Wherein a word or phrase can be the start of something fun and wonderful.
Some are simply stand-alone ficlets or drabbles. Some link up with published stories. Some end up previews for things yet to come.
Prompt: Fight Me/ Break Me Characters: Tom & our girl from YOJA
Fight Me: write a drabble out one character fighting with/or against another. Break Me: write an angsty drabble
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"That's just the way it is. Just the way it's going to be."
Was that really the last thing he said to her?
Yes. Yes it was. Because he fucking expected her to change her mind! She let him get in that car! Just stood there on the lawn, which only made his skin prickle worse. He'd given her the option. Right?
"You can change your mind anytime. Not that I expect you to, you goddamned stubborn woman."
No. He hadn't cursed at her. That was his mental alteration, the bending of the nightmare. He'd said... something else. Something else with a G. Not that it comes to mind at the moment.
Her father had warned him of this. Not THIS, exactly - many fucking thanks, Dad - but had warned him that she would dig in her heels and battle him. Wage war on him, with him, on his heart. That he would have to pick and choose what he wanted to win and what he could live with losing.
Except that he's fucking lost her.
No. No. That makes it sound like it's his fault that this happened. Not his! No. It's not his!
Tom rearranges himself in the seat, uncomfortable despite the graces the first class cabin affords. It's not leg room that's the problem. It's the fact that this should have been a holiday to remember for entirely different reasons. Should have been, would have been, if she had just—
He jams his fist down on his thigh, immediately regretting the action. Punching oneself and adding to the already numerous bruises is, well, honestly what does it matter? His body is already battered so what is one more sore spot?
All because she couldn't share the fact that she had deplorable excuses for humans as relations. All because she couldn't keep a fucking promise! Simple as it was, she couldn't do it. All he asked from her was the truth. All he asked was for her to care. For love. For respect.
They could have worked through this if she had just come with him. Some cave-minded part of him internally bellows that he should have thrown her over his shoulder and carried her out of there. She would have made him miserable for it, had he tried.
It all boils down to choice.
She chose to stay.
He chose to leave.
Leave and feel her watching his every step through the still-dew-kissed grass as he made his way to the car. Longest fucking walk of his life. And the driver had wanted to prolong the moment. Who the hell needs to use the trunk when you're carrying a day bag?
His day bag - all his belongings crammed in with more force than necessary. He could use that as an excuse to get up and release some of this energy that threatens to rattle him apart at the seams. It's a long flight. He needs to do something. Something or he'll lose it before touching down at home.
Fucking with his phone isn't an option. That only brings more fuel, fanning the issue rather than helping him to smother it.
She had called. He hadn't answered. The moment he saw her name light up the display he'd been tempted but his anger held his body rigid. He hadn't even been able to move to swipe her name from the screen. He'd only been able to stare at it, chanting an internal march: TOO LATE TOO LATE TOO LATE.
It hadn't even been an apology. She had called - not soon enough to stop him from getting to the airport. Not soon enough to waylay that little jump of a flight. Definitely not soon enough to keep him from launching himself towards London as fast as he could, as though getting closer to home would help him distance himself from the forest fire whipping through his internal landscape.
He knew she wouldn't break down and beg him to stop. He just knew it. Even if some part of him wanted it more than anything in the world, wanted her more than anything, he knew she would seal herself off again.
Being too stubborn, too livid to receive her call – spite making him wonder how she dealt with waiting for the answer that never came – it couldn't, wouldn't, didn't stop him from listening to her message. He only got through two seconds of it before pulling his phone away from his ear and forcing himself to board the transatlantic flight. It had taken another two hours to swallow the bile, replace the sour taste in his mouth with the tang of bourbon, and force his stomach, lungs, and heart all back into working order before he tried listening to her again.
Screw the world itself. He'd listen to her message. Her rambling not-apology. Her goodbye.
Tom? Hey. Fuck! I – I should have practiced this before I tried to call...
