bellysoupset

[bellysoupset]

Relapse - Conclusion

This is the last piece directly tackling the relapse! We'll still see Wen's recovery journey, but the relapse itself ends here. Trigger warning for the talk surrounding it, but it's from Vince's POV and not graphic.

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In movies, it happened in slow motion. A missed step, arms outstretched, the victim's comical surprised face before falling.

In real life, it was in a blink of an eye. One minute Vince had been yelling at Lucas — what about? He couldn't even remember it now — and the other Bella was screaming out "WENDY!", his girlfriend tumbling down the stairs and falling into a heap at the bottom of it.

The maid of honor's robe was made of cream silk, light bouncing off of it, Wendy's dark hair a mess and covering her face, causing Vince's panic to increase even more as he skipped down the stairs.

"Don't touch h-"

Vince ignored Luke's words, already flipping Wendy over, cradling her closer.

"Wendy?! Wen, honey, hon- Open your eyes, c'mon, Wen-" Vin chanted, shaking her softly, Bella so close that their shoulders were pressed together as she investigated Wendy all over in search of bruises. There was a bleeding cut on the bridge of Wen's nose and a bright red bruise was already blossoming on her exposed thigh, her knee scraped and bleeding too...

"Wendy, please," Vince cupped her cheek, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest under his arm. She was breathing, just unconscious. Most likely concussed. She needed a hospital, "what- What happened? What the fuck happened?"

When he looked up, glaring daggers at Bell as if it somehow was her fault, there were more people in the room. Staff, that Vince didn't give a crap about. He slipped an arm under Wendy's knees, picking her up, "she needs a hospital."

"I'll go with you," Bella jumped up too, then pointed at Luke, "you-"

"Yeah," Lucas didn't let her finish, nodding along, "yeah, I got this, go."

The rest was blurry. Bella magically having Wendy's car keys and taking the driver's seat, Vince slipping in the back and holding his still unconscious girlfriend close, counting her heartbeats...

He wasn't sure how many minutes into the drive that Wen's brows crunched up in pain, lips down turning, eyes fluttering open, then closing quickly at the brightness, "whaaa..."

Relief flooded him, so strong it felt like a sucker punch, "Shh, I got you," Vince's hands curled on her arms, "I got you, don't move-"

"Wha'pend?" Wendy slurred, eyes moving around as if she had just spun really quickly, a frown permanently etched on her face, "hurts..."

"You fell down the stairs," Vince moved her in his arms, so Wendy could rest her head on his shoulder and he could hold her on his lap, a hand rubbing her back, "do you have a headache?"

"Uh-hu..." Wendy grumbled, burying her face against his neck. Vince caught Bella watching them on the rearview mirror, looking horribly worried, "don't- Don't feel well..."

"Are you still dizzy?" Vince craned his neck so he could get a good look at her and Wen nodded, minimally, her lips pressed into a thin line, throat bobbing...

He whirled her around just as Wendy let out a soft gag, her forehead meeting the back of the passenger seat as she heaved, weakly.

"Shit... You're definitely concussed," Vince sighed, moving so he could slip his hand under her forehead and the beige leather, pulling her hair back with the other hand, "Bell-"

"Going as fast as I can," Bella answered, as if she was reading his mind, "we don't wanna be pulled over because I'm so over the speed limit."

Ugh.

Wendy let out a little airy burp, her cheeks puffing out and a line of drool ran down her bottom lip, fingers curling on the seat in front of her so much that Vince saw them turn white.

"Shhh, it's okay, the car can be washed," he reassured his girlfriend, moving his arm so he could stroke her cheek with his pinky while still holding up her hair, "get it up, honey."

She heaved once more, loud and painful, but nothing came up except for another belch, this one frothy, and more clear saliva hit the mat of the car, "Vin..."

It broke his heart. How wounded and in pain she sounded, little tears clumping her lashes together and running down the corner of her eyes.

"I know, I'm sorry," he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. The fact that he couldn't take her pain, how he couldn't fix this situation, "we're almost there, honey."

"Hang in there, Tink," Bella vouched and Wendy's brows furrowed, head lolling to the side as she searched for the source of her friend's voice. Vince pulled her back gently, until his girlfriend's back met his arm and he could wipe at her mouth.

It was around 40 minutes to the closest Portland hospital, 30 with how Bella was driving, and still it didn't feel quick enough. Wendy kept dozing off against his shoulder, then jerking back awake, eyes wide and seeming confused and nauseated.

As soon as Vince carried Wendy inside, though, people were on them. Unconscious was bad.

Orderlies rushed ahead, getting his girlfriend on a stretcher and a nurse came to shove a form on his hand, separating them and causing Vince's heart to squeeze as he watched Wen be wheeled away.

"Here," Bell took the clipboard from his shaky hands, "let me do it..." The ginger hesitated for a minute, then squeezed Vince's knee in a reassuring way, "a concussion is not the end of the world, Vin. You've had at least two, she'll be fine."

"She's- She's so tiny, it's not the same," Vince scoffed, although he found himself nodding along to Bell's words.

"She was conscious, that's something," Bella sighed, starting to scribble down Wendy's name and her information, occasionally tapping a question with the pen in order for Vin to answer.

Almost forty minutes later, as Bella texted Luke and rested against Vince's arm, his leg bouncing nervously and his nails wrecked as he was unable to stop biting them, a doctor came to find them.

They moved out of the waiting room, to a quiet hallway and the doctor — a man, in his early forties, Dr. Sanderson — looked incredibly severe, hands clasped behind his back, "Wendy sported a mild concussion, but we'd like to keep her overnight because-"

"Is she awake?" Vince jumped at the opportunity, "is she in pain? Can you guys give her something? Did you run an x-ray, she fell down the stairs-"

"We did run an x-ray, Mr. Monacelli, as well as a tomography," the doctor sounded annoyed and Vince reeled back, unsure on the reason for his harsh tone, "we'd like to keep her overnight due to how dehydrated she is on top of the head injury, we're currently running an IV with fluids. I'm withholding painkillers since she didn't ask for them and is showing no symptoms of pain, just dizziness and brain fog."

"Can I see her?"

The man crisped his lips, glanced at Bella, then nodded as if he really didn't want to, "follow me."

Vince exchanged a confused look with Bell, who shrugged, as they followed the man down the hall and up one floor.

Wendy had been put in a room, a clear tell they intended to hold her overnight regardless of her wishes, and she was changed already in the hospital gown.

She looked so pale, eyes sunken in and Vince's heart dropped to his stomach as he saw the dark circles under her eyes and the purple bruises that had started to form on the bridge of her nose. It looked like someone had punched her.

Suddenly her doctor's annoyance made sense and Vince felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

"Wendy," he breathed out, crossing the room in two steps and wrapping her up in his arms, planting a kiss to the top of her head and squeezing his eyes as he felt Wen clutch at his shirt like a kitten with its claws stuck, "you're okay, you're alright-" he lowered himself slightly, pulling apart so he could look her in the eyes, feeling devastated as he saw the tears welled up in her eyes.

"Hey," Vince pushed a strand of hair away from her face, "why are you crying, honey? Are you in pain?"

Wendy shook her head, her chin wobbling, and she sucked in a breath as she was clearly about to start sobbing. Vince frowned even more, cupping her face, thumb catching the warm tear that ran down her cheek, "Wendy? What is it?"

"I- I'm- I've been," she mumbled, her words sticking together, and she shut her eyes, frustrated as even more tears came up instead of words. Wendy clutched his wrist with the hand that wasn't currently hooked to the IV, then took a deep breath, looking past Vin's shoulder to the doctor.

Her glare probably ticked the man off, who nodded, "I'll come back to check on you before the end of my shift, Dr. Marshall," good, so he knew she was also a doctor, Vince thought viciously, as if somehow that information could dismount the other man's theory that Vin had hit her, "excuse me."

Bella frowned as she shut the door after the man, "uh- What the fuck was that..." She mumbled, none the wiser, and walked closer to Wendy's bed, "how are you feeling, Wen?"

"Awful," Wendy answered, her voice breaking halfway through the word, whole frame shaking with a sob. She winced as the pain echoed in her head, "they- They were asking me- Vince, I'm so sorry-"

"Uh?" Bell blinked, completely lost, while Vince shook his head.

"No, honey, they're right to ask... It looks like someone punched you, that's alright-"

"They think you hit her?!" Bella shrieked as she put two and two together, but if Vin thought his reassurance would calm down Wendy, all it seemed to do was make her hyperventilate even more.

"It's- It's not-" she hesitated, then said in the smallest voice possible, "It's not just that..."

