TWH: Word Prompt Challenges

I'll never do it again.

"He can't always get the girl!" An irate Hiddleston comes barreling into my work space, waving pages before him. He's removed the binding, per usual. If he loses his grip the pages will go everywhere, fluttering down to cover all nearby surfaces. It would hardly detract from the room's décor but that's hardly the point.

His copies always look like this, worn at the edges, always baring the signs of the intensity with which he attacks the stories and engages with the characters. I've gone through three copies already, almost all of my reserves that I'd originally printed. Next time he spills his coffee and soaks the pages through he'll just have to take a hair dryer to the mess. Or go to set with pages looking as though they've been subjected to some sort of endurance test.

I take a moment, holding his gaze – not that he notices for his distraction within the world he's created in his head. That's my world he's tapped into, one that resulted from ideas fleshed out and fitted onto the page. Mine. I did that. Sleepless nights, high doses of caffeine, editing until the words blurred together, all of it accumulating in a response from the studio that they loved it and wanted to turn it into a film. It just needed a bit more tweaking.

Studio execs said they had the perfect person in mind for the lead role. The perfect person who decided pretty much from day one he would barge into the little room where I was hold up making last minute changes that were desired and battle back and forth with me over every detail. Perfect.

Actually, stomach ulcers from stress aside, it's a dream. He really is the embodiment of the man I had envisioned in my head while writing. And I get to debate the merits of plot points with him? Much better, much easier, than debating with figments of my imagination.

Finally I scoot my chair back a few inches and motion towards the short sofa that is squeezed into the room. Half of it is covered with 'inspiration' - aka bits and bobs collected for use at a later date. Easier to remember it all when it sits in a pile close to my desk. Well, that's the theory anyway. "By all means, Tom, come in. Sit down. Let's discuss it."

He misses the tone in my voice, or has just grown used to the fact that I'll battle him regarding the words on the page. He exhales a little snort and crashes his extended frame down into the space remaining on the sofa. On he continues with his critique, "It's just not realistic."

"No?" He's one to determine what seems to reflect reality and what doesn't.

"No! C'mon. Different social circles from the start. Different worlds, practically. A chance meeting - two minutes of conversation and then thrown into the action." He sighs again, no snort this time but something closer to what might be exhaustion. How late had he stayed up the night before? "He's a snob and she deserves better."

"You do remember he's you, right?"

"All the more reason to rail against him. He doesn't deserve her!"

"Well the studio loved it when it was pitched to them."

"And that makes the story perfect, does it?"

I laugh at him for that. "No story is perfect, but it does mean I get a paycheck. Allow me that, yea?"

Tom grumbles, his lower lip pouting out as a small furrow forms, marring the space between his eyebrows. "Seems like a trope. Superficial bastard and an enigmatic woman he doesn't notice until extreme circumstances throw them together. Uniform be damned why wouldn't he notice her? He sees her every day!"

"Distraction. Preoccupation. Sometimes people just don't see the thing right there in front of them. I mean, how many times have you gone looking for your glasses only to realize they're sitting on the table by the bed like always?"

"Please. There's distraction and there's being an ass." He's grumpy today and it shows. "A few hours of exposure wouldn't change him. And we're supposed to believe she views him as redeemable? He'd fall right back into old habits!"

He licks his lips, making a face as though he's swallowed something sour. I agree, to a point, and it's hard not to make the same face right back at him. Odd how people do that - mirror hand gestures of those they're in conversation with, or move their mouth in what seems to be a mime of the words you're speaking. Not Tom. He sits still with this look on his face... The Listening Face, I call it. Unnerving how much focus he devotes.

"Ok," I wave my hand, rolling my fingers in the air between us, "So he falls back into old habits at some point. She'd leave him." I shrug after the fact, punctuation to my point.

Still unsatisfied, he continues to scowl. "If they ended up together..."

"And that's a big if. We see the potential. Nothing says they have to remain close after. We leave it up to the audience to decide what happens." Time is starting to get away from us. I need to get back to work, and so does he.

"I can't stand the thought of her ending up with him."

"And I can't stand the thought of not allowing them to try. Sort of horrible to say he doesn't deserve the chance to try to be a better man, don't you think?"

This gives him pause. Then he lifts the hand that still clutches his pages for the day and gives me a short nod. "Fine. Fine. I'll never do it again. Second guess you, I mean."

That's not what I want. I enjoy the banter, the insight. He's influenced more changes to the script than he truly knows. He stands to leave and I wait until he's made it to the doorway to reply, smiling despite myself. "Until tomorrow at any rate."