Tom had always considered himself a man of modest tastes. So when the first truck of fan mail arrived at his front door overflowing with teddies and letters and clothing and music and books and fan mail and fan art and fanfiction and essays and poetry and flowers and other paraphernalia, he had been, to put it mildly, flabbergasted. What to do with all of it? He had wondered as the poor postman lugged in box after box. After five minutes of shuffling the first three bins further in, Tom had darted out after the man and had helped the poor fellow fill up the trolley and bring it upstairs.
That had been an interesting way to start one's morning.
Of course, afterwards, when the agency heard of it, they arranged for the post to divert most of the fan mail to them and Tom's managing staff. From that time onward, on the odd day when Tom found himself free, with a dutiful heart and a spark of curiosity, he sorted through a bin or two and answered his fan mail. Sarah and Em will never let me live this down, he had thought as he held up a picture of Loki and him snogging on some kind of Asgardian bed. Hell, I'll never let me live this down, Tom had then chuckled a little and signed another card in thanks of the -ahem- generous fan work.
Thus, the day Tom found a large nondescript box parked outside his door with a smudged address and postage coming from the direction of Notting Hill over which he raised an eyebrow. A fan mail? Arrived here? He wondered. Fan mail from Notting Hill? Wonders never ceased.
Inside was a birthday card addressed to him - a green and gold affair with a short Happy Birthday message written on the inside. Happy Thirty-First Birthday, Thomas William Hiddleston. May this year be full of blessing for you, from A Friend, Tom read mentally as he gazed with trepidation at the sizable brown box before him.
It was a good two feet tall by three feet wide bound with course twine and, underneath, brown paper. Should I open it? Should I drag it in? Should I have it brought to the office and scanned? Tom could see it now. He could see his manager giving him that Look which usually meant 'this is worth the fuss?' but more often meant 'what were you thinking, Tom, what were you thinking?'
Perhaps I can just open it a little and then decide.
Once in, the actor quickly found some scissors, cut off the twine methodically and the paper not so methodically before finally popping off the top of the green and gold polka-dotted black box. Revealing a giant green, gold and black cake.
Tom stared at it. Blinked.
It didn't go away.
A magnificient cake.
A round, seven-tiered, overwhelmingly iced cake of magnificient proportions the like of which he had rarely seen in his life.
Well, there was that cake at his sister's wedding - but for some reason, Tom thought that this particular one was larger than normal.
Was he supposed to eat it ALL by himself? Was he supposed to eat it? Wait... Can I eat it? Tom wondered. Should I try it without someone testing it first? Tom imagined someone testing it for him and dying in his stead. The soft-hearted actor shuddered. Hell, no, he decided. If it's my poisoned cake, I'll have to eat it too.
With that, the blonde-haired man fetched a fork and and knife and plate and, cutting the sides away from the gift, Tom settled down for a sampling.
Fifteen minutes later, Tom was finishing up his first serving, enjoying every lick of the delicately sweetened mint and vanilla cake with the pop of chocolate on the side. No sign of poisoning or uneasiness. Although, Tom reminded himself, poison sometimes takes time to set in, so you'll have to wait to really find out. When - not if - when Luke finds out, he's going to kill you anyways and you'll feel like tit, that's what, Tom.
YOU ARE READING
As Thanks To You a.k.a. The Cake IncidentHumor
Tom Hiddleston has been receiving a cake and presents every year around his birthday time. Who is sending it - and why? Will Tom ever figure it out? And what will he do when two worlds collide in a bizarre way?