"What is it?" Bell voiced Vince's confusion, just as Wendy let go of his arm and tugged on the thin blanket that was covering her lower half, rolling up the hospital wrinkly gown that reached her knees and revealing a new collection of bruises. Old and faded, some round like punch marks, others skinnier like fingers-

Blood started to ring in Vince's ears. How had he missed this...?

Wendy had been flinching away from him for over a month now, maybe more, but she had said- He hadn't seen her in just panties in a while, and yes, Vince knew something was afoot, judging by how aloof and secretive she had been acting, almost angry at his presence, flinching away from his touch- But she had said- Yesterday, no, the rehearsal night she had said-

"Who did this to you?" Vince asked, his voice barely above a hiss, whole body shaking with blinding, boiling fury, and horror. No wonder they thought he had hurt her, no wonder-

"No one," Wendy pushed the gown back down once more, pulled up the blankets and diverted her eyes to her hands, avoiding Vince's glare and Bella's horrified expression, "no-"

"Wendy," Vince said strongly, struggling to keep his voice down, "Wendy, you have to tell me-"

"I did it," she cut him off, "I mean, I didn't, I just- It's iron deficiency, it's not self-harm — I wasn't meaning it to bruise like that, it just happens when I'm anemic and-"

"Since when you're anemic?" Bella interrupted Wendy's ramble as her words started to slur together, concussion and panic melting her syllables, "and dehydrated too, the doctor said that... Is that why you passed out? You didn't fall, I saw your eyes roll back, Wen!"

Bell hadn't mentioned that, Vince thought, although this small shock was nothing compared to the bruises still flashing in front of his eyes. Passed out, not fallen down the stairs, passed out. Anemic. Hurt.

"I'm anemic when I'm purging," Wendy's words were surprisingly clear now, sharp and strong, "and I've been purging because I relapsed."

The silence that followed was louder than a gunshot. Tinnitus ringing in his ears, his heart squeezing so much Vince thought it might implode and turn into a grape seed.

Bella's mouth snapped shut, while Vin took a step closer, his mouth suddenly so dry he felt like he couldn't speak.

"When did it...?"

"About a month and a half ago," Wendy admitted, still avoiding his eyes, "started- I don't kn- Purging started a month ago," she opted for saying, squeezing the blanket so much that Vince worried about the needle poked in her left hand. He reached in, planting a hand over Wen's to keep her from doing it, and vaguely heard Bella excusing herself and the door opening and closing as she left.

Wendy's shoulders dropped as it was just the two of them, hand twitching under his as she tried to keep wringing the blanket in a nervous manner, "Vince...?"

"I'm not mad," he said, because really why would he be? He was scared. Hell, he'd rather everyone thought he was the one hurting her than learning that it was Wendy doing it. Because that's what it was, right? Even if she had mentioned anemia and the bruises weren't self harm bruises, the bulimia certainly was.

"I know you're not," Wendy let out a scoff, "you're not angry, you're disa- I'm really sorry, I don't know why I can't be happy, why I'm ruining it, I'm gonna do better-"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" It was out of character for him to be so harsh with her and Wendy jumped, so spooked that she stopped talking and met his eyes, wide in shock, "ruining it? What the fuck are you ruining, Wendy, you're- Honey, you're hurting yourself! I don't understand- What can I do-"

As if he had said some word that was forbidden, suddenly Wendy's whole face turned red — or as red as possible, given she was corpse white — and her lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring with anger, "you can't do anything," she said bitterly, "you can't make me happy, you can't fix me, you can't- I'm ruining it. Us, my life, I'm just- I'm not happy-"

"You're not happy...?" He couldn't breathe, nor stand, so Vince collapsed down, to his knees, right next to her bed. He felt like someone had pulled the rug from under him, because he had known something was afoot, but not that she was unhappy with him. Fuck.

"I AM!" Wendy cried out, shoving his shoulder since he had planted his elbows on the mattress in an effort not to go down like a miserable sack of potatoes, "I AM, I'm just not right!"

Vince shook his head, now breathing through his mouth, lowering it to his hands as he struggled to think. He was messing this up. His girlfriend was hurting herself and he was making it worse, he wasn't reacting correctly, he wasn't supportive enough-

"Say something," Wendy's voice was wavering, anger failing to conceal she was about to cry once again, "say something, Vince, please just-"

"What can I do to make you happy?" He raised his head, blinking against the burning in them, "do you want me to move out? You said- You said a month and a half ago-" he had moved in then, "is this the issue? We're going too fast? I can-"

"No," Wendy shook her head, then let out a groan, color draining from her face as she did it. She reached out, dizzily, grabbing his hand to steady herself as the wooziness washed over, "no, please," her lips were awfully white, Vince thought, studying her closely, "I don't want you to-"

"Wendy," Vince moved up, panic cutting through his distress about their relationship and her emotional state, as he realized she was going to pass out, "Wen, you're really pale-"

She nodded, eyes slipped closed — white half moons as they rolled up, eyelashes fluttering down as she got all clammy — and squeezed his hand tightly, "just- Just hold on..."

He did, counting the seconds as he held her hand, heart racing away. This was all wrong. It wasn't a conversation they should be having when she was so wounded — anemic, dehydrated, concussed.

A full minute passed before some color came back to her lips and Wen blinked, breathing out slowly, "sorry-"

"If you say that one more time, I'm going to snap," Vince warned her, moving so he could press the back of his hand to her clammy cheeks and trying not to linger as she rolled towards him, as if his touch was comforting and not the opposite, "we can talk when you're feeling better," it killed him to say that, he wanted to fix this now, make sense of what was happening, how unhappy Wendy was, but this was the right call to make.

"Okay," Wendy breathed out, turning her head so she could press a kiss to his hand, fallen limply next to her cheek, "stay? Please?"

The knot deep in his chest loosened up, just a smidge.

"I'm not going anywhere," Vince promised, leaning in so he could kiss her brow, "I love you."

Wendy's body sunk further in the pillows, relaxing as the concussion insisted on pulling her under once more, "love you too..."

----------------------

"Luke's here," Bella whispered, about two hours later, poking her head inside the room, "do you want to talk with him?"

"No," Vince shook his head, still sitting next to Wendy's bedside, "not now."

Bell looked like she wanted to argue, but whatever she wanted to say, she kept to herself as she nodded stiffly, "in that case, we're heading back to Welton. We're taking Angie out for dinner and some of his high school friends..." she cut herself short, "but I'm a call away."

Vince nodded, numbly, "I know... Did you know?" he knew, rationally, that it was a stupid question given how shocked Bella had seemed, but he couldn't stop himself from asking. Had everyone noticed how unhappy Wendy was, to the point she was hurting herself, but him? Was him that awful of a boyfriend?

"No," Bella scoffed, glancing at Wendy's sleeping form, "I noticed she hasn't been eating around us, I thought it was weird... But I didn't know."

It was oddly comforting.

"Do you think Jon-"

"I don't think anyone knew, Vin," Bell read his mind, "and I don't think you should be beating yourself about it."

Easy to say. How had he missed the fucking bruises? What sort of boyfriend missed so many fucking clues?

Bella stammered, switching her weight around from leg to leg, "I can stay-"

"No," Vince shook his head, springing up to his feet, "no, go. I might- I might crash your place tomorrow night, though," if Wendy wanted him gone.

The ginger glared at him, as he gently pushed her out of the room. No longer she seemed careful about keeping her voice low, "don't be stupid, you're not leaving her alone."

"I'm not being stupid," Vince glared back, "she's unhappy, Bell. I'm making her- I said I might, not that I will."

Bella rolled her eyes at him, "Luke was insufferable when he was depressed."

"What?" Vince was surprised at the sudden switch of subjects, whiplash causing his previous melancholic tone to vanish, "what are you-"

"Luke was a pain in the ass," Bella repeated, "it's hard to love someone and not know how to make them feel better, have them push you away all the time because they know they're being difficult- Don't let Wendy do it."

"I don't- No, Bell, I didn't mean I'll leave because she's a burden, I meant- I don't think me being there is helping anything..." Vince's voice drifted off as he thought it over, this dilemma that hadn't crossed his mind, "what if I'm not helping- I want her to be happy-"

He didn't even need to finish that sentence, as Bella's dark brows jumped up in a judgmental manner, arms crossed, "well, she's not," she said, coolly, "doesn't mean its you making her unhappy."

Vince's shoulders dropped and he nodded, rubbing his face in a frustrated manner. He wanted to believe that, that he wasn't part of the problem, of what was hurting Wendy so much, but it was hard to. He couldn't even bring himself to be offended about Bella's protective tone, not when he felt the same.

As if sensing his thoughts, Bell let out a sigh and pulled him into a tight hug, arms closing around his back, "she'll be fine, Vin. Wen's a badass, she'll bounce back from this too."

