Tom Hiddleston Oneshots

Premature

Babies are small enough as it is. Seven, eight, even nine pounds feels like you're carrying a cloud. It's shocking to see anything smaller.

2 pounds, 10 ounces. That was how much our daughter weighed, when she was born prematurely at 28 weeks.

Even when she wasn't pregnant, I was always extra careful with Hazel. I watched her steps in a full length dress, in high heels. But neither was the case. Just a simple set of stairs in the tube station, on her way to see me during lunch.

The doctor explained that with carrying a child, a woman's center of gravity is thrown off. And the curved tiles of the station may have obscured her vision, making her dizzy. She simply could have become claustrophobic, panicked, and tripped.

But no rational explanation made up for how I felt as I rushed to the hospital, with no information on the state of her and our baby.

It's been five days since that day, five days of tears and panic and insanity. There were so many issues between wife and baby I couldn't have a spare thought.

That is, until the middle of the night. After visitor's hours, when the hospital was still and the love of my life sleeping, I'd go down three floors to the NICU, and watch our daughter. She was in her incubator, keeping her at a warmer temperature than the outside air. There were so many wires and bits and bobs attached to her, I could barely see where she began. She wasn't much, but she was fighting, with her IVs and her CPAP helping her along the way.

"Visit her as much as you can. It helps her get strong, helps her grow. Even though you can't hold her yet, she can sense your presence, your voice. Pretty soon your scent, too," the nurse patted my shoulder in encouragement as I watched over her.

Her calm and collected state reminded me that she'd seen worse cases than ours, that there would be babies born and babies lost each day.

Hazel couldn't leave her bed, but she demanded to be wheeled down to see our daughter.

It was heartbreaking to watch her sob as she stroked her head, holding her hand through the pathetic arm hole, Hazel's hand covered in gloves, not really touching her.

Now, I too held her tiny, fragile hand, trying hard not to dwell on the future or the past. I watched her rapid, forced breathing, her tiny lungs working overtime.

I vented to her, my only solace, as all my feelings came out. I had to be strong for Hazel, for my family, even the press when someone leaked our story.

But with my baby, she didn't care. She just wanted me.

Tonight I sat in silence, too pained to form a sentence.

At the door tennis shoes squeaked, and then a soothing voice, "Do you want to hold her?" I turned back and looked at our main nurse, Danielle, in confusion. "We were going to let you tomorrow morning, but I have a soft spot for your family."

I inhaled, then slowly released my pent up exhaustion. "I don't know..."

"Hazel's fast asleep, won't be coming in anytime so soon."

Hazel was doubly weary, dealing with her own injuries and the idea of her baby practically worlds away. She'd weep into my shoulder, unable to do anything else.

Most days I could hold in my tears, until I got to the hallway, but other days I'd collapse with her, only hoping time would rebuild us.

Once I was settled back into my chair, Danielle, with the help of another nurse, laid my fragile daughter across my chest, bringing along all the wires that swallowed her up.

She threw a blanket over the both of us, keeping her warm, and whispered beside me, "At this age, they can have a REM cycle. She's been asleep for a while. I wonder what she's dreaming about."

I sat, in shock, over my child. I'd held babies tons of times, but nothing was like this. This was magic. He molded into me, and the room, full of hope and fear, melted away.

"My king and my princess," Hazel slowly shuffled into the room, dragging her IV drip along with her. She carried battle scars with her: bruises, stitches, and an empty stomach, but still had those sparkling eyes I fell in love with.

"Hello. You're not supposed to be here," I mumbled, smiling, confident my eyes were heavy and I looked sedated.

"My mummy senses were tingling," she lowered herself in the chair beside me, slowly peeling back the blanket to reveal our tiny creation.

"She looks like you," I pointed out, and she shook her head, fighting back a smile.

"All the beeping gives me anxiety. I'm constantly on edge in here."

"You just gotta focus on his heartbeat, have yours synched with hers," I breathed happily. "You want to hold him?"

"Yes," her face lit up. "God, yes."

Without a lecture or a look of disapproval, the nurses immediately swooped in and transferred our daughter to the woman who gave her a home for the past seven months.

She cradled her with a delicacy I'd never seen before, and closed her eyes, in bliss.

"Perfect," she breathed. As soon as the word left her lips, her eyebrows furrowed.

When she opened her eyes, tears fell down her cheeks.

"What's the matter?" I wiped each one silently.

"This isn't how I imagined it. Not in a million years."

I lowered myself to my knees, grasping at the arm of her chair.

"No one does. It doesn't mean it's not special. We still love her, maybe even more because of it. We've already realized how precious she is to us, how valuable her life is."

Kissing Hazel's temple, I stroked her hair and reassured her.

"It's going to be a long journey, but it'll be all right."

"How can you be sure?" she questioned, her voice cracking.

I looked down at our fragile, infantile daughter, whose head was smaller than my palm.

How did I know?

I didn't, but I couldn't do that to her. Too many times I relied on her words, her touch, to soothe my worried mind.

It was only time I returned the favor.

Tearing my eyes away from the stitches on her forehead, I answered, "You're a fighter. She's a fighter. It runs in the family."

"What would I do without you?" Hazel asked, reaching for my hand.

I took it and pulled it to my cheek.

"Now, leave that worrying for me. When you didn't answer your phone, when I got that phone call-" I swallowed, fighting back my emotions, for her.

"I was so scared. Don't ever do that again."

The last sad tear she ever shed in that hospital, leaked out after she gave a heaving sigh, as if she was debating her answer.

"Okay."

"God," I kissed her knuckle, "I can't wait to get him home, where he belongs."

I cautiously lifted up the blanket, and covered the three of us, living in our own little bubble.

"Although," I mused, "she seems pretty happy right here."

"Yeah," she tore her eyes away from our daughter to smile at me, "Me too."