Work Text:
The wave of nausea hit like a train, and you leaned over the toilet to empty your soul. It came and went as it pleased, leaving no room for objections on your side. You clutched your swollen stomach, feeling it churn in displeasure.
At several months pregnant, this was your reality.
Tommy had walked into the room at that moment, focused on fixing his cuff links. The jacket of his suit was neatly rested against your shared bed, a bronze pocket watch next to it. It was your doing, and it brought a tender smile on his face every time.
He was reaching for the watch, about to secure it in his waistcoat when he heard your rigid breathing. The door of the bathroom was open ever so slightly, though enough so your groans reasoned into the bedroom he was stationed in.
A weird sense of worry rushed to his heart—a feeling he has yet to get used to. It made permanent residence in his chest ever since you had found out you were with his child. Every morning (and throughout the dark night) you were pulled out of bed to deposit of all intake from the day. A painful process, one he had to watch every day.
You were sickly looking, too skinny for anyone's liking. Resting against Tommy to trek around the house became a normality.
Before he knew it, Tommy was kneeling next to your hunched body, a rough hand rubbing incredibly soft circles over your back.
A smile crept to your face, and you exhaled in relief. "I think the baby likes you."
Tommy chuckled from behind you, grasping your fallen locks into his free hand until it was draped over your back like a sheet. "Is the baby finished?"
You brushed your mouth with your sleeve, "I believe so."
"Good," he mused, grasping your forearms to bring you to your feet. Instinctively your hands wind themselves around his shoulders, your whole body leaning against him for support. Walking was weird, and you felt like you couldn't hold your own weight.
It was a strange sight for Tommy to see. He always saw his wife as a force to be reckoned with. Seeing you struggle holding yourself up tore at his heart. A talent you had was pretending nothing was of difficulty and carrying on as normal.
He knew better.
Once in the safety of the bed, Tommy reached for the duvet and laid it over you. He watched as you took steady breaths of comfort and proceeded to throw the displayed jacket from the occupied bed to the armrest of a lone chair.
"When will you be back?" You asked him weakly, your voice cracking at each syllable. Despite wanting him home with you, you bit your tongue against mentioning it.
He glanced at you as he secured his watch, his eyes full of worry. "Late."
You proceeded to stand up into a sitting position, but he was quick on his feet. "Lay down."
Your glare was deadly, "No."
"Y/N—" he began, sounding like he was at the end of his strength.
"Y/N what?" You fumed, an intoxicating feeling of energy running through your veins. Walking to the closet was a lot easier than to the bathroom, you realized, as you found yourself brushing through your clothes in a minute.
You felt Tommy behind your back, incredibly close as he whispered into your ear. "You will not work with my child inside you, eh?"
"Is that the only reason?" You turned around to face him, your swollen stomach brushing against his covered abs. There was a look of murder in your irises.
"Of course not," said Tommy, sneaking an arm around your waist. "You're the most important fucking thing in the world for me."
You felt tears prick at your eyes. Bloody hormones!
Just as you were about to kiss him, another wave of discomfort reasoned, and you placed a shaky hand over your mouth, running (attempting to run) into the bathroom.
This time, the door was completely shut closed, and Tommy stopped at the foot of it. His hand grasped the doorknob, and just as he was about to push, your voice cut through.
"No don't come it!" you yelled, "Don't fucking—"
And then your voice quieted down, and you broke down, leaving Tommy with no other choice but to leave you to it.
His heart split in half.
***
"How are Y/N and the baby?" Polly's voice was accented as she switched between drinking her tea and smoking a cigarette.
The smell of smoke wafted in the air, and Tommy found himself thinking that he'd have to shower before even thinking about embracing you.
He shook his head to get rid of the thoughts, and Polly's face broke into a knowing smile.
"It's not good, Pol."
Her smile fell. "What do you mean? Has she seen a doctor? I heard there's a man in London—"
"No Pol she hasn't seen a doctor," said Tommy solemnly, running a hand over his face. "She doesn't want to."
"She thinks she's alright, doesn't she?" Polly nodded like a wise owl, understanding you entirely.
"She hasn't seen a fucking doctor," Tommy breathed, though his words came out as a tortured bark. He burrowed his face in his face, inhaling whatever he could. "She wants to...work."
A laugh escaped Polly's lips, she hid it elegantly with her napkin. "She's coping. She's scared for the baby of course. A baby's not a bloody car Thomas."
"I know it's not—"
"Tell you what," she stood up suddenly, placing her tea precisely on the dark table. "You take her to a doctor, a good one, and you stay there with her. Hold her bloody hand, show her you care."
Polly's eyes met Tommy's, and she spoke firmly. "You don't want her to be alone if they don't hear a heartbeat."
***
Tommy held the door firmly in his hands, watched as you shifted nervously from one foot to another. Despite your attempts to keep a low profile and act as if you weren't faint, it was obvious that you were scarcely walking.
When you didn't attempt to walk into the hospital, your husband had released the hold on the door and walked straight to you. His big arms grasped your forearms, and the action urged you to look into his eyes. The sight almost made you cry.
"You alright, hm?" He asked gently, rubbing soft circles with his thumbs. It eased your tense muscles, and you found yourself exhaling through blurry vision.
"I—I'm scared," you spoke meekly and leaned into him without a second thought. Tommy cradled you in his arms as the last few weeks rushed through your head until it started to pound. His hold on the back of your neck was protective, and it kept you in place, completely against his warmth. "What if the baby—"
He sighed, "The baby's fine Y/N."
"But—"
"I'm worried about you eh," Tommy pulled away, thumb under your damp chin to guide your eyes to his. "I need you to be all right." (noo, not me using that line kill me NOW)
"We'll go inside, and we'll hear our baby's heartbeat," he continued, his words sounding like a vow.
"You promise?"
The question was so innocent, so full of worry and hope it brought more tears to your eyes.
Your husband's hand fell into yours, enveloping it in its warmth. He took a glance at the hospital behind him, turned back to you and said. "I promise."