He hugged Bella right back, so tight she let out a groan, "of course she is," Vin nodded, his voice stronger now, "I'll see you later."

"Keep me updated," Bell pulled back, waving as she walked backwards, until she turned the hallways and left.

Once he was back inside Wendy's room, Vince collapsed on the chair next to her bed, intertwining her fingers with his once more.

The day dragged. Wendy woke up several times, groggily answering his routine concussion questions — after all, he did have experience with those —  then went right back to sleep. At night, the nurses came and went, removing her IV, writing stuff down on her chart, and around 6 AM as Vince dozed off slightly, a doctor came in too and said Wendy was free to go as soon as she woke up, but that Vince should watch out for dizziness and any sort of speech impediment.

It was around 9 AM and he was on his whatever-number coffee, standing near the window, when Wendy seemed actually awake for the first time. She sat back against the pillows, wincing at the pain and looking around the room in a panicked manner, until her eyes landed on him.

"I thought you left-"

"No," Vince shook his head, putting down the paper cup filled with cold, bitter coffee —  he'd never enjoy the taste —  and moving closer, "of course not. How's your head?"

"Pounding," Wendy rubbed at her eyes, then flinched, "...Did I break my nose?"

"No," Vin opened a small smile, "but you did hit it. Here-" he fished out his phone, so she could look at herself in the camera, "anything else hurts?"

"All over," Wendy sighed, lowering the camera without even glancing at it, "Vin, can we talk-"

"You have to eat."

Wendy's brows furrowed, "I don't think you get to tell me that."

"No, I don't mean-" Vince paused, awkwardly crossing his arms, "you passed out because you didn't eat all day. They hooked you up to IVs, but you have to eat something if we're driving back home, otherwise you'll just faint again, honey."

For a split second she seemed too stunned to speak, then Wendy said quietly, "you're coming home with me...Right?"

"Right," Vince moved closer, wanting to sit back down at her bedside, but unsure if he should, "talk to me, Wendy."

She gulped down, fiddling with her fingers, scratching at her nails so much she was removing the nail polish, "...I don't know how- I don't know what to tell you. I don't know what to say or what to do with myself or how to navigate this-"

"You said it started a month and a half ago," Vince said slowly, circling the bed to sit next to her, "so when I moved in?"

"A little after," Wendy looked up, seeming incredibly guilty, "it's not you, Vin-" she let out a watery chuckle, "don't hate me, but yeah, it's not you, it's me."

Vince scoffed at the phrase, leaning in so he could take her hand, "you said you are unhappy-"

"I'm not unhappy," Wendy wrinkled her nose, "it's more complicated than that. I'm not unhappy with my life, I'm happy. I love you, I love my job, I love our place, our friends..."

"...But...?" Vince fought the overwhelming relief washing over him.

"But I'm not- I don't feel-" she frowned, as if there was a spell that kept her from finishing her sentence, a hand darting up to her throat as if to squeeze at it. Her fingers were shaking, Vince noted, filing it away, "it's like I don't belong in it. Like you'll wake up tomorrow and find out I'm a fraud, I'm not slim enough or cool enough or pretty enough or normal enough-"

"Wendy, I won't-"

"No, I know, I know, you're like perfect," she rolled her eyes, causing Vince to frown at her. Wendy's cheeks turned pink, "sorry... But I guess that's also part of the problem... What's wrong with you, Vin? I feel so fucking inadequate now that we're together all the time, I have so many flaws and you're like, out of some fairytale?"

It took him by surprise, so much that Vince let out a chuckle, a genuine one. He shook his head, it probably wasn't funny, but all the stress was making it seem so, as he continued to giggle, grinning at Wendy's pout and how cute she looked, "Wendy, honey... I think you've been dating some other guy, because I'm far from perfect."

She scoffed, "I'm neurotic and paranoid about my weight and my appearance and how I come off-"

"That's all the same as neurotic-"

"-and I'm busybody, I'm nosy and I'm a workaholic and I-"

"And I'm a doormat, I avoid conflict like the plague, I'm oblivious as fuck, so much so I missed my girlfriend being covered in bruises, I'm childish and I suck at communicating and I have a very narrow worldview, antiquate even," Vince interrupted her, "and I love you. How come you love me so much you can't see all these flaws, but you think I don't love you just as much, Wen?"

He wondered if the thought had ever occurred her, probably not, judging by how Wendy looked surprised. Vince let out a sigh, "I don't know enough about eating disorders, Wendy, but I know I'm not gonna be able to kiss it away-"

"And it doesn't bother you?" Wendy sniffled, "that we're supposed to be happy, but I'm making it all difficult and complicated? That you moved back, you chose me, and I'm still ruining it, I don't want kids, I'm a mess-"

"No," Vince shook his head, vehemently, "I love you, Wendy. I'll repeat this as many times as I need to so you get it, I love you. Neurotic, messy, workaholic, nosy, relapsing, I love you. We can get through this, it's just- It's gonna be work," he shrugged, causing Wendy to let out a watery chuckle.

"It's gonna be work," she mocked how easily he had said it, shrugging too, then corrected him, "it's gonna be a lot of work, Vince..."

"That's okay," Vince leaned in, kissing her knuckles, "you're worth the struggle, Wendy."

[bellysoupset]

hey bro can i ask you a question that will reveal a deep and fundamental gap in my knowledge of the world

[bellysoupset]

Drew Comes Home and Jeremiah Eats Too Much Ice Cream

A/N: Warning - the first 2/3 of this fic are N S F W, emeto kink. Not explicitly explicit but definitely there. The last third - well, you'll just have to read.

“God I missed you.”  Drew had said so at least three times since getting off the plane from Atlanta, and finally Jeremiah was able to respond the way he wanted to, by pushing his boyfriend into the sofa cushions and straddling him. 

“Missed this too,” Drew mumbled when Jeremiah busied himself at his neck.  He grabbed Jeremiah’s ass and held him in place.  “Felt like I was sixteen again, getting off in the shower so my parents couldn’t hear.”  A laugh rumbled in his chest and the vibration sent a jolt of pleasure through Jeremiah too.  “Next time we’ll have to try FaceTime sex.”

“Mmmhmmm,” agreed Jeremiah vaguely. Next time was far off in the future, and he was much more interested in what was happening here and now.  Drew’s hands tugged his hair and his mouth captured the corner of Jeremiah’s lip while Jeremiah fumbled between them, reaching for belts and zippers. 

His stomach took that moment to gurgle, and Drew chuckled. “Hungry, dear?” he asked breathily, arching himself up to press against Jeremiah’s hips.  “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I dunno; before,” muttered Jeremiah.  Can you take these off?” He tugged at Drew’s waistband. Food wasn’t nearly as important as getting naked with his boyfriend and making the rest of the world disappear for a while.  It felt like they’d been apart much longer than two and half weeks to Jeremiah - and a hellish two weeks at that. He’d lost one of his favorite patients, and it had been so terrible without Drew there that he’d actually gotten sick over it.  Their snatched conversations and abbreviated phone calls made things feel more distant instead of less, and he was looking forward to an evening spent reconnecting - mind and body.  He didn’t say any of that to Drew though; what mattered now was making up for lost time. 

“We’ll eat later,” he promised, nipping at Drew’s shoulder. “Food, I mean.”  Unspoken was that Jeremiah wanted other things in his mouth at the moment. Of the two of them, Drew was still more likely to initiate things in the bedroom, but right now Jeremiah was feeling bold.  His stomach growled again.  

“Ignore that,” he growled back when Drew paused, jeans halfway down his hips.  “Really.”

Drew put his hands on Jeremiah’s chest.  “You know . . . we could do both,” he said, speaking deliberately. “Take care of this -” he touched the side of Jeremiah’s empty stomach - “and this.”  His fingers moved lower.  “At the same time.” 

Jeremiah’s stomach swooped, but not from hunger, as the possibilities presented themselves.  “Are you sure?” he asked, not trying to hide his grin.  If it felt like a long time since he and Drew had slept in the same bed, it had been eons and eons since they’d had the time to indulge the more . . . adventurous parts of their relationship. Now he watched as his boyfriend’s eyes brightened.

“Of course I’m sure,” he scoffed, “but are you? We could also do more ‘vanilla’ activities here and then go out for pizza. I’d be perfectly happy with that too.”  Drew’s voice was casual but his body gave away what he really wanted as openly as a book.  Jeremiah swatted him on the arm.  

“Liar,” he laughed. While their more traditional sex life was plenty exciting, he also knew how much his boyfriend had grown to love what had first just been Jeremiah’s kink.  Now he pulled the nurse to his feet, watching appreciatively as he stepped out of his pants. “They had a sale on ice cream at Star Market,” he explained, leading Drew to the kitchen and opening the freezer.  “Does that work?” 

