punching and cupcakes

[marrinikari]

Emma stalked into the living room growling. Actually, audibly, growling. Phil took one look at her and muted the television. "Babe?"

"Yes," Emma bit off between clenched teeth.

"That is the scary-Emma face. Scary-Emma face? Worrying. A little. What happened to 'cute happy wife' face?"

"I just got off the phone with my mother."

"Well then." Phil turned off the game entirely and hopped to his feet. "Let's go, babe. Up and at 'em. Gym clothes, pronto."

Emma stared, caught wrong-footed. "Um. What?"

"You, me, punching things," he explained, as though it should have been obvious. Which, if she hadn't been distracted by mother-induced rage, he thought it probably would have been. "How is that not the correct response here?"

Emma looked at him consideringly. "Can I punch her instead?"

"No. No mother punching. If you go to jail, I will be sad." When Emma didn't smile, he got up and wrapped his arms around her stomach, nuzzling her head. "Come on, babe. It'll make you feel better."

"I hate the gym," Emma complained. "Haaate."

"You hate your mother more," Phil reminded her.

"...true. Fine. Gym." She twisted herself free and looked sideways at him as she moved towards the door. "But you're holding the mitts."

"But babe, the punching bag loves you too!" he called after her, grinning. "And it's way less breakable than I am!"

Emma's shirt hit him in the head. "If you're dragging me to the gym, you're catching," she called back, voice mockingly sweet. "I get stress relief, you practice for work, everyone wins."

"I question your definition of winning!" he retorted, peeling the shirt off his face. Then he eyed her smugly. "Or, new plan, we could stay here and I could appreciate the view."

Emma's glare could have cut steel. "If you suggested the gym to get me to strip, Philip Anderson-!"

Phil raised his hands in surrender. "Never!" More seriously, he added, "Come on. You know hitting things will help. It's not my fault you're very distracting."

Emma hummed thoughtfully. "I accept your excuse. But only because it's a compliment... kinda."

Phil watched her vanish into the bedroom worriedly. She was responding to his jokes, at least, but her eyes were still tight. Now what had his mother in law done?

Ten minutes later, Emma re-emerged from the bedroom, newly clad in gym clothes with both hands already wrapped. Phil could tell from her expression that whatever distraction his teasing had been was well and gone. He walked over and her shoulders hunched, pulling her body away from him; rather than push, he simply held out his hand for hers. She held out her hands one at a time so he could check her hand wraps, only speaking sourly when he nodded approval. "How many times have I done this? They're fine."

"You're the one who insists on using the wraps with the bad velcro," Phil reminded her.

"...they're softer. And it doesn't really matter anyway," she grumbled.

"I'll buy more fabric softener," he offered.

"Not. The. Point." Emma snapped.

Phil dropped the subject immediately, recognizing Emma's Danger Zone tone. Instead, he slung an arm over her shoulder and kissed her cheek. "I know. Sorry, babe. Come on, get in the car, we're almost to hitting things."

They drove to the gym in relative silence. It wasn't a particularly long drive, and Phil didn't want to push until she'd gotten out some of her aggression on something other than him. He did get a smile when he held the door for her in the parking lot, so he decided to count that as a win.

The receptionist looked at him questioningly when he walked in, having caught Emma's thunderous expression as she stormed past, but Phil just mouthed Bad day and the woman accepted it with a knowing nod. They get a lot of that here.

Phil grabbed his mitts from the back while Emma strapped on her gloves. He was pleased to see that she was using her lighter pair; if she'd pulled out the heavier set, he'd have run straight for the emergency chocolate. They squared off and she looked at him questioningly. He held up his hands and winked at her. "Come on, babe. Time to work."

Twenty minutes later, his shoulders were starting to burn and he was sweating more than he wanted to admit. Emma went for a left hook and he caught her glove between his mitts. "Conditioning," he ordered. "Or my arms are gonna fall off. Jesus, babe, what did she do?"

Emma looked like she was going to argue, but then her shoulders sagged and she stripped off the gloves. "She's just- ugh."

"Yes, and...?" Phil prompted carefully.

Emma threw her gloves at the wall one at a time, harder than she needed to. "You pick. The 'move back to Connecticut' speech or the 'have babies immediately' speech? Cause let me tell you. Both at once? Fucking miserable."

Rather than respond, Phil swooped her up in a hug. "Hey, no," Emma objected weakly against his shirt, "'m all sweaty."

"I like you anyway," Phil told her.

"Fine, then, you're sweaty," Emma huffed, and Phil let her go, less an arm around her shoulder. "It's none of her business! Plus, moving to Connecticut makes no sense. My job market would be half the size and yours would barely exist. And don't even get me started on the pregnancy thing, we have to decide about grad school before we even think about kids, and I just- I can't deal with her right now, I-"

At this point Emma's voice, which had been getting higher and faster, gave out and she started crying. Phil bundled her back up in a hug again, sweat or no, and decided conditioning was just going to have to wait. However much boxing had helped Emma get through her anger, this was not a conversation he was interested in having in the middle of the gym. He steered her outside, waving somewhat awkwardly over Emma's head as they walked back past the receptionist's desk, and got her seated on a bench outside. From the way she clung to his shirt, he thought they might be there a while.

Once Emma had calmed enough to start breathing, Phil offered her a tissue. (Well, a paper towel he'd stolen from the bathroom expecting this was coming, but close enough.) She mopped herself up and stared fiercely at her toes, looking embarrassed, but Phil forced her head back up. "Babe?"

"Yeah?"

"We're adults. We make our own decisions. You don't have to listen to her, okay?"

"I know," Emma sighed, "but it's hard. She's so clearly doing it because she loves me and wants the best for me, you know?"

"Of course she wants the best for you. That doesn't mean she knows the nursing profession better than you do," Phil pointed out, nudging her in the side. It earned him an amused huff.

"I know, I know."

"You just need to be reminded sometimes," he suggested with a smile. He stood and offered her a hand. "Time for a Mom Cupcake?"

Emma grimaced at him. "Do you really have to call them that?"

"I call it like I see it, babe. Mom calls mean chocolate cupcakes. Unless you don't want one?"

Emma made a face and poked him in the chest. "I didn't say that!"

Twenty minute later, they had their cupcakes, and Emma was curled up in the passenger seat with chocolate frosting on her nose laughing at the radio, and Phil was hiding his smile as he drove them home. Crisis averted.

Now if he could just get home before the basketball game was over...