Just Another Day

Let me just say that first of all, the time that it takes to make actors and actresses look amazing on screen goes to the makeup and costume departments. The reason the actors sound great is thanks to the writers. The reason you can see them on screen at all is because there are cameramen and women. Plus the whole tech crew. Then there's the editing team, who keeps us from seeing all the bloopers (although some fan girls would love to see those). All of the assistants and people who go get coffee. The people who feed everyone. The prop department. The Director. Everybody. We need to thank them.

Now, the purpose of this story is not to make fun of any of these departments. I know fully well that the OC that I've created could not do every job that I've given her. :D However, I've written this so it sounds like YOU are the one who is living it. Although, the main character's name is Joanna (refered to as Jo), feel free to block out her name and insert your own! :D I'm a fan girl of Tom Hiddleston, hopefully that's why you're here. Because this is just something that popped into my head that had to be written.

I don't own anything you're about to see. I don't own the Avengers. I don't own Tom Hiddleston. I don't own any actors, actresses, or other persons you may see. I don't own any companies, or products you may read about. I am doing this for fun. Okay? I'm not pretending that I own them either (although, there's really nothing against that...). I don't own the sets, or the studios, or the little apartment that the character lives at. I've just written what I felt like writing. Promise.

Seeing that I cannot find anything about film production on this movie, I've had to fill in things on my own. Just a warning.

Also, one other warning: This is a work in progress. It may take some time to get these chapters out there, and trust me, I have big plans. And a lot of written things in the wings.

Now that we have all of that settled, let's get on with the show, shall we? I do hope you enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up, before sunrise, as per usual. It's a Wednesday. Weather forecast calls for a small chance of rain later that afternoon. You consider if you should take the umbrella, or leave it.

But you can think about that when you're leaving. You tend to jump ahead of yourself a lot. Think in the now. Act now.

So you act now. Get up, out of that huge queen-sized bed (you're more of an optimist than a realist), out of the warm comforters and traipse through your apartment, right for the kitchen. Even though it's only four in the morning you start a pot of coffee and pull out your travel mug.

While that's brewing, you walk back into your bedroom and pull out the blue jeans and t-shirt you plan to wear to work that day. No need in being fancy, it's hot and dress clothes will just smother you.

You learned long ago that dress clothes weren't required... Unless, of course, you're trying to impress, then they're essential. But today, there's no one to impress. Just run of the mill people you see everyday; same for the past month.

It takes you less than three minutes to put on make-up, and throw your hair into a presentable ponytail. No shower needed right now, but later, after work, is a different story. You've been favoring ponytails since filming began, finding it faster and much less work. That way, you can go to bed with your hair wet after your shower.

You get dressed, seeing that you picked your "I only date superheroes" shirt. That makes you laugh to yourself, and the sound barely bounces off the walls. Last is your dark green Chuck Taylor's. Tom's written "Loki'd" on the toes of them, but you don't mind. They're his color anyway.

Your coffee is ready by now, so you go and fill your mug, wiping away what spills on the brown countertop. The smell is amazing, and leaving the coffee black, you put the lid on top and head to the living room.

Your jacket and purse are on the couch, right where you left them when you got home. Hopefully you weren't so tired that you left your keys in the car. Again. Luckily, they're there, in your purse waiting for you to unlock the doors to the cream colored Volkswagon Bug downstairs. You get your stuff, and head out, turning on the living room light before leaving. It'll be dark when you get back. It's always dark when you get back.

Then you remember the umbrella. This is why it pays to think forward, you remind yourself. You unlock the door and grab the yellow umbrella just inside and then relock.

The building doesn't have an elevator, so you walk down the flight of stairs to the lobby. Outside the glass doors, you see a few cars pass by, lights dimmed. It's still dark out, one edge of the sky barely orange with the rising sun.

The word orange has your head turning. It has always intrigued you; how it's the one word that doesn't rhyme with anything. You're thinking over words that could possibly work with it as you walk to your car. Florenge. Gorenge. Lorenge. Door hinge. That would work, but it's two words. Not one.

The drive to the set doesn't take very long. You listen to the radio the entire way, regardless. It's something you've done from day one, and singing to the songs you know helps you relax. The job you have is hectic. Any form of relaxation is appreciated.

You're surprised that you're not completely stressed out. Or about to pass out from exhaustion. The crew's been running non-stop for the past week and a half. Get them to hair and makeup! Is he done yet?? Are you finished so you can help on the extras? You almost lost your temper more than once.