Drew laughed. “You’re going to be the one eating most of it, right?  You tell me.”  He paused, giving Jeremiah another moment to consider.  

“I’m sure,” he agreed easily, pulling out pints of Ben and Jerry’s.  It was true that he hadn’t eaten much today, and ice cream was as good of dinner as any.  It was also ideal for their plans - easy both going down . . . and coming back up. He shivered, thinking about what they were going to do. The stomachache would be intense, but brief - no problem. Totally worth it.

“How about Chunky Monkey, Phish Food, and Karamel Sutra? - that covers a lot of different flavors.”  There were two more pints in the freezer in case he needed them, and Drew rummaged through the fridge and took out several cans of Coca-Cola.  

“Believe it or not, I’ve actually become a sorbet fan,” he commented, putting the ice cream and sodas on the kitchen island with spoons and napkins.  “Since that’s a lot better for my dad to eat.  Would have been rude to dig into a big bowl of Chubby Hubby while he was sitting there with a popsicle or something.” 

“I’ve got Chubby Hubby in the freezer too,” Jeremiah laughed.  “You don’t have to eat sorbet anymore.”

“Maybe later.” Drew sat Jeremiah down in a kitchen chair.  “Right now it’s your turn.” 

While Jeremiah dug into the first pint, he caught Drew up on what had been going on at the hospital. “I’m not as good at digging up the gossip as you are,” he warned.  “You’ll probably learn more your first day back than I’ve heard in the past two weeks. When’s your first shift -  Monday?”

“You’re plenty good at gossip,” Drew disagreed.  “All those hours in surgery - it’s not like you’re talking about the patient the entire time, right?”  He cupped a hand around Jeremiah’s neck to feel him swallow.  

“Maybe not the routine procedures,” Jeremiah allowed.  “But still . . .” He took another bite of ice cream and sighed.  “Toby should have been routine, and home by now, getting ready for medical school.” The young man’s death still bothered him, as much as he lectured himself about the dangers of getting too emotionally involved with a patient. 

Drew grimaced in sympathy. “You did everything you could, love; you know that.”  He trailed his fingers up Jeremiah’s side.  “Hearts are complicated.  I always knew that, but caring for my dad really hit it home.”  

“It’s just unfair.”  At some point, he and Drew would talk about it, but sitting here, half dressed and stuffing himself with ice cream was not the time. “Sorry,” he said, scooping up more caramel onto his spoon.  “I didn’t mean to bring down the night.”

“I can assure you, you aren’t bringing anything down,” smirked Drew.  “But just in case, here - chug some Coke.”

So Jeremiah did, pushing away the moment of melancholy and leaning back into the evening’s activity.  He gulped down the entire can of soda and sat very still for the few seconds it took to bring up a hearty burp.  It tasted like chocolate and caramel and he blew out a comfortable breath.  

While he started on the second pint, they talked about the latest developments with Adam and Avery. Jeremiah had gone to Adam’s apartment to check on his recovery from the horrible food poisoning he and Gabe had both gotten - and discovered the FBI agent was still there. 

“Adam was asleep in his bedroom and Avery was just hanging out on the sofa, but still . . .”  Jeremiah burped again and swallowed more ice cream.  “He gave me some story about making sure Adam stayed hydrated, but really, the man was perfectly capable of drinking Pedialyte on his own.”  Jeremiah was only just getting to know Rory’s partner, but it was clear the man was completely smitten with Adam Calder.  How Adam felt was another story.

“Do you think Adam’s interested?” Drew’s mind had plainly gone to the same place.  “I’m going to make myself some pasta.”  He jumped up and began filling their largest pot with hot water. 

“I think Adam’s interested in getting Avery back in bed, but beyond that I doubt it.”  As Jeremiah kept eating ice cream, Drew took a large box of pasta and jar of tomato cream sauce out of the pantry. It was clear by how much food the nurse was making that he expected Jeremiah to eat some too.  That was fine with him; he was about a third of the way through the second pint, and something to cut all the sweetness would taste good. “Although, he woke up while I was there and didn’t seem surprised that Avery had stayed. D’you think Noa and Rory know something they aren’t telling us?  She seems very invested in her brother’s love life.”  

Drew didn’t immediately answer.  He was smiling at the box of pasta and didn’t seem to have heard his boyfriend’s question.  Jeremiah wadded up a napkin and threw it at him.  “Babe?  You with me, or too busy flirting with the noodles?”  He assumed Drew was thinking about making Jeremiah eat them.  Drew looked up.

“Wagon wheels,” he explained, shaking the box in Jeremiah’s direction.  “This is the shape Tripp likes because they’re easy to pick up.  They actually make a lot of baby snacks in that shape.”  He grinned.  “I have pictures on my phone of him with a noodle stuck to his cheek because he actually fell asleep in his high chair!”  

Jeremiah smiled at his boyfriend’s obvious enthusiasm for his nephew.  “You’ll have to show me later; sounds adorable.”

“Oh he is.”  Drew poured the noodles into the water and began stirring.  “And did I tell you about our Broadway medley dance party?  I mean, Tripp wiggled more than danced since he’s not walking yet.  But I bet he’ll be soon - he started pulling up on the furniture while I was at Mal and Davis’ house - I can’t wait until he’s cruising around!”  He pointed the pasta spoon in Jeremiah’s direction.  “More ice cream, please.”

“Yes, nurse,” said Jeremiah cheekily.  He took two more big bites, chewing on the fudge fish and washing it all down with more Coke.  More than two thirds of the pint was gone, and while Jeremiah wasn’t completely full yet, he was getting a little tired of so much sugar.  “Pasta almost done?” 

“Another minute or two.”  Drew got out bowls and spoons and then stood behind Jeremiah’s chair so he could wrap his arms around him.  “How are you feeling?”  

“Ready for something besides ice cream,” Jeremiah laughed.  “And a little full but not too bad.”

“Hmm.”  Drew pushed another can of Coke at him.  “See how much of that you can drink while I put sauce on the noodles.  And you can’t be that tired of ice cream yet, so I expect you to eat a couple of more bites for me before I let you try the noodles.” 

Jeremiah smirked at the subtle  authority in Drew’s voice. When Jeremiah was in charge, he indulged his boyfriend’s desire to give up control with what he called “polite dom” - ordering Drew in a calm and unyielding voice.  But today was Drew’s turn, and he was fully leaning into being “head nurse” - gentle cajoling that tended to get Jeremiah to push himself further than he would have otherwise. 

“Whatever you say, Nurse Thorton,” he agreed easily.  The second pint was nearly done when Drew pushed a bowl of noodles covered in thick, creamy sauce over to him.  “Mmm . . . mmm,” he hummed appreciatively, hiccupping softly in between.  “Looks delicious.”  

And it was delicious - and a good break from the ice cream for a while. Drew scooted his own chair close and used one hand to feed Jeremiah forkfulls of pasta and the other hand to tease and touch until Jeremiah almost forgot how full he was getting.  He leaned in closer, an invitation for his boyfriend to kiss him in between bites of food which Drew happily accepted.  They were making out when the alarm on Drew’s phone dinged, and he suddenly pulled back.  

“Oops, forgot to turn off my dad’s reminder to take his meds.”  Drew shut off the sound but instead of returning to Jeremiah began texting, humming with approval at the response he got.  Finally he looked up.  

“Wanted to make sure my dad remembered without me there,” he explained.  “I portioned out all his pills for the week so he just has to know what day it is.”  His eyes dragged back to the phone again.  Jeremiah frowned.

“Can’t your mom do that?  Or Mallory?”  He didn’t think very highly of the rest of the Thorton family but they should be capable of making sure Dean took his heart medication on schedule.  

“I’m a nurse,” hon,” Drew noted, as if Jeremiah had no idea what his boyfriend did for a living. “It’s just easier if I do it.  And I think it reassures my dad too.”  He chuckled.  “Mal’s kind of an airhead about that sort of thing.” 

“But what about when . . . “ Jeremiah began, but had to stop when a bubble of air rose into his throat. The question - who would take care of his dad’s meds now that Drew was gone - got lost in a brassy burp, and then another one immediately after. He grimaced as he realized how stuffed he felt, the first twinges of nausea hovering in his belly.  Drew put down his phone and peered at him speculatively, his father’s medication forgotten.  

“That sounded like it helped,” he commented casually.  The third pint of ice cream was sweating on the island.  Drew pulled off the top.  “It’s kind of melted; I think let’s . . . yeah.  Hold on.”  He grabbed a plastic tumbler emblazoned with the Red Sox logo from the cabinet, dumped in the soft ice cream, and then poured a Coke over the top.  “Banana-Chocolate Coke Float. Perfect,” he pronounced with satisfaction.  “Drink up.”

