Before The After (Tom Hiddleston Fan-Fic)

Chapter 41

Tom's Perspective

I don't remember much about the night of the gala. That's not an excuse to justify the poor actions and decisions I made, but it is rather the simple truth. By the time Kate and I had arrived, I was already hideously drunk with enough brown liquor and white-hot rage to make me feel plenty invincible. But much of my understanding of what happened that horrible night has been heavily reliant on a mix of secondary sources.

The media ran an extensive story on the events at the gala for well over a week, using whatever leftover grainy photo and video footage my team couldn't manage to buy and destroy to dismantle my reputation and pride. But, of course, only the reverse effect happened.

My scandal spiked my popularity in new demographics, opening new, and previously inaccessible doors for my brand, and at the same time earned me the undeserved defense and support of my ever-loyal fans. I was never taken out of any film contracts or withdrawn from negotiations for upcoming projects, and while most saw this as a benefit, I knew I had lost so much more than I ever could have gained.

Between the media circus and it's less than flattering portrayal of me and the somber retelling of my friends and colleagues' version of events, I was able to get a clear picture just how completely I had ruined whatever chance I may have had at happiness.

While the events that took place that night elude me to this day, I remember with profound detail the morning after. I'd woken up from the heavy slumber that usually followed drunken stupors with such a pounding headache that my vision blurred upon opening my eyes.

"My god," I groan, squinting into the sun that filtered lazily through the drapes of our bedroom windows. "I will never drink again."

"Kate, pass me the aspirin in the drawer." I reach my arm out behind me, feeling for Kate's small form but am only met with cooling, wrinkled bedsheets. "Darling?"

The fog of sleep slowly leaves me, and all at once my senses are hit with a variety of information. It's early, but Kate, who is usually late to rise, is not in bed. The smell of sick lingers nearby and when I roll over onto my stomach to peer over the side of the bed, I'm met with the explicit sight of my own sick collecting at the bottom of a lined waste bin. Recoiling quickly away from the sight and smell before I can retch, I jerk upright and nearly collapse back onto the bed, my entire body sore and pulsing with a hangover.

"Dear god," I moan lowly, my hands gripping at entire side of my head. "Thomas, how much did you drink?"

I'd heard them, then, of course, their quiet chatter and movement sounding like the buzz of several bees hard at work. All of them were scattered throughout the house, busying themselves with a task they thought they'd complete before I'd awoken. And, indeed, by the time I managed to get myself up and going, they had almost finished what they came to do.

"Is there any coffee?" I ask Luke as soon as I spot him in the kitchen. I don't ask him what he is doing at my house so early in the morning, and I don't see the way his eyes go dark with anger when he sees  me in return. "I think I went a little too hard on the bottle last night."

"A little?" Came my publicist's derisive response. But I was hardly able to hear him over the blood rushing through my ears and the sound of semi-freshly brewed coffee being poured into a ceramic mug.

"Tom," Luke is suddenly standing right next to me, and I jump, nearly spilling my mug. I didn't hear him come over. "You're still in your shirt from last night and you're not even wearing any trousers. Go back upstairs. Now."

"Just as soon as I finish this," I caution, frowning at him unappreciatively. I sip at the contents of my cup and sigh contently when the warm caffeine slides down my throat. All the while Luke continues to stare at me like he's about ready to punch me dead in the face.