Insecure - Tom Hiddleston Imagines Geared Towards Battling Insecurities

Broken

Your head snaps up at the familiar sounds of turning tumblers align in the door. He wasn't supposed to be home this earlier in the day, let alone early in the week. He wasn't supposed to be across the ocean, he wasn't supposed to finish so quickly or have a break so soon. He wasn't supposed to take a taxi home, but you knew that already, and he especially wasn't to supposed to come home with a smile you knew was waiting on his face and a box of your favorite dinner you knew he had, the aroma having found its way to your nose and melting your heart as if it were his voice.

He wasn't supposed to be here, and most importantly, he wasn't supposed to see you like this.

"Love, I'm home!" he shouts as you scurry further into your closet, wincing in pain as you go. You wished it were a wardrobe, and maybe you would have some chance of inching your way into Narnia, but this was far from a fairytale, and there were no centaurs and talking beavers and Turkish Delights--well, there are, but none for you. You were way past that.

You can see the bruise forming, and even with your softest touch, the bone would give way more, desperately wanting to pierce you from the inside. And it was the faintest yelps that escaped your lips that fell onto his ears, as you heard his galloping straight to your room, skipping steps like a knight awakening a princess. You had barely hid yourself with one of his suit jackets when he slammed open the doors.

And you couldn't bear to look at his face, for you knew what to expect: widened eyes, not necessary bloodshot, but red with worry and brimming with tears; nostrils not flaring, but breathing heavy with concern; mouth agape not with anger, but with sorrow and a guilt that wasn't deserved and wasn't earned. How could he have known?

He didn't have to ask, and you still didn't have to look up, for his hand was so delicately over yours, removing the hurried veil and revealing your broken ankle. And before you could stop him, there he was, an ambulance already dialed.

But you would think that the ankle was the thing he was most concerned about.

"It's just a broken ankle."

"No," he says, rubbing over his mouth, the skin between his index finger and thumb rubbing where his five-o'clock shadow was beginning to form, "it's never just a broken ankle."

"I'll get a cast, need crutches for a bit, but—"

But even that he dismissed too. He wasn't blind to your forced happiness as of late, the kindness you've used to mask the pain, nor was he deaf or numb to the tears he heard you whimper at night, both in his arms and over the phone for late night calls. And he certainly could not mistake that his tie was around your neck and some of the closet's ceiling paint and chips had sprinkled you like dark fairy dust.

And carrying you downstairs, hearing the ambulance coming down the street, he held you closer than he ever did before.

"It's never just a broken ankle."

***

Finally (kinda) back from traveling, and finally into 2016.  Sweetie, you made it, it's the new year.  You survived, now it's time to live.  You might not have thought you could do it, but you did, and I'm so proud of you.  That's it, take a deep breathe, and listen closely:  I'm extremely proud of you, that you didn't give up even though you very well could have.  You made it and I'm here to tell you: you can keep going.  You've made it this far, and you've proven your doubts wrong.  Keep breathing, keep swimming, keep slaying, keep your chin up high, and keep trying because truly satisfying success can only happen that after a full frontal effort.  It may take time, but it'll be worth the wait.  It's like the climb up the roller coaster or counting down the days to meeting Tom: sometimes you'll have to be patient, and sometimes it can be agonizing, but in the end, it'll amount to something beautiful, irreplaceable, and priceless. I love you xx

~Ace