‘Part-time’, a Hiddlesworth AU: Hemsworth is a strapping young thing struggling for money and Hiddleston a predatory manipulative opportunistic billionaire.

Part I.

It happened too fast: the rim of the carpet snagging his shoe, the soup flying out of the tray, the hard tumble afterward by courtesy of gravity.

Pushing himself up, he half-notices the upturned bowl on the floor and focuses more on the pair of dress shoes half-drowned in its spilled content. Attached to the shoes are a pair of legs that goes on for fucking forever until he sees the beginning of a suit, its fine pinstripe motif vandalized violently by an angry splatter of soup-red.

He awkwardly stands, sort of wedging his tray in the distance between him and the suit in a feeble attempt at either self-defense or making himself invisible, silently assessing the damage he’s done.

It appears to be quite extensive from the look of things, and judging from the types of people attending this afternoon’s charity benefit—ladies with spectacular little hats and ladies with diamonds as big as fists and impeccable gentlemen with bejeweled or behatted ladies in their arm—he’s going to get an ass-whipping of a lifetime for what just transpired.

“Shit,” he whispers to himself loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear, because there really isn’t any word more appropriate to describe the overall situation.

A pair of storm-grey eyes locks into his and he braces himself for the impending scream of rage and perhaps a swift kick in the groin.

“Are you all right?” the guy in the pinstripe suit gently asked instead, intonation and pitch in perfect control.

This is a bit unexpected.

Also the guy sounds so genuinely concerned that for a moment he completely forgets that the victim of this malady isn’t him.

“I—I’m okay,” he blurts out, a bit shaken. “Shit, I mean, sorry—I mean, I really apologize, sir. Here, let me—” he snatches a wad of paper napkins from a nearby table and starts to pathetically dab at the suit with little coordination.

“MISTER HIDDLESTON!”

His manager, a stout fellow that barely reaches his shoulder in full height, booms from behind him.

“Are you all right, Mr. Hiddleston? No, silly me—of course you aren’t, I deeply apologize. Chris here would like to apologize as well—apologize, Chris—he’s a new addition to our staff and oh—oh, oh dear,” the little man visibly blanches when he sees the state of the suit, which the supposed Mr. Hiddleston has started to take off. “Sir, please let me, ah—let us at least have your suit cleaned for you. I do insist.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hiddleston cuts him with a curt smile, tucking what remains of his pinstriped ensemble into a neat fold, “although you might want to advise this young man to be more careful in the future.”  

“Yes, of course,” colors of relief bloom in the manager’s face almost immediately. “If you’ll excuse me, I will make certain right now that Chris is corrected accordingly. Please except our most profound apologies, once again.” And with that, the manager shoos Chris into the general direction of the kitchen and follows right after, still bowing and groveling and apologizing.

Once safely inside the confines of the kitchen however, the little man explodes into a million furious pieces.

“You absolute tit! What the devil happened back there? No, don’t answer that—I don’t even want to know. You and your daft limbs and slippery fingers! Yesterday it was the plates you massacred and now you’ve upgraded to desecrating suits! Have you any idea who that man was?”

Chris shakes his blond head.

“That’s Thomas Hiddleston, one of the wealthiest man in Europe, has spreads in Forbes and Fortune and documentaries in TV—Heavens, don’t you know anything? Wait, don’t answer that either. That suit you ruined must’ve cost a king’s bloody ransom and if it weren’t for him having enough grace to turn down my offer, both of us would have to sell our bloody kidneys to have it cleaned proper, and I don’t even think it could be cleaned at all, to be honest: not with so red a soup smeared like death all over the bloody thing!”

Chris lets his manager takes a few deep breaths before asking morosely, “Am I fired?”

His manager sighs. “I think,” he said, massaging the bridge of his nose, “that goes without saying. You’re a hardworking lad but God forbids, you’re also this… maelstrom of stupid accidents just waiting to happen. You’re just not cut out for this kind of work.” He plants a sympathetic hand on Chris’s shoulder. “It’s for everyone’s best interest that you stay permanently out of the kitchen before the destruction upgrades from expensive dining ware and suits to people. I’m sorry.”

—

After collecting his last pay, Chris changes clothes and gathers up his things, anxious to leave the premises immediately. He shudders a little, zipping up his gillet against the chilly spring afternoon and is just walking up the dirt driveway of the property when he realizes that things aren’t going to go his way any time soon.

The event his catering company is providing service for is held in a castle in sort of a hilly countryside, about few hours from London. The staff arrived by carpool earlier in the morning because there is no bus route from the city. He’d have to walk to the main road and then make sure he takes the right bus because he can’t risk a wasted fare. He’s already tight on money as it is; now that he’s lost his second job in a month he may have to start thinking about which of his shoes he’s going to eat first. And he’d better not get sick after eating those shoes because he really can’t afford hospital fees right now.

He sits on the cold earth, head throbbing from over-thinking when he hears a sound of a car approaching from the castle grounds. It’s an Aston-Martin, a sleek grey thing he saw once on an article somewhere. Has a cool pricetag of a couple million dollars if he’s not mistaken, and is only produced in a limited number or something and it doesn’t quite matter because as it stops next to him and its window lowers, bobs up a familiar face—not one he’d rather see right now but familiar nonetheless.

“Hello again. Chris, was it?”

Tight-lipped, Chris nods. “Mr. Hiddleston. Nice car.”

“Thank you. Leaving already?”

“Yeah, um,” he kicks an innocent pebble for dramatic emphasis, “I got fired.”

“Oh. That is… regrettable. I’m sorry,” Hiddleston informs him, face basically dripping with empathy. Chris thinks the Brit really needs to stop looking like everything that’s happened today is his fault.

Chris shrugs. “It’s been happening a lot these days. I’m used to it.”

“Are you waiting for a ride?”

“No, I’m just going to walk for a bit to the main road and take a bus from there.”

“Can I offer you one, then?”

Chris narrows his eyes, almost to the point of looking suspicious. Oh, this is wrong. Too wrong.

“I don’t… I mean, no, that’s okay. Awfully nice of you, though—”

“Nonsense,” Hiddleston exclaimed, already opening the passenger’s door. “A strapping young fellow like yourself, afraid of taking rides from skinny strangers?” he teases. “It’s almost an hour’s walk to the main road and you might freeze yourself sick in this weather. Hop in. I won’t take no for an answer.”

No, it sure seems like you won’t, Chris echoes mentally and grimaces. He’s not striking out the possibility of Hiddeston demanding vengeance for his suit and him being driven to a remote place only to be shot and dumped at a weedy shoal somewhere, so he takes a few seconds to study Hiddleston, trying to gauge how fast he can overpower the rich dude when it comes down to it. He’s pretty well-bulit and Hiddleston seems pretty slender in contrast—although their height is almost similar—so he can probably take him out easily. Plus Hiddleston does seem like a genuinely nice guy, so maybe there’s no harm? Also there’s no way Chris is going to walk for an hour in the cold and risk bronchitis on his way back to London. Too poor for hospital fees, remember?

He gingerly steps into the car, hugging his backpack protectively close to his chest as if expecting a blow.

“Mind the leather,” Hiddleston says as he enters, gesturing to the luxurious upholstery.

“I’m glad I’m not carrying soup right now.” Chris coughs out a nervous laugh.

Hiddleston shoots him a look. “Yes,” he nods. “likewise.”

And then the Brit pulls on the gearshift and the AM zooms forward, rounding the bend with a badass screech.

#hey look a long fic  #hiddlesworth  #le casual doodling  #le casual typing