Jeremiah wasn’t sure he agreed with how perfect the concoction looked. It might have tasted good two pints of ice cream ago, but now the thought of putting anything else in his stomach kind of made him want to gag. It was fine - it was part of the excitement, seeing how far he could push himself - but he was approaching the point where the nausea was getting uncomfortable and the thought of throwing up was actually appealing. 

But not yet; he wasn’t there yet.  Not with the way Drew was watching him try to swallow, and touching him gently in encouragement when he struggled.  

“I’m feeling sick,” he confessed when about a quarter of the ice cream and Coke mixture was gone.  He’d put on pajama pants - with nothing underneath - when the ice cream had made him cold and now his belly was pushing out against the waistband.  It gurgled uncomfortably and Drew gently cradled it in his hands.  

“Sounds upset,” he agreed, leaning down to kiss above Jeremiah’s belly button.  “But I think you can drink some more for me.”

Those two words - for me - always did something to Jeremiah.  He’d spent so many years hiding this part of him, never daring to hope he’d find someone who might understand.  And now he had Drew, who not only indulged his kink, but had fully embraced it himself.  Told Jeremiah what he could do for him. So of course he picked up the tumbler again. 

“HhrrHRK!” he belched, the bubbles from the soda making everything in his belly swirl sickeningly.  There was still half a cup left - and he knew he could finish it - but he also knew it wasn’t going to stay down for too long.  He was already very nauseous, and the saliva pooling in his mouth was too sweet and too sticky.  He grabbed Drew’s hand and moved it where he wanted, desperate for some sort of distraction.

“Oh, we’re there already?” smirked Drew.  They were sitting in kitchen chairs, face to face, and the nurse nudged his knee against Jeremiah’s.  “You only need one hand to drink, how about you use your other one somewhere . . . more interesting?” He shuffled his chair even closer.  

Jeremiah needed a moment first.  He closed his eyes and breathed slowly until the wave of nausea passed, and then reached for Drew’s waist, moving slowly so he didn’t jostle his stomach too much. “I may never . . . hHlluLHP . . . drink Coke again” he groaned through a burp that was more like a retch. It was burbling in his stomach, making him feel much sicker than if he’d just eaten the ice cream.  He stared down into the cup, trying to will himself to take another sip,

Drew chuckled. “Good thing you aren’t going to the Coke museum with us next week then.  Tripp’s a little young, but since it’s right next to the Aquarium we figured we’d do both.  He’ll like all the colors.”  

Jeremiah put down his cup.  “Wh - - hic! - - what?” he asked, hiccupping. He must have heard wrong - his nausea making him woozy.  “What’s next week?”  His stomach whined but he ignored it, watching Drew for any sort of hint that he’d misunderstood.  But his boyfriend’s fingers were still resting on the tops of Jeremiah’s thighs, clearing itching to move lower.  “You’re going . . . uURp . . . back to Atlanta?” 

“Well yeah; my dad still needs me,” Drew answered, unbothered.  “He’s still got at least six weeks of cardiac rehab, maybe eight.”  He pushed Jeremiahs’ abandoned tumbler back in his direction.  “C’mon now, three big gulps and I bet you can finish this.”

Jeremiah pulled away from Drew’s touch.  “Six . . . six weeks?” he stuttered.  “When did you . . . you’re leaving for another six weeks?  Or . . . eight?”  He gulped down the acid that jumped suddenly into his throat and tried to slow his breathing. Because it had to be a mistake.  There was no way Drew would willingly spend that much time living under the same roof as his parents.  How many times had he told Jeremiah that leaving for college at 17 was the best thing he’d ever done for himself?  Sure, it might seem like he’d been getting along better with his father since the man’s heart attack, but it was obvious that couldn’t last.  Obvious to Jeremiah, at least. “I . . . thought . . .” 

Something in his tone finally seemed to penetrate his boyfriend’s bliss.  He took his hand off Jeremiah’s leg. “Is that a problem?” he asked carefully. “I assumed you’d know I’d want to go back - it’s my dad.  I can’t just abandon him.” His eyes flashed, challenging Jeremiah to disagree.

Jeremiah felt entirely too sick to have this conversation now.  His belly sloshed, hovering just this side of vomiting but making every word feel dangerous.  So he tried to understand.  “N-n-no,” he faltered, swallowing hard.  Prickles of sweat erupted along his nape and his entire body tingled.  “It’s not a problem.  Just a . . . I didn’t realize.”  He dug his nails into his thigh, right where Drew had been stroking just minutes earlier.  Hoping the pain would help him get his thoughts under control.  The nausea rose. “I don’t feel well,” he groaned.  There was no pleasure anymore, only discomfort.  He belched thickly, tasting tomato sauce and chocolate.  

“Should we go to the bathroom?” Drew asked quietly. It was clear in his tone that he knew the night was over.  Jeremiah wrapped his arms around his middle and tried to focus.  

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, trying to speak clearly past the lump in his throat.  “Really.”  He found Drew’s eyes, filled with a mixture of concern and . . . disappointment?”  His stomach turned over. 

“Go; it’s okay,” he said in a strained voice.  “I . . I get it.”  That was a lie, but it was the best he was capable of right now.  “Your dad needs you.”  

“He does,” Drew agreed.  And then added softly, “and he wants me, too.”  

If Jeremiah had been feeling better he might have pushed his boyfriend more.  Might have reminded him how Dean Thorton had treated Drew his entire life, tolerating him at best, disparaging and ignoring and . . . disregarding him.  And that he’d done the same to Jeremiah, after making him think he’d been accepted.  So how could Drew think this time was any different?  

He didn’t have the energy to say any of that, but he couldn’t just let it go either.  Six weeks was a long time - and now it occurred to him to wonder how the hell Drew was going to leave work for that long?  Had he already planned this out - and not told Jeremiah?  The queasiness intensified again, now fueled by little spikes of anger Jeremiah couldn’t entirely ignore.

“He’s using you,” he choked out, knowing it was a dick thing to say but also knowing it was true.  “Your dad’s using you.”  His body jolted with a soft heave and he spit into the cup of ice cream.  He couldn’t meet Drew’s eyes.  “I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true.  He likes having his own private nurse, that’s all.”  A cramp rolled through him - so much dairy had been a stupid idea - and he breathed out slowly, fighting the pain.

“You’re wrong.”  Drew’s voice was cold.  Jeremiah gulped down.  He shouldn’t have said anything, not when he was too sick to talk reasonably.  But it was too late.  His stomach rolled again and he couldn’t hold back a gag.  Drew made an exasperated sound.  “If you’re going to throw up, please go to the bathroom; I don’t feel like . . . being used for my cleaning skills.”

Ouch.  “Sweetheart,” Jeremiah began, swallowing.  “I didn’t mean . . .” He stopped.  Because he had meant it; he’d been thinking it for the past two weeks. Making excuses, missing his boyfriend, trying to understand.  But six weeks had ruined all that.

“Oh I expect you did,” Drew interjected.  “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”  

Jeremiah flinched.  Because it was crystal clear what Drew meant.  He wouldn’t understand because he’d never had a father. He’d only learned the man existed a year ago and that he was a rapist and an asshole and a liar and there was no chance Jeremiah would ever have a relationship with him.  Until now he thought Drew had considered his father to be hardly any better.  Certainly the man had never shown his son anything that looked like love. 

But maybe Drew wished he had.  And now Jeremiah felt like the asshole.  

“You’re . . . right,” he ground out.  “I shouldn’t have . . . “ When his stomach turned over again he stopped and squeezed his eyes shut, throat bobbing with nausea. But it was no use. “I’m sorry,” he gasped.  “I’m going to throw up.”  Without waiting for an answer he lurched out of his chair and down the hall, bypassing the powder room for his and Drew’s ensuite. He was drooling into the toilet bowl when he realized Drew hadn’t followed him. 

Jeremiah choked out a sob as everything came crashing down.  Toby’s death, Drew’s distance, and now . . . guilt.  He knew Drew was being irrational about his father and he’d gone and made it worse.  He’d said as much to Adam, the night Toby had died and Drew had gotten off FaceTime to go drive his father somewhere.  That he’d never tell Drew was he suspected about his father.  And that when things inevitably went south, he wouldn’t say I told you so.  