Pulling into the lot, you find a spot and park, turning off the engine. Then you sit there. Just for a minute. Once you get out, you won't be back in until it's time to go home. Whenever that is.

You give yourself a pep talk everyday before you get out of the car. Everything's fine. I do this everyday. Don't let people get on your nerves. Don't get nervous. Shaky hands can't apply eyeliner.

Then you get out of the car. Grab your things. Put on the jacket because it's a little chilly out. You run by the food tent and grab a granola bar and an apple. People are milling around the trailers, talking and laughing. You have to go get everything set up for the day and then you'll join them.

You work in your own trailer, even though it's pretty small. It's got one large (optimist) room and a small (realist) bathroom. At least you have a couch.

Throwing your stuff on an end table, you begin to sift through all of your supplies. You do this every morning, just like everyone else, to make sure you don't need anything. So far, you have plenty foundation and eyeliner. Powder's good. Eye shadow: check. Sponges: ready to go.

Now for the hair stuff. Hair spray. Extensions: are a go. Razor: ready for launch. Hair dye; might need it, it's been a couple of weeks. That's it. Everything's here and ready.

So you leave the trailer, to see that the sun is barely peeking over the horizon. Your group of friends haven't moved in the ten minutes you've been gone, although the subject has changed. They're discussing a television show they'd all seen. You've never heard of it, but decide to join them anyway.

"I seriously don't know what they were thinking when they wrote the thing." Clorissa was saying. She typically didn't care much for bad writing. None of you do.

"I know right?" David asked, like it was the most obvious statement in the world, "The characters have no substance."

You still don't know what show they're bad mouthing, but apparently it stinks. You're surprised they haven't gotten in an argument over it. And that they've had time to actually watch anything on TV.

"What was with last weeks plot?" MacKensie snorts. Being your closest friend amongst the crew, you notice she's about to start her "mocking" voice, "Oh, let's just make this like every other love triangle that's ever been..."

"I'm about to quit watching it," Brooke voices, and you can't help but feel left out now. You glance down at your watch which tells you that it's almost five twenty. The conversation dies down, and David puts out his cigarette.

You hate the smell of smoke, and no matter how many times you remind him of this, he always lights them around you. Just when he's about to light another one, MacKensie sees your distress and loops her arm through yours.

"I'm going to get breakfast, you're coming with me," she says.

You've got fifteen minutes before you have to be in your trailer, so you walk with MacKensie to the food tent you'd already visited. Now it's more full, with hot breakfast on the line. You wait while she gets a bacon biscuit and a carton of chocolate milk, sort of wishing that you had gotten in line for the milk too. But you have coffee. With much needed caffeine.

"So what have you been up to?" MacKensie asks while you're walking back to the trailers.

"Nothing, there's no time for anything other than sleep," You chuckle, watching a golf cart pass you.

"Time management," MacKensie replies, like her answer is the easiest thing to understand.

You can't believe that she thinks that all of this could be solved with time management.

"How does that help me? I don't get home until really late, and we all have to get up really early, so I don't have time for TV." You're not even sure that you still pay for cable.

"You make time," MacKensie says, "I've done it for the past eight years."

You're twenty seven, and very lucky you got the job you have. MacKensie is four years older than you, and has a husband and daughter who live in another state. You've learned she tries to Skype and call them as often as she can, because she's very devoted to her work. But she'd trade her job for them in a heartbeat.

You want to be able to have that, sooner or later.

It's five thirty five when you get back, and the schedules have been posted for the day. You've got the overall schedule at home on your fridge, and one inside the trailer on the wall with all the photos you have to use. Easy enough to say that this changes, a lot.

You tell MacKensie that you'll see her later and jog up to get the schedule out of the clear box. Yep, it's changed. He's not on call until one, so you've got free time until extras show up.

You kind of wish that you'd known about this earlier; you would've had time to sleep in a little later than usual. Or watched the news from the TV at home instead of the mini one in the trailer. So you let out an exasperated sigh and duck inside. You turn the air conditioning on now, knowing that you'll desperately need it later.

The golden delicious apple is picked up, and you begin eating it while walking over to your wall covered in paper. When you were given this trailer a month ago, it was sparkling clean. Now it's covered in pictures and notes, drawings. There's some black hair dye on the floor from that time you spilled it on accident. Well... you had reason.

You never take the notes off the wall unless absolutely necessary, and it's gotten a bit out of hand. For a fact, you know that your trailer is the most chaotic, yet organized among the entire makeup/hair crew. A lot of this is thanks to a certain person named Loki, who decided to leave all kinds of threatening letters around.

