls, mate."

"What type of phone calls?"

"The far too inquisitive type."

"We're so bloody careful."

"Not careful enough, Tom."

The car grew quiet apart from the sound of Tom's fingers drumming on the black leather seat.

"How close are they?"

"Close enough that I will, once again, seriously urge you to end it now."

"I won't."

"You know what will happen if the press... if anyone gets ahold of this, Tom. You're bloody Prince Charming in the public eye. I honestly don't know if you could recover from it. Are you seriously willing to risk your career for a married woman?"

Tom rubbed at the two-day stubble creating shadows along the line of his jaw. He let Luke's question hang in the space between them as though it was rhetorical.

"Can't you just get a regular girlfriend? If for nothing more than to make my life easier?" Luke sighed, knowing he was fighting a losing battle as usual when it came to this particular topic. Their relationship was always a balancing act on the line between personal and professional. On one hand, Luke was glad that his friend had found someone that made him happy. On the other, he wished that someone was not one half of one of the most beloved married couples in Hollywood and thus a looming threat to Tom's ever growing public image and career. "I mean hell, just date a girl so the press will stop asking questions. Find a nice bird, take her to the cinema, pull her down a red carpet or two..."

"I wouldn't deceive a poor girl that way."

"Tom," Luke looked at his friend earnestly. "You're an actor." Tom shook his head, signalling the end of the discussion.

"But she wouldn't be."