TWH: Word Prompt Challenges

I would destroy myself to fix you.

*from the world of Unsettled*

You can't even storm back into the building the way you want. At least he's not there to witness. It is – let's call it distracting – to consider how he might act when faced with an extremely pregnant, extremely angry you. Distracting is good. Lately you've found every possible position painful. Standing, sitting. Nothing makes you comfortable in your own skin. You love this little munchkin but you're ready for him to be out.

Izzy is on the phone when you walk in the door. It only takes you a second to figure out who with. HIM. One glimpse of your face and she speaks into the speaker of the device. "She's just walked in the door.... No. No. She doesn't want to talk with you right now."

Clear from the way her eyebrows arch up, he's pleading to be allowed a word or two.

You mouth out the words to her: Don't. You. Dare.

She was friends with him, once upon a time. It is perhaps out of that longstanding loyalty that she holds the phone away from her ear and taps the screen. Speakerphone. She's put him on speakerphone. "Speak," she tells him while offering you a shrug.

Why do you put up with her? She's your best friend, and the only way you made it through the first few months of your pregnancy with his child. She kept the pints of ice cream stocked in the freezer, wiped up the tears, and assured you that while he was an ass and a fool – some of the less colorful terms – he wasn't worth the endless moping. You, and the little one, deserved better.

And she was right. Of course she was right.

His voice still grates at you. Why? Why is he on the phone? You'll be seeing him again soon enough. One of the last prenatal sessions before your due date that is quickly coming.

"How – how are you? Morning sickness? The books say..."

He's stalling. There's a purpose to this call.

You interrupt his babble. "What do you want?"

He hems and clears his throat, his voice lowering a notch. Anger. You mentally check off a point in your favor. Four words to push him from worry and concern back to the familiar arena that the pair of you have occupied since he decided to fall into bed with someone else.

"It's about Friday."

Your appointment. You press the palms of your hands to either side of your stomach. "What about Friday?" You shift how you're standing, annoyance running through you with such ferocity that your muscles tense. Oh that was unpleasant. You grimace at Izzy's look of curiosity and wave a hand at her when she takes a step towards you.

"I've got an appearance and–"

Mutely you point to the countertop, motioning for Izzy to put the phone down so she doesn't have to be subjected to this. She's had to endure far too many of these conversations that have turned to arguments.

"I've tried to move it but..."

That's as far as you'll let him get with that sentence. You talk over him and his request that you reschedule. "I'm not rescheduling. Go smile pretty for the cameras and I'll have one fucking session that is peaceful."

"Look, babe, I'm not asking for the world, here."

He won't give up the terms of endearment. Point for him. One well-placed word to shove you off firm ground. "You've had the details for weeks. Weeks! If you've scheduled something that conflicts that's on you." You grip the edge of the counter, closing your eyes as if that will stave off your anger.

"I've made everything else work. How many goddamned middle of the night flights to be able to be there!?"

For every appointment. Every single one since you allowed him that small victory. Damn him and his persistence. First you allowed the reestablishment of communication – even if you'd not been able to do much more than shout variations of FUCK YOU before hanging up – then came allowing him information as to your state of being. Concern for the baby. Concern for you. Why can't he just let you hate him properly?

You grit your teeth, another wave of ire bowing you a bit. It serves to bring that much more bite to your words. "Oh go to hell. Don't even try for sympathy. Poor you sitting in first class, most likely sleeping while in route."

"Fuck!" The explicative erupts from him, "You're angry. I get that. I thought by now it might pass but. Tell me what to do. What can I do to make this right? Anything. I'll do – I would destroy myself to fix you."

Before he can amend his words you're on him, shouting at the phone. "Me? Fix ME?!"

"You know what I meant! This. Fix us!"

"Fuck you, Hiddleston." Ah there it is. Your favorite phrase has one again been released. The tension that had been building within you is released along with those three words. Has it become your mantra? You channel your remaining anger at the phone, hoping that some of it, by proxy, can reach him. "You want to destroy yourself? Be my fucking guest."

Izzy's shout of alarm breaks through the argument, drowning out whatever he might offer as response. "Oh my God. You... Tell him to sod off! Look down! We've got to go!"

You blink, forcing yourself to disengage and take a step back. The carpeted floor is dark, darker than it had been when you walked into the room. What you had taken to be strong waves of emotion in reaction to Tom and his words – and then the sudden release...

–

His rage leaves him the instant Izzy's voice comes over the line an octave higher than it should.

Her water's broken. She's gone into labor. He's not yet had time to get her to rescind the restriction regarding the hospital! Maybe she'll have forgotten all about barring him from the delivery room.

He doesn't remember starting the car. Nor does he remember careening through several intersections – car horns blaring at him, though they barely register to his ears.

Her. He's got to get to her.

She's having their baby.