Instead he’d told Drew his father was using him.  The lump in his throat was choking him and he retched, spine curling as he white-knuckled the edges of the toilet seat.  Seconds later he began vomiting, the ice cream and soda and pasta coming up as easily as he’d known it would, back when eating so much had been exciting and arousing.  He wanted to cry, wanted to curl up on the floor and sob in his boyfriend's arms and talk and talk and talk until everything felt right again. But instead of crying he just kept throwing up - burping and gagging between heaves until the nausea receded and he just felt sore and empty.  And alone - because Drew didn’t come back.  By the time he was finished, the urge to cry was somehow gone too. Slowly, Jeremiah climbed to his feet, rinsed out his mouth, and brushed his teeth.  Took small sips of water, and when they stayed down, drank half a cup.  Got into bed and turned onto his side, away from Drew’s empty pillow.  The last time they’d fought and slept in separate bedrooms it had also been because of Drew’s father.  The irony felt bitter in Jeremiah’s mouth.  He should probably go find Drew in the guest bedroom, but something held him back. Because even though he felt guilty about telling Drew the truth, it still was the truth; Jeremiah was sure of it.  And even more was the Six Weeks.  He didn’t know what to think about that.  Right now, he just wanted to sleep.

[bellysoupset]

Avery Saves Adam's Day Again. And Again.

A/N: from the second I got the requests, this little scene would not let me out of its grip. Thank you to the anon who asked, and @tummyachesandchocolatecakes and @bellysoupset and @sickly-qt and @writing-whump for all cheerleading requests too. And a second thank you to Soup for asking me what Adam's apartment looked like.

Barely a step away from Avery’s car, Adam knew he’d made a mistake. He’d been sipping water on the drive from the Newbury Hotel and that, plus the fact that he was sitting down, plus his stupid pride, had convinced him that he was strong enough to walk, upright and alone, into his building. 

He was staring at that building, black spots dancing before his eyes and legs like jello, when he realized he was very probably about to pass out, right on the sidewalk. The ego and self-preservation and sheer will that had kept him from vomiting in the middle of the Pride convention had abandoned him, likely somewhere in the stairwell while he was puking up his guts. 

No matter how hard he tried to move forward, his body absolutely refused to cooperate this time. The black spots turned into orbs and his vision tunneled. Almost instinctively, he tried to turn back, reaching out the way he’d come, pride be damned.  He’d already puked on the guy; how much worse could it get?

“Aver . . . Ayyyvve,” he stuttered stupidly, not that Avery would hear him, sealed back in his car and probably relieved to be driving away from the emotional mess Adam had created for him.  His knees buckled.

“Okay, fuck.  Save the concussion for later, Calder.  I don’t need the hassle.” Strong arms wrapped around his waist, holding him up when his legs wouldn’t.  His head lolled against the FBI agent's broad chest. He almost cried with relief.

“Dizzy,” he forced out instead, trying again and failing to make his feet offer some support.  But it was almost like they weren’t there at all.  

“Stop . . . trying to walk, Calder.” Avery sounded out of breath.  “I can’t keep you from falling over if you keep moving.”  He slid his hands under Adam’s armpits and hoisted him up more purposefully.  “What would you prefer, bridal style or fireman’s carry?”  

Even though the fogginess Adam could hear the amusement in the man's voice.  “Fuck . . . fuck you,” he managed.  “Jus’ let me sit a second.”  He tried to sound unbothered but even he knew how pathetic he sounded right now.

“As you wish.”  

The next thing Adam knew, he was sliding down, down, down.  He yelped, but then his ass hit something solid and he realized he was sitting on a bench.  He gulped as the action jostled his uneasy stomach and buried his head in his hands.  

“Better?” Avery crouched down to his height.  “You still look kind of green.  If you’re going to puke again can you do it here and not when I’m carrying you?” 

“I’m not going to puke,” Adam said weakly, but even he wasn’t sure he believed that.  His stomach, which had calmed down for a little while in the car, seemed determined to start swirling again.  “And I’d say there’s no way I’d let you carry me but I’m really not sure I can walk.”  Indeed when he tried to lift his head the world tilted and he quickly closed his eyes again. 

“That may be the most useful thing you’ve ever said to me.”  Avery sounded thoughtful.  “This looks like a fancy-assed building.  Think maybe they have a wheelchair?” 

“I dunno, go ask.”  Adam was too busy focused on the vicelike feeling wrapped around his stomach.  It felt like it could force something else up or . . . horrifying . . . down.  He hiccuped and then spit onto the sidewalk.  

“Don’t die while I’m gone.  Or fall over, or . . . well I guess puking's okay.  I’ll be right back.”  Avery squeezed his shoulder and disappeared.  Adam drooled onto the sidewalk and tried very hard not to need to throw up.  He’d have a lot of explaining to do if any of his neighbors saw him like this but at the moment he felt too horrible to care.  What the hell had been in that sandwich? 

“Here we go, Morrison Medical Transport, at your service.” Avery reappeared, now pushing a wheelchair and sounding way too cheerful for the situation. But he was saving Adam the humiliation of being carried into his building at least.  

“Thanks,” he mumbled. And then, “can you uhh, help me?” He lifted his arms, half expecting a snarky comment, but Avery just nodded and locked the wheels on the chair.  

“On three,” he said, both voice and touch surprisingly gentle.  Almost as if he understood how hard this must be for Adam to endure.  

The transfer, quick as it was, sent a new wave of queasiness over him.  Adam sat very still, barely daring to breathe, while Avery maneuvered him up the sidewalk ramp he’d never used before through the lobby, and into the elevator.  The second the doors closed he leaned over to burp up a mouthful of water onto the floor.  

“Sorry,” he groaned, wiping his mouth.  “Thought I was empty.” 

Avery shrugged, nonplussed.  “Are you feeling any better?”

“I don’t know, “ said Adam honestly. “Still feel weird.”  He gagged softly and then wiped his mouth again.  There was something about being in a wheelchair that made him feel vulnerable. Not a position he relished.  “Did anyone see me? In the lobby?”  

“Just your doorman.”  Avery carefully pushed him out of the elevator without bumping over the gap.  “And I’m sure your Christmas bonus will buy his silence.”  

Adam huffed.  “You must think I’m so shallow, to care about something like that while I’m sick.” This was just another reason he and Morrison were better off not . . . interacting.  Or whatever.  They had totally different perspectives. He pointed down the hall.  “It’s at the end.”

“Actually, I get it.” Avery stopped outside of Adam’s apartment door.  “I’ve had to use a wheelchair before and I hated it; feeling so dependent on other people, and like I was a burden.  Not that I think you’re a burden,” he added quickly, flushing.

“Of course I am,” disagreed Adam.  “But I guess it’s fair, since in return, you get to be the first guy who’s ever been inside my apartment.”  He’d meant it to be a joke, but instead it sounded more like an accusation.  Plus his stomach was hurting, and he honestly didn’t care at the moment if Avery came inside as long as he brought Adam along with him. 

“Lucky me, I guess.”  Avery took the key Adam handed him and then paused. “I won’t stay; don’t worry.  Once you’re settled and not a danger to yourself anymore I’ll go return the wheelchair and get out of your hair.” He maneuvered Adam into the apartment, not stopping until they were next to one of the sleek, steel framed, black leather sofas that took up a lot of the living room.  “This good?” 

The man’s attitude had become efficient and stiff the second he walked inside, his earlier empathy and care abruptly gone. Almost as if he was trying not to acknowledge he was there, since he knew Adam would never have asked him voluntarily. Or something. Adam had expected Avery to be immediately curious about where Adam lived, even braced himself for snarky comments.  Not that they would be deserved. Because his apartment was awesome, with a wall of windows that looked out over Boston and clean-lined, midcentury modern furniture that was surprisingly comfortable. 

But Avery ignored all that, and the vintage record player, and the carefully framed election posters of progressive candidates going back to the 1960s. The only item that caught his eye was the large photo over his sofa from the San Francisco gay pride parade. Rainbow clad children dancing with equally colorful drag queens under a brilliant blue sky; it was one of Adam’s favorite possessions.

“Noa took that,” he said, when he caught Avery glancing at it while he helped Adam out of the wheelchair and onto the sofa.  That earned a smile.  

“I should have guessed; the photos at her and Rory’s condo are amazing.”  But Avery didn’t seem interested in talking more. It was a little disconcerting - normally the guy never hesitated to tell Adam exactly what he thought. Now he just seemed to want to leave as quickly - and with as little conversation - as possible.

Despite feeling like crap - or maybe because of it - Morrison’s behavior made Adam prickly. “So you’re not happy to finally be up here, since I’m clearly in no shape for sex?” It was a stupid comment; even Adam could admit that the agent had been nothing but decent to him.  But maybe that’s why he was annoyed at how closed off he was suddenly being.

Avery’s expression shuttered even more. “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting sex, even if you were feeling good,” he said finally.  “Wouldn’t want to put you in the uncomfortable position of having to ask me to leave afterwards.” He stared at Adam, a challenge in his eyes. Asking him to deny it.

