Darling (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

8: an offer, a song, a train out of control

“Are you always this excited to be at work?” I ask, taking a slow, appraising look at the books on his shelves.  Mostly theory, some reference, and quite a few biographies on famous musicians. 

“Yeah. Mostly.” He grins. “You wanna sing today? We can hang out in the studio for a bit after class is over.” Sam wiggles his dark eyebrows at me, and I feel my stomach sink.  Back in the day, before I’d made it big, Sam used to record me singing on his shitty old Gateway PC.  He was something like my first ‘producer’, though it was always just something we played around with.  Even as kids, we had music in common.  I’ve, on many occasions, tried to convince him to come to LA and record something in the professional studios I have easy access to.  But he’s always declined, saying he likes his quiet, boring life and doesn’t know much about all the “glitz and fuss” of mine.  If he only knew…

“We’ll see.” I say quietly, not looking away from the bookcases.  Sam doesn’t say anything for a moment, before there’s a soft tap at the door.  I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he goes over and opens it.

“Mr. Hunter, can I run something by you? I came up with this break through last night and I need an opinion.” The student at the door is young—though he must be at least 18, he looks more like 15 or 16.  He’s got an acoustic guitar in one hand, and a huge smile on his face.  His eyes flick to me, and I see recognition bloom, but then falter.  I turn away, pretending to be interested in the books.

“Sure, Vinny. Let’s go into Classroom B.” Sam says happily, turning to look at me before he leaves. “Be right back, Bee.”

I nod, and keep walking around the room.  There’s music everywhere—sheet music, CDs, notes scrawled on scraps of paper. It’s been awhile since I felt completely connected to my music.  Once you reach a certain level of success, people have a way of believing that what you make is now their’s.  What you create is something that they need to handle and mold and change to fit whatever image that have in their head.  You’re no longer an artist, but a machine—a commodity.  And everyone has an opinion.

I sit down at the piano in the corner, sighing softly, trying to decide if I’ll sing this afternoon.  I’m not sure where my voice is.  Looking down at the keys, I run my fingertips gently over the smooth ivory.  I press down, feeling the felted hammer hit the inner workings of the piano.  The sounds is low, deep and resonating.  It’s been awhile since I played anything.  I usually stick to guitar, but piano was my first love.  Rach and I had lived with a family—for almost two years, and they had a piano.  It was a run down thing—mostly out of key, and a few of the keys stuck, but it was a piano nonetheless.  I taught myself to play—the way kids usually do.  Starting with chopsticks and little musical games, and then working up from there. 

It takes me a few minutes, but I’m quickly absorbed into the world that only music can bring to me.  I’m not really playing a song, but a mixture of a few.  Some things are made up, some are like second nature.  My fingers move before my brain knows what I’m doing.  I keep quiet, playing as softly as I can.  The door to Sam’s office is open, and I don’t to attract attention, though music in a music department is hardly a novelty.

I’m not sure how long he’s standing there.  It could have been the entire time, for all I know.  I’m staring straight ahead, lost in the ambling melody I’m playing, notes and lyrics dancing across my vision, when I feel him before anything else. 

I turn my head, slowly, and Tom’s there, at the office door.  He’s watching me, quietly, and when I look at him, he breaks into a slow, lazy smile.  So, this is professor Tom.  So far, I’ve seen jogging Tom and bartender Tom and doctor Tom.  Professor Tom is wearing dark blue trousers and a light blue button up shirt, cuffs rolled up his arms.  He has on glasses, black rimmed, making him look honestly, like he stepped out of some nerdy wet dream.