What's Past is Prologue (A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction)

Chapter Twenty

July 2nd, 2015, The M40 from London to Stratford-Upon-Avon, England, UK

It was another hot, sticky day, and because Tom had magically gotten Thursday and Friday off for me, I was wearing a white chiffon v-neck sleeveless top and a white and navy polka dot skirt on my way to Stratford instead of generating pit stains in the stuffy office of DuVille Designs. Tom, too, had taken advantage of the weather and casual nature of the extended weekend getaway and wore a black v-neck tee and tan shorts — or maybe they were hickory...

Other than the soft backdrop of Bon Iver, we rode the first fifteen minutes of the two hour drive in comfortable silence, Tom's Ray-Ban covered eyes only straying from the road every now and then to look over at me and smile.

I was trying my very best to be in the moment and not worry about what this trip meant for us, but honestly, I was dying to know what he was thinking. I needed a distraction.

"Fuck, Marry, Kill," I said, out of the blue. A classic time-wasting game, and a perfect way to occupy my mind so it wouldn't stray to more dangerous subjects.

Tom chuckled. "That's a bit harsh, isn't it?"

I shrugged. "That's the name of the game."

"What about... kiss, marry, avoid?"

"But that's too easy," I whined and gave Tom my best pouty face.

In return, he gave me a false stern look and reached over to pinch my cheek.

"Fine," I mumbled, making a show of rubbing where he pinched even though it didn't hurt. "I'll go first. Kiss, marry, avoid... Helen Mirren, Maggie Smith, and Judi Dench."

Tom scrunched his nose. "Seriously?"

I smiled deviously, knowing full well he'd give me a much harder choice for my upcoming turn. "They're all brilliant women," I said.

"There's no denying that."

"What, cougars not your type?" I asked.

He made sure to make eye contact when he said, "No."

I concentrated on how he scratched the stubble on his jaw and ignored the flutter in my heart and the voice screaming You kissed this wonderful man!

"Hmm... I think I'd avoid Judi Dench. She frightens me a little, in truth. And I suppose I'd marry Helen Mirren just to hear her speak every day. That leaves Maggie Smith to kiss."

I nodded. "Helen Mirren does have a perfectly posh accent, doesn't she?"

"All right. Your turn. Kiss, marry, avoid... Michael Caine, Sean Connery, and Anthony Hopkins."

"Easy," I said. "I'd definitely avoid Hannibal Lecter."

"'I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti,'" said Tom, in a perfect impression of Anthony Hopkins, complete with horrible slurping sounds from the film.

I shivered and gently slapped him on the chest with the back of my hand. "Ew, stop. That's too accurate, it's freaky."

He laughed. "Poor Anthony Hopkins is left out in the cold. So, would you rather kiss Alfred or James Bond?"

"I think I'd go for a kiss with Sean Connery and marry Michael Caine. He seems like a nice guy."

"So that's what you're waiting for. A nice guy."

"No," I corrected. "An octogenarian."

Tom burst out laughing. "I guess I don't stand a chance. Unless you're willing to wait a few more decades," he added with a wink, and immediately my whole body flamed.