Instead, Adam offered a sardonic smile.  “Oh sweetheart, you know me better than that. Uncomfortable positions are my specialty.” 

“No shit,” muttered Avery.  He gripped the handles of the wheelchair.  “Are we done here?" He started to turn away and then whipped back around.

"Wait.  You need to drink; do you have Gatorade?”  Without waiting for an answer he disappeared into the galley kitchen, returning a few seconds later with a glass of water.  “I’m not commenting on the empty state of your refrigerator,” he announced, carefully taking one of Adam’s marble coasters and putting the water on top of it.  “You don’t even have anything to make toast.”

Adam swallowed hard. The nausea had been growing steadily again since they’d gotten to the apartment and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could ignore it.  “No . . .toast,” he stuttered, fighting a gag and feeling pathetic and needy. “But . . . I could use a bucket.” 

“Oh shit, okay.”  Avery rushed back into the kitchen and returned with Adam’s garbage can, which he shoved between his legs in front of the sofa.  “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were still feeling sick.” He sounded guilty. 

Adam waved away the apology and leaned over, gripping the sides of the metal can and burping into it.  A small drizzle of puke came up, splattering against the side of the can.  Avery whistled.

“I don’t know how you have anything left in you but hopefully you’re almost done.  Nausea better?” He crouched down like he had outside and looked at Adam’s face. 

“Not really,” croaked Adam.  He wanted to lie down.  “But I don’t think I’m going to die.” After a second of hesitation he did lie down, grabbing a throw pillow for his head and curling up on his side.  “You can go now.” He didn’t want to think about how he might get to his bathroom by himself if his stomach cramps continued to move south, but that was a problem to be solved after Morrison was gone.  No way in hell he’d ever ask the guy for that kind of help.  He’d shit his pants first.

“I’m going to return the wheelchair and then pick up some Gatorade and saltines.” Avery’s tone was decisive. “And then I promise to leave you alone, but you have to promise to call your sister later and tell her you’re okay. I bet she’ll come over and make you eat.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” mumbled Adam.  He just wanted Avery gone so he could moan in peace. 

“Hmmm.  Garbage can’s by your head if you need it.  I’ve got your key.”

And then he was gone and the apartment was blessedly quiet.  Adam let himself groan out loud when another cramp rolled through him, and then was hit with another wave of nausea that made him gag and retch emptily for several long minutes, head hanging off the edge of the sofa.  When he finally brought up a mouthful of something acidic and bitter, he tried to prop himself up enough to get his mouth over the garbage can.  But the effort caused a weird, sharp spike of pain in his chest.  Adam gasped with the shock of it, dribbling bile onto his shirt and curling into a tighter ball with a whimper.  

Of course, that was the exact moment Morrison returned. 

“What’s wrong, did you try to stand up?”  Avery was immediately at Adam’s side, prying apart his arms from where they were wrapped around his knees and touching his face until he opened his eyes. 

“No,” Adam gasped. Despite himself, he leaned into the other man’s touch, trying to find some escape from the pain.  “Pu - - puked. Or tried.  Hurts to breathe.”  

“You probably pulled a muscle; you’ve been straining really hard when you retch.”  The initial panic had leached out of Avery’s voice and he sounded brisk again.  “But I want to call Jeremiah; he’s at the hospital with Gabe.  Apparently you aren’t the only one sick from that sub place.”  Avery pulled away and began unpacking a bag onto the coffee table.  Pedialyte, saltines, ginger ale, and some weird rubber item that looked like something Adam might have used in the bedroom

Adam startled at the news.  “Gabe’s sick too?”  They’d planned to have lunch together, but Adam was running late and Sam’s was slow; he hadn’t realized Gabe had waited around for a sandwich.  

“Oh yeah, a mess. They've had to give him a fuckton of meds to get his nausea under control but apparently he’s finally stopped puking.”  Avery held up the weird rubber thing.  “Do you have a kettle?”  

Adam was feeling a little irrational jealousy at the thought that Gabe’s nausea had been managed when he still felt so sick. He pointed rudely.  “What’s that for?” 

“It’s a hot water bottle; I wasn’t sure if you had one and I wasn’t going to buy you a heating pad.” Avery was watching him as if he knew exactly where Adam’s thoughts had gone.  “If Jeremiah calls in stronger meds, I’ll go pick them up for you.  But right now I’d like to fill this with hot water.  It’ll help with the cramps.”  Avery seemed supremely unconcerned about discussing Adam’s bodily functions, and at the moment, Adam wasn’t in a position to object.  He did have cramps, and they hurt enough that he couldn’t tell where the pain ended and the queasiness began.  But he was trying not to burp or gag because he didn’t want the sharper pain to return. 

“Actually, let’s call Jeremiah first; you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Adam grunted.  But he couldn’t just let it go. “So nice of you to notice.” 

“I always notice, Calder.  You know that.  Can you scooch back a little bit so I can sit down?”  When Adam shuffled back into the sofa cushions, Avery sat down carefully at his waist. 

“Watch my . . . stomach,” Adam groaned.  “Don’t lean back against it.”

“What do you think I am, stupid?” Avery shot back.  “Here, talk to Jeremiah; he’s on speaker.”  He held up the phone between them.

Jeremiah agreed that Adam had likely pulled a muscle from all the vomiting and agreed to call in a stronger medication to help with the nausea.  “And I want you to start trying to keep down liquids in an hour or two. Avery told me he got you Pedialyte.  Try two tablespoons to start, every ten minutes. If you vomit, then wait fifteen minutes and try again.  Okay, sweetheart?” 

Adam reminded the doctor that the last time they’d seen each other, Jeremiah had been the one vomiting. “I didn’t know cardiologists knew so much about nausea control; Drew’s taught you well, Miah.”  Adam was still a little mad at Jeremiah’s boyfriend for not immediately flying home when Jeremiah’s patient had died last week, but that really wasn’t his business. The least he could do was let Jeremiah think Adam wasn’t holding a grudge against the man he loved.

But Jeremiah’s response was surprising - and surprisingly cold.  

“Drew’s still in Atlanta, but I think you can trust my diagnosis.”  He cleared his throat but didn’t say anything else.

Adam and Avery locked eyes.  Avery looked like he was about to say something but Adam gave a tiny shake of his head and answered instead. 

“Thanks, Miah.  I owe you.  And . . . Morrison’s here.  I supposed he can drag my ass to the hospital if things get worse.”

“As long as that’s all I’m doing with your ass, Calder,” Avery muttered.  He leaned into the phone.  “If you promise me the meds will knock him out, I just might even stay here to keep an eye on him.”

“Up to you.” Jeremiah sounded noncommittal, and a second later told them he had to go, and then hung up before either Avery or Adam could say anything else.

It was quiet for a moment.  Adam was not a gossip by nature, but despite what he’d told Jeremiah, he did hold grudges.  And how he was kind of pissed.

“I can’t believe Drew’s still in . . . Atlanta,” he muttered.  He eyed the trash can warily.  Not that he had anything left in him to bring up; he was barely making saliva at this point.  Which would probably make the retching just hurt more.  “Can I have some Pedialyte?”

“It’s been two weeks,” noted Avery.  “Surely Drew’s father doesn’t still need him down there.”  He poured a little bit of the liquid into a cup.  “Seems like maybe Jeremiah needs him up here more now. And doesn’t he have to work?”

“Exactly,” agreed Adam. He hesitated for a second, but then ultimately decided not to reveal that he’d actually told Drew he should come home the night Jeremiah was stress sick over losing a patient.  And as well as he knew some parts of Jeremiah, Adam was beginning to realize that there was a lot about his former lover that he didn’t know - especially given how much he’d changed in the past five years.  Avery was biting his lip, and Adam remembered hearing that the agent had actually flown down to Atlanta for business on the same plane.  So maybe he knew some things he wasn’t revealing to Adam either. That discretion got Morrison half a point, he supposed. 

But that was less important right now than what was going on in his stomach.  “I’m not going to . . . keep it down,” he warned Avery, swallowing hard at the sight of the orange liquid in the cup.  “Jus’ . . . hurts to dry heave.”

“You should sit up then.” Avery held out his arm.  “May I?” 

“Well I certainly can’t do it myself,” Adam grumbled, but there was no heat to his words.  Forget what he and Morrison had done in the bedroom; letting the guy play nursemaid was probably a million times more intimate.  The problem was, Adam didn’t do intimacy.  So sarcasm and whining would have to do. 

And maybe some grudging appreciation.  “Thanks,” he muttered as Avery slowly helped him sit up.  He flinched and breathed out until the worst of the pain passed.  “I’d be in a lot worse shape without your help.”

