A/N: Based on a prompt idea from hooks-and-hero-ness on tumblr. Title credit goes to Muse. :)
"Give me a minute," she nearly hyperventilates, stumbling into the bathroom on her brittle legs and bracing herself against the closed door with her brittle arm—shutting herself in. Wishing she could shut him out. Too little, too late.
Her son. Henry.
His words bounce around what up until one minute ago used to be her brain. Now it feels like a pit to the center of the earth. A waterless ocean with its depthless canyons exposed and yawning. A black hole sucking her in, her cells imploding and dividing and stretching into the infinite (shouldn't she break eventually, brittle as she feels?).
"Hey, do you have any juice? Never mind—found some."
Oh, god. He's here. He rang her doorbell. He walked over her threshold and into her living room, a smile so open and certain. And her eyes. Damn it! He has her eyes! Neal's hair and her chin. Damn it.
She thinks she wants to throw up. She thinks she wants to run out the front door and leave him to figure out how to get back to wherever he came from. She thinks about how he comes up nearly to her shoulders. She thinks about him curled up inside her, stretching against her ribs, kicking her bladder, the first tickling flutters. She thinks about the pushing and the cuffs around her ankles. She thinks about the milk coming in three days later that no one prepared her for and the stretch mark right over her left hip. She thinks about the wanting-wanting. She thinks she was right never looking at him.
But what scares her the most, shut away in this small, cold tiled bathroom with nothing between her and him except two inches of plywood (because closed adoption apparently wasn't the impenetrable fortress she'd been promised), is that her first thought when he'd introduced himself was: his name wasn't supposed to be Henry.