By far, your favorite is: "Mortal, if you scour my face with that hideous scrub brush again, I shall make sure that you do not live to tell the tale."

When that had shown up two weeks ago, you replied with a crying sad face on the same paper. Two hours later his rebuttal was taped to the mirror: "I'm sorry. I did not mean to make you cry. But I'm sure you intended to make me cry when assaulting my face with that horrible brush!"

You tear down two or three of the little notes that don't matter anymore, like, "Get more sponges," and "More cotton balls." That's when you remember that you are out of Q-tips (-well, cotton-buds as Tom sometimes referred to them). You throw away the core of the apple in the wastebasket beside the large makeup counter. Grabbing the remote and clicking the television on, just so there won't be so much silence when you get back, you leave and run down the lot.

There's a trailer that's full of supplies, so you go in and grab a box of the cotton swabs. A sheet on the table by the door demands that you write down your name and what you took, so you scrawl your signature and check the little box for Q-tips. Your watch says that it's ten till six; the sun is practically up now.

Maintaining a slow jog, it takes less than a minute to reach the trailer. MacKensie yells at you as your opening the door, "Extras aren't coming until two!"

So there's that.

"Thanks!" You yell back, shaking your head as you enter the cool trailer.

Your eyes are greeted with the lanky form of a man who is much to tall for the small couch. His feet are up at the end. The crook of his arm is covering his eyes, the other arm dangling down to the floor.

"I'm not due on set until one," comes that impossible English accent.

You're not ashamed to say that he made you jump. He was always doing things like this.

"Why do you make it your goal in life to scare me?"

He laughs, "Why are you so afraid of me?"

"It's not that I'm afraid of you..." You clarify, "'I will make sure you don't live to tell the tale' does. Wouldn't a well written death threat scare you?"

Tom uncovers his eyes and has them fixed on you, teeth sparkling white in a dazzling smile. With a slight laugh and hint of cynicism he retorts "If it were well written..."

You sigh and cross over to the other end of the couch where his feet are and shove them off, giving you a place to sit, "Extras aren't in until two."

"So we do nothing for a while," Tom puts his feet in your lap.

"There's nothing to do," You over-dramatically wail, "You'll bore me to tears!"

It's his turn now, "And you'll drive me insane!"

"How sweet, Tom!" you chuckle, playing with one of the shoelaces on his sneakers.

"I try," his debonair shrug is followed by a small laugh that in turn makes you smile. Even though he wasn't exactly being serious, everything he says has a distinct sincerity to it.

"Two o'clock really? I could have slept in. Or made some use of my time. Why don't we do something until then?" he asked so nonchalantly. As if you'd been friends all your lives.

"I could decorate your shoes," you try, starting to untie one of them, "It's only fair."

Tom pulls his feet out of your lap almost instantly, "No, no, no, no, no. Not my good shoes."

"And these weren't my good shoes?" You laugh, "And I love how you said that you could've made use of your time."

"I could have!" Tom defends, "And those look like they're about to die," he's pointing at your sneakers.

You love times like these. They're so easy. Too bad the entire job isn't this way.

"Name one thing you could've done that would've been productive that you couldn't do here."

Now you've put him on the spot. And he doesn't say a word. He just sits there, looking like he's deep in thought, yet you know that nothing is going on back there. He's probably just planning on pranking you again.

"Uh-huh," you smirk, "You can't think of anything."

"Fine, you're right," he sighs, plopping those black sneakers back in your lap, "I can do anything here."

There's a moment of silence, that both of you enjoy. He's closed his eyes again, probably drifting off into some dream only Tom Hiddlestons' have. You continue playing with those off white shoelaces, wanting to tie the two shoes together, but think better of it. No use in giving him an even better reason to prank you.

There's so much you could be doing, that you half decide to just go home until eleven. Waste of gas, time, money... you brought your laptop...

"Off," you demand, throwing his feet to the floor. You hide your laugh behind an evil smile when he almost falls off the couch.

"That was not very nice," he mumbles, sitting up, and grabbing the TV remote.

The room is filled with the nasal voice of an anchorwoman talking about the weather. You walk to the door to grab your bag, lugging it back to your end of the couch. Inside, there's your notebook and pens, plus a million other items that held no relevance to being in a backpack. That fishy looking granola bar had been in there since your trip to Indiana last year. Then you see the little Loki action figure your older brother got you when he found out about the job.

