Tom Hiddleston and Loki Imagines - Bk. 1

Tom - Fade Away

A/N:  Can I take a moment to thank you guys for 100+K views and 5+K votes?! :D  You guys are the best!

Also,  if no one hears from me in a week or so, please check the area in which villainousladyloki lives.  (Ehehehe she will know why in that time (:<)

Countdown:

8....

Q: Which imagine did you want to be reality?

****

Take me away from here...

Another tear fell down your cheek.  You couldn't explain it.  Nightmares, not just in your head but in reality.  Every day was a battle, from going to work to even getting out of bed.  Even taking a shower, you would keep your head under the faucet, not prepared to steps out, letting your tears blend with the current.

As the days passed, your depression sunk lower and lower.  Some days, even the little things seemed to be the biggest task.  Most days, you would just cry for hours on end, and you wouldn't even know why.  Maybe because you were in the rut of routine, stuck in the same job with little to no benefits while you see the rest of the world living their lives of exotic adventures and colorful sunsets.  Maybe it was because your best friend was just married and his wife just had their baby boy, and here you were, not close to either one of those end goals.

Maybe it was because your grandparents weren't doing so well, health-wise.  Your grandfather just had open heart surgery and now was being diagnosed with cancer.  Chemotherapy you didn't trust, but until they could reopen him, it was the best option.  Grandma had just gotten a knee replacement, but it was hard seeing her struggle and almost fall with a walker.  Maybe it was because they were the only thing close to true love you had in your household and you didn't want it to slip from your grasp.  With parents about to divorce and a little brother who's addicted to drugs and abusive to his girlfriend, they were the only family that kept you sane, that kept hope alive that someday, a happy ending was waiting for you.

Maybe it was because this job was too taxing on your.  As if waking up was hard enough, you were up before the sun, traveling five hours just to get to the place that didn't comp your travel fees.  And after being there for ten hours of demanding hard labor, you made that five hour trip back home, back to a place of yelling, fighting, and insulting.  And it wasn't as if you could fall asleep on the way; people were known for stealing things from weary travelers, plus you had to be alert in order to change buses.  Your phone and kindle would keep you company, but they only have so much battery life.

Maybe it was because you hadn't eaten.  No, it couldn't have been that.  You didn't feel hungry.  Actually, you hadn't felt that way in a long time.  Why bother to go through the kitchen in the middle of a heated argument and shift around through the leftover takeout containers?  It just wasn't worth it, even if you were now underweight.

And so was the rut--dark, cold, and getting deeper and deeper with each day, just like your depression.  Some days, you would just look out the window of the bus or in the morning, watching the people as they go by or looking into the apartment building across the street, the passerby not even noticing that your eyes were on them, the tenants not even aware that they're secrets were not secure behind closed doors.  All were unaware of your existence.

I could just disappear and no one would notice.

And it had been true.  You called in sick today, and your boss even didn't know who you were.

"(Y/N)?  I hired a (Y/N)?  Oh well, we'll manage."

And they hung up.  You didn't know what to expect on Monday when you went into work, that is, if you still had a job to go to; his answer left seeds of doubt in your mind.

So there you were, huddled on the couch in your favorite, worn sweatshirt, shorts, and fuzzy socks, because fuzzy is supposed to make things better and the sweatshirt reminded you of the time where everything was okay.  But it was all memories, all what was in clothing.  You wished you could take the familiar scent of home and sprinkle it around your house like fairy dust and it would make everything the way it's supposed to be.

But it doesn't work like that.  If it did, depression might not exist.

The doorbell rings.  Wiping your tears, you force yourself to look out the peephole.  And it's one of the last people you expect to be there.

Tom.

Your other best friend, the one who, like Benedict, got into acting and traveled the world, leaving you behind.  Sure, you talked constantly over the phone and through email and Skype, but it wasn't the same.  There were no more pizza nights or monthly Movie Mondays or Shakespeare Saturdays.  There were no more, "I'll be over in ten minutes" or "You can come crash here if you need"s.  There was only, "I hope it gets better"s and "I'm here for you"s and "Is there anything I can do?"s, because what else could he do or say?  He was a celebrity, and whatever time he had to himself to do as he pleased would automatically go to his family, much less to a nobody lost in her own mind.

But there he was, right outside your door, big blue or gray or green--you never could tell which--eyes waiting to see you.  With a sigh, you open up the door, and before you can get out a "hello," he had wrapped his arms around your waist and snuggled his head into your neck.

"Tom, what are you doing?"

"Wondering why you were so sad."  He looks into your eyes.  "Even when you think others can't see you, I can.  I always could."

He takes your hand and leads you to the couch.  You still couldn't believe that you were holding his hand, actually feeling his veins and flesh.  It wasn't just a lost past; it was something tangible.

He came back for me.

"You thought I had forgotten about you?" he says as he sits you down.

Of course.

But you only shrugged.  It didn't stop him.  "Well I didn't.  Not you.  Never you."

With loving hands, he brings yours to his lips, kissing your knuckles.  "Why don't I order us some pizza, just like old times, and you can tell me everything that's on your mind?"