Tom Hiddleston & Loki Imagines (xReader)

Mixtape, Pt. 2

Your flight landed at two am. You dragged yourself off the plane, claimed your luggage, ordered an Uber, and arrived at your apartment right before three thirty.

You were glad to be home. And even more glad that you were still on paid vacation—no work tomorrow. For the next week and a half, actually. You could relax.

Goodness knew you needed it.

Now more than before.

You left your suitcases in the middle of your floor and dropped into your bed, exhausted. Jet lag was a beast.

So was stress.

Stress. According to both your mom and your best friend, you'd been under far too much of it lately. They pair had formed a sort of tag team, in which they'd taken turns bothering you about going on vacation, taking some time off, relaxing for a little while. They claimed you were working too hard, too much, and that your health would ultimately suffer for it.

You'd scoffed whenever they brought it up. You were fine. You were doing what you loved; and as long as you do what you love, it wouldn't seem like work that way. Your "work" in biomedical research was saving lives.

Besides, you had a promise to keep.

You stood outside the hospital door, staring in at the tiny form on the bed. He was so small, so delicate. The adult-sized bed dwarfed him even more.

Your eyes took in the gifts arranged around the room. Stuffed animals, toys, simple games, picture books. All offerings from friends and family who wanted to cheer him up and add some color to the depressingly white walls of the children's hospital.

It was selfish, but you preferred depressingly white over depressingly cheerful.

The worst were the balloons. The large, brightly colored balloons that read "Get Well Soon!" with smiley faces.

You wanted to get rid of all of it. You wanted to destroy the balloons and scream at the people who brought them.

Because you knew.

He wasn't going to "get well soon."

He wasn't going to "get well" at all.

The doctors had already spoken to your family, complete with apologies and "we did all we could"s. There was nothing left to do but make your brother comfortable until it was over.

You knocked softly. "(Brother's Name)?"

His head turned slowly in your direction. His red-rimmed eyes cracked open. It was painful, watching how much effort it took for him to even smile. "Hi, (Y/N)."

His voice was so weak. So tired.

You crossed the bright tile floor and took the chair beside his bed. Forcing a smile, you took his little hand in yours. "I brought you something," you whispered conspiratorially, forcing a mischievous smile.

His dull eyes showed interest.

Reaching into your bag, you pull out a stuffed puppy with light blue fur and dark blue spots.

"Blue!" the sick child whisper-squealed.

He loved Blue's Clues. He'd asked for his stuffed puppy when he was first hospitalized—three weeks ago—but no one knew where she was. You'd torn the house apart looking for her. His emaciated frame hugged her tightly.

He was only five years old. He shouldn't be suffering like this.

After snuggling Blue for a few seconds, he croaked, "Mommy said I'm going to see Aslan."