Desiderata - A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction

Chapter Four

I go to the counter and order, but as I go to wait at the counter, I see a familiar face, head stuck in a familiar-looking stack of papers.

Why is he here?

Well, I didn't mean to be mentally rude.  As a teacher, I thought he would rather be home than here, doing...well, whatever he was doing.  After all, it was the weekend: why stick around a place that you were forced to be at 5 days a week?

Well, then again, I could say the same thing about myself.  And I'm pretty sure he only actually taught Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Thank goodness my order was ready quickly.  I retrieve it and head for the door, not wanting a conversation, not wanting to know why he was so persistent or how he got my cell number, and maybe if I moved fast, he wouldn't even know I was there.  But as I was halfway to the door, it all came crashing down with one word, two syllables.

"Constance!"

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath and inwardly groaning.  Out of all times, Chase had to call for me, had to raise his voice just slightly.  I felt my arm being pulled as he glided back to the counter, not caring that skateboarding in the shop was dangerous and not caring that he had just put me on edge.

"Chase--"

"We need to talk."

I groan.  "No, I don't want to t--"

"What do you mean you're not going to the play?!"

As I'm about to answer, I can see Mr. Hiddleston's eyes shift ever so slightly, and I knew he was now listening intently.

"Chase, we will talk about this tomorrow."

He sighs as he grabs his order of chai tea, his guilty pleasure.  "Fine, tomorrow."

He skates back out the café and I let out the breath I was holding.  At least I wouldn't have to deal with him until tomorrow.

"You're still not going?"

Thanks, Martin.

I look at Mr. Hiddleston, and he still hasn't completely looked up at me.  In fact, it still looks like he's reading the papers he has, even flipping the page.  It's only until then I see many blue pen marks, from the pen I didn't realize he was holding; he's grading papers.

"I'll try to if that will ease your conscience."

He smiles, adding another mark on the paper.  "Maybe it will, Miss Decuevas."

I'm probably not off the hook that easy.  I take a seat next to him, waiting for the speech and the counsel, the ones I've learned to tune out if it got too repetitive in the same spiel.

But he doesn't.  He sits there in silence, working away as I watch, as if challenging my former ignorance with some of his own.  In the five minutes of still and quiet, he never once spoke to me, questioned why I was still there, nor even looked at me; it was like I was invisible, a ghost of something forgotten.  And in his silence, I found some peace, and I wonder if that was the real point instead.

I looked at his hands.  Strange things hands are.  It's like a tree, the veins like ivy taking over and fingerprints unique like the the patterns with the bark.  The darker lines that band the palm and knuckles is like tree sap dripping down within or along the outside.  The fingers are like branches, some crooked, some straight, and able to reach in all directions, and the nails are like the leaves, in different colors and shapes and breaking off.

And his were so beautiful, like the cover of an ancient book, decorated like the fantasy and fairy tales that lay within. There was an ivy branch starting from his left index knuckle that was snaking down to his wrist. Another thicker piece came from his ring finger, the branch split around the finger but coming together a little bit down the back of the hand, and it met the first branch briefly at the wrist, then separated a bit once more. But the bark was sprinkled with paradoxes: ivy roots, denoting time, but still ever so soft; firmly grip, as if rooted in the ground, but still ever so gentle with each turn of the page as if it were an art.

It reminded me a lot of his eyes, how they can transform to whatever they needed to be to command the room, whether to let the reigns loose or hold them tight; whether to see the class in front of him or the worlds Shakespeare allowed us to imagine. He was dynamic, never static, never a stone but always a river.

After those five minutes, he starts to open his mouth, and I brace myself for the lecture.

"What do you think of an essay that's free from grammatical and spelling errors?"

I hesitated. "I'm sorry?"

"A term paper, consisting of twelve pages of text, and not one mistake, not even so much as a quotation mark or comma out of place. What do you think?"

I had absolutely no idea what he was going for. "I would go for quality and see if that was perfect as well."

In on fluid motion, he takes his cell phone from the counter and starts typing words into the search bar.  Within seconds, he places it on the stack and slide it to me.  I see what he means; word for word, the entire paper was forged, except for a few edited mistakes.

"Now which is worth more: robotic perfection or meaningful effort?"

"Of course the latter, but why are you showing me this?"

"You're not perfect, Constance.  And I see the stress written all over your face.  I know and understand you better than you think.  Appearances are not always what they seem."

Mr. Hiddleston flips the paper over to the front, and my eyes widened, a gasp almost leaving my nostrils and mouth as I read the name.  Lucienne Morganstein.

"There's a reason for everything, even if you don't understand it at the time."

I looked up at him into his eyes, and they looked kinder than usual, matching his ease of tone.  With a smile, Mr. Hiddleston gathers his papers and stands up.

"Besides, how else do you think Mr. Martin got the play tickets?  You really think he just bought them?"

My head snapped around to him as he walked, receiving a to-go cup.  As he walks out, he takes a sip from the lid.

Screw it.

Holding onto the strap of my purse, I follow him out, trying to catch up with his long strides.