The little Loki falls out as your pulling for your laptop, intent on updating Facebook. You're not fast enough, and Tom grabs it before he's stowed away. His long fingers turn the figure over in his hands, eyes scrutinizing every detail before turning to you. He's got that mischievous grin plastered all over, and he's definitely brewing something behind those eyes.

If anyone had burst through the door, they would think he was about to eat you.

You know much better though. You see the playfulness behind those changing irises, the ideas spinning around in that brain. All about how to humiliate you for having a mini version of him in your backpack.

"It's not what you think, Tom," you interject before he can embarrass you too badly.Tom smiles at the doll and opens his mouth as if to say something, but acts against it. His shockingly bright eyes dart up to you. You nearly lose your breath waiting for him to say something.

Finally he pipes up, "Then it shouldn't be any different that I have an action figure of you. Or is that a bit odd?"

That sinks in after a brief second, "Maybe... a little."

"If you're allowed to have one of me, I should be able to have one of you."

Tom wiggles his eyebrows, letting out a laugh.

"Can I have it back now? It was a gift from my brother," you frown, hiding the fact that you want to laugh for the sake of getting the toy back.

His laugh dies down slowly, smile staying, "Is he older or younger than you?"

Greg is three years older than you, and much, much taller. You love him to death, plus the little rascals you call nephews. His wife is a sweetheart, always calling you to make sure that you're eating right and taking vitamins; and did you see what they're saying on the news about your movie? I can't believe you're with all those celebrities right now! Take pictures for me, dear.

You wish you could take pictures.

"Older."

"Ah, so he is the Thor in your life," he says.

The funniest part? Greg made sure to get a Thor figure too. He kept it for himself.

"You could say that, but I'm much nicer than Loki."

Tom pretends to be offended, "He's only misunderstood. No one understands him like I do."Your laptop has booted up, so you open the internet tab, "Well this script makes him look like an insane... well, to be frank, bag full of cats."

Tom then concedes that Loki is a lot more evil now than he was, but tries to defend him in every way that he can. You argue back and forth on the subject for at least thirty minutes, deciding that if you don't forfeit, the argument would never end.

Facebook had overgrown with many, many, many wall posts from your friends and family. Sadly, when you got home there wasn't much time for anything other than reading for a few minutes and turning out the lights. Cora had been writing you the most, even sending a few letters through the mail every once in a while.

Cora Fielding is your fourteen year old niece and the one person in the family that you relate the most to. If you had a sister, she would be it. Although there is a very... passionate love for Tom Hiddleston in her.

It takes several minutes to poke everyone back in the incredibly long list, and you hear Tom getting frustrated because you aren't speaking. You decide to ignore him. You begin to wonder if there's a limit on how many private messages you can receive from one person.

You're replying to the million questions Cora's asked when he starts clicking his tongue. And he's doing it just to be annoying. You sigh loudly, seeing if that gets your point across. It doesn't.

Click.

Click.

Click.

"Tom! Please," you say, "stop."

"Am I bothering you?" He feigns innocence.

The glare you send should properly give him an answer. He just grins in return.

It's ten minutes later when you've finished everything online that needed to be done. No more emails to check or responses to give. You turn to the lanky figure on the other end of the couch, his head is in his hand lazily flipping channels on the television.

"Have you ever Googled yourself?" You ask.

Tom doesn't look up, "Once or twice."

That's enough incentive for you to do it. You click the search bar and quickly type "Tom Hiddleston." Information abounds.

"You went to Eton, and Cambridge," you read aloud, "And RADA." But it's not like you didn't already know all of this. Cora told you every detail about the man before you started working for him.

You're wanting to embarrass him a little, because it's always fun. If he can prank you endlessly, you can at the very least make his pale cheeks turn red. The best way to do this is to open the Images search bar.

Pictures galore. There are lots of him with curly blond hair, and you click one. It's adorable, and although you don't say it out loud, your brain continues to scream it at you.

"I can't believe my boy was a blond," you sigh dramatically, making sure your hand brushes his arm as it flops down into the middle cushion.

"Oh," he whines, moving closer to see the screen, "You're looking at pictures now?"

"I'm actually thinking about getting on Tumblr to see what your fans are saying about your gorgeous eyes, or beautiful hair, or to-die-for cheekbones." You say, pretending to be dead serious. But once he looks into your eyes, you know that he's seen the joke.

"Or maybe I'll just text Cora," and that's your biggest threat, probably.

He gets silent, and you take the opportunity to google, "Tom Hiddleston Tumblr." Then you click the first link to the Tumblr search page.

"Oh, goodness, Tom," you laugh, "This girl wants to kiss your 'gorgeous English face off.' Sounds painful."

He snaps back to attention, "Give me that," and he's got the computer in his lap within three seconds.

Giggling, you watch him sift through the page. You've never seen that face on him before. And you don't know how to even describe it. Or how to begin to either.

You get up and pull a pen and paper from a drawer on the vanity. You sit in the chair there, and begin the task you've set for yourself. It takes five proper minutes to sketch his face, so you'll have it for future reference. Then suddenly, just as your finished shading his cheeks, the look changes to a mask of indifference. And he starts typing away.

"Just so you know," he says, eyes unwavering from the screen, "I adore Cora."

"Cora, calm down," you laugh, watching your niece rock back and forth on the floor.

She screams. And tears are starting to form in her eyes, "CALM DOWN?? HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO CALM DOWN WHEN YOU'RE..."

Then she can't finish her sentence because it still seems to impossible to her.

You think you hear his name in the next squeal she lets loose, but you're not positive. There's a moment with you telling yourself over and over how stupid you were for telling her this without earplugs.

"Please, Cora, control yourself."

"You. Are. Going. To. Work. With. Tom. Hiddleston. How can I possibly control myself under these conditions?!"

Now you're worried about telling her the other part. But it has to be done.

"Cora, I'm going to tell you something else, but you have to promise me you won't spaz, or freak out, or scream. Okay?"

"I make no promises!" She giggles, pointing her index finger at you.

You sigh, letting a smile slip easily onto your face, "It's not just working on the set. I'm going to be doing a lot more important things."

Cora's eyes widen, "Like??"

"Well," you hesitate, building up to the point, "I'm doing hair and makeup."

"On extras?! That's amazing!!!" She flips out again, bouncing up and down from where she's sitting.

"Not just extras."

Cora freezes, "Oh my gosh, WHO?"

"I'll give you hints." You laugh, "He's very tall."

"Not Robert, or Jeremy... or Scarlett," Cora seems to calculate aloud.

"Strong, but not overly built."

"Not Hemsworth."

You tease, "Figured it out yet?"

"I'm down to Hiddles and Evans," Cora squeals, "Hurry up!!"

"Well, he talks like this," You prepare yourself for the British accent that's about to ensue, "I love Thor more dearly than any of you."

Cora faints.

You smile to yourself, and go back to the drawing, working on his hair. He never knew that conversation took place, and oddly enough Cora didn't pass out upon meeting him. That day was just too hectic, and crazy, and psychotic, but it was fun. Especially with Cora swooning over everything that Tom said or did.

He's still typing when you glance up again to refresh the mental image of his hair.

"What are you writing over there?"

It takes a moment for him to finally answer, "Oh... nothing, really."

"It sounds like the world's longest novel." You grin, penciling in the small scar on his forehead.

"It's a letter," he smiles, glancing up at you, "And what are you doodling?"

"You."

"Again?" He laughs.

"You made a face that was priceless, and I had to draw it before it went away forever," you explain, winking in his direction.

"Oh, that's a perfect reason," he rolls his eyes with the grin, clicking the mouse button and closing the top of the computer, "Let me see."

"Not finished yet," you frown, upset with the way his hair is laying.

And the way it's colored.

He grumbles a reply, but you don't catch it before he throws himself back onto the couch, closing his eyes. You're not sure how he manages to get comfortable on such a small sofa.

"Guess what," you say, styling the drawn hair-do.

"Um, dinosaurs have found a way to travel forward in time to steal all of our pudding."

You slam the paper down on the vanity, "Crap Tom! How do you always know?!"He shrugs, "It's what I do."

Letting out a laugh and standing, you start pulling out all of the stuff you'll need to re-dye his hair.

"Come and sit in the chair, my darling," you smile, back to him.

"Look at the ginger roots!" You exclaim, while brushing out the tangled mess.

"I'm not ginger. I'm blond."

"Look," you say, leaning down to put your face right next to his in the mirror, "When this," you tap his chin and jaw line with your index finger, "grows out, it's red. And brown. Not blond."

"Well, I used to be blond..."

You laugh to yourself, "I know, dear. And if you want it stripped back to blond, I'll do it for you when this is over."His hair is still a little wet from the shower he took that morning, making the little curls spring up everywhere.

"I'm surprised that these little guys are still around after I straighten your hair so much," you say, grabbing the scissors and trimming a piece.

"You should've seen my hair when I was younger," he smiles, crossing his arms over his chest, "If I had ever gotten gum in it, Mum would've lost her mind."