“Face planted on your sidewalk,” the man agreed.  “Here.  Drink this, puke it up, and then I’ll go pick up your meds so you can hopefully sleep the rest of this off.  “I’ll ask Noa to be here later when you wake up. Maybe she can help you get on a clean shirt, too."

“Noa’s got to help Gabe.”  The Pedialyte was sitting heavily in his gut, ready to reappear.

“Doesn’t he have Logan for that?” Avery asked.  When Adam burped he picked up the garbage can and held it under his chin.  “Here, so you don’t have to lean over.”

A second later, Adam threw up the liquid, back arching as he continued to gag.  “Fuck,” he groaned.  “Thisss sucks.”  

“Doesn’t look fun,” Avery agreed.  He watched Adam pant and spit for another few seconds.  “Tell you what,” he said when Adam finally collapsed back against the sofa. “If Noa’s not free, I’ll come babysit you myself. Okay?” 

“Fuck you,” retorted Adam, voice so wrecked it came out more like a croak.  “But yeah, thank you.” 

[bellysoupset]

Hey soup. Ik I’ve been sending a billion messages, but it’s just my personality and I love to spam text people so now that I’m on tumblr I’m sending a billion messages. Anyways, I hope you’re okay. Haven’t heard from you in a while and can’t wait for more fics. The one and only 🎀anon.

Hey darling!! I've been seeing the asks, and they warm my heart and make my day, please don't ever say it's spamming me!

I'll be honest, I'm going through a really rough time in real life, hence my absence here 😵‍💫 I'm not in an hiatus and I have other fics already half typed, but it's been hard to find motivation to post with everything that's going on. I'm hoping to have a new chapter up before the 4th though!

[bellysoupset]

Sugar, we're going down - Relapse IV

This one is the penultimate instalment of the Wendy Relapse arc. Here's a list of the triggers:

Briefly mentioned in the past: suicide attempt, drug overdose. | Mentioned in the past but not prevalent: transphobia. | Mentioned, but not graphic: bulimia, purging.

As always, I'll post a tl/dr of what happened in this fic for those who are not able to read it!

A huge shoutout to @tummyachesandchocolatecakes for all the counseling with Wen's ED!

--------------

Relapse was a funny thing.

For ten years, Wendy had battled against this dark desire to punish herself for not measuring up to her imagination.

During the first two years, bulimia had been her constant companion.

She had been fresh out of the hospital — stomach pumped, mind still fuzzy from the amount of drugs she had taken and the ins and outs of the place. Her parents had insisted she went home as soon as the doctor gave in to their relentless pestering, Wendy's father in his usual state of sullenness and her mother downright hysterical as she flip flopped between concern and annoyance at what their family and friends would think of a suicide attempt. A suicide attempt at sixteen!

Once she was reinstated home, Wendy had foolishly thought things would've been easier. For once, her parents were using the correct pronouns, although they slipped up more often than not and then seemed annoyed at her when correcting themselves. Nevertheless, they called her Wendy. W-E-N-D-Y, five letters and a name she had been happily giving out to her friends for the past year, resonating much like a gunshot when she first heard it out of her father's lips.

Crisped mouth, spelling it out slowly and then sighing, "at least you kept your initials," as he comforted himself in the small concession, "doesn't feel right."

She couldn't have agreed, heart hammering away in her chest as she sat in the big king sized bed in the middle of her bedroom, the piles of unopened gifts still sitting at her desk, as she hadn't gotten to it on her birthday night, too busy sneaking the pills out of her mother's medicine cabinet, the alcohol from the party that had already ended.

"I'd have liked if you picked something more in fashion with your real- With what I would have picked," Lydia had been pressed to the closet door, keeping her distance, arms crossed and wearing a perfectly ironed peachy suit, "Whitney used to be my pick before we found- Before."

Wendy had wrinkled her nose, rolled her eyes, "ironic and grim, mother," she hadn't been able to help the jab, as she was reminded of how the most famous Whitney anyone knew had died. In a bathtub and in February, no less. Too many coincidences not to cause her to snort and Lydia to flinch, her cheeks turning pink.

Simon had been sitting at the foot of Wendy's bed and for the first time in God knows how long, Wen had seen him open a little amused smile at the dark comment.

"I suppose Wendy it is," he declared, as if she would've taken any of their inputs into account.

For the next two months, she had been so euphoric over the newfound freedom of being accepted, however poorly, that everything had been buried under it. She had foolishly convinced herself that no depression could touch her as she was in cloud nine and that if her appetite wasn't back just yet, then good. She had had her stomach pumped after all, maybe those were just side effects, and hopefully a permanent one so she'd never again have to think about diets and jeans sizes-

It didn't work that way.

When Wendy had found herself, again, curled up on the bathroom floor of her suite and with her knuckles bleeding as they chaffed against her teeth, the skin weakened by the stomach acid, she had wept so hard that felt like a toddler.

Face swollen and a splintering headache, drool and vomit clinging to her chin as she buried her face in her arms and sobbed over the fact that things weren't magically fixed, that she wasn't magically fixed.

Admitting to it, that maybe her issues went beyond her parents lack of support of her identity, that perhaps her insecurities and short comings ran deeper than she had ever thought, was the hardest feat of all.

Until the day she died, Wendy would remember the disappointed look in her mother's face as she told them over dinner that she needed help... A wrinkle between her green eyes, exactly the same as Wendy's, that frustrated sigh at Wen's weakness and the manner she had dejectedly pushed away from the table and scoffed, "why aren't you happy? What else can we do to make you happy, aren't we doing enough?"

Certain words echoed through time, ghost whisperings that lasted from teenage years well into adulthood.

At twenty six, Wendy thought all of that was behind her. She had never felt better in her own skin, she had built a life to herself that she not just endured, but enjoyed. A career she felt accomplished in, the jolt of satisfaction at another crisis well managed enough to keep her going for hours. Friends, whom she didn't need to hide from, who found her quirkiness endearing rather than annoying. A boyfriend, who seemed so perfect Wendy sometimes wondered if she had made him up, from personality to looks to intellect, Vince seemed like he was a wish she had made upon a star.

Or a genie. A monkey's paw.

Why aren't you happy, aren't we doing enough?

Her new life seemed so utterly perfect, Wendy caught herself wondering where exactly did she fit in it. Reality and fantasy clashing, the woman she was not measuring up to the woman she wished she was.

She wished she had more time, in order to better distribute it between the hospital, her boyfriend, her friends, her hobbies. There were only twenty four hours in a day and she had to make concessions, cut things as she opened up space in her life to integrate Vince fully in it.

The hobbies had gone first. Probably for the best, Vince and everyone else had voiced their displeasure at the sheer amount of things she roped herself with, Bella bluntly telling her that she needed more hours to eat and sleep or she'd collapse.

Wendy was self aware enough to admit that she had overworked herself, filled her calendar a little too much, not only because she had the availability, but because it helped her not feel so- So lonely, when Vince was far away living a life she had thought would only culminate in their relationship crumbling and her heart exploding in a bunch of little pieces.

Part of her had been so certain of their tragic outcome, that she had been all too happy to let harder conversations slip them by. She had thought they already had a scheduled conflict in their horizon, why bother to bring up all the other obstacles that she could map out?

It was an extremely practical view of the world and Wendy knew others would have raised their eyebrows at it, nothing like the sweetness she projected or the bubbly attitude she tried to maintain. Jonah would've been aghast, the romantic that he was, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

Wendy had already defended herself inside of her own head. She didn't think that thinking their romance was doomed made her love Vince any less, on the contrary. She had been so sure of the heartbreak to come, but still she hadn't been able to turn away, clinging to the hope she felt when they were together. Those flashes of the future, that certainty that he seemed to sport on them, she had been willing to go through the heartbreak if only to bask in his love for a little longer.

When he hadn't chosen Doveport and instead chosen her, Wendy's didn't know what to do with herself. Relish, of course, enjoy every little new tidbit of intimacy that they now shared. How Vince's hair looked every morning and how he liked his coffee — more sugar than coffee, although he always put all the disgusting sweeteners in his own mug, so she could have the black coffee intact.

She loved hearing him hum in the kitchen as he prepared them dinner, or how he flinched as she pressed her cold hands and feet to him in bed and she loved the fact Vince craved sunlight like a fat housecat or a plant, how his mood always seemed to tank as dark clouds littered the sky.

What she didn't love was how odd she felt in this new order of things. How she felt awkward in her own home, always wanting to play the perfect girlfriend as if they were forever stuck in those early days courtship stage. How she sucked in her stomach whenever Vince wrapped his arms around her or how she couldn't say not to all the million little pastries he cooked up and how the bathroom scale hadn't realized she was living in a romcom and was instead daring to go up in digits.

She didn't like the paranoia that followed, or most importantly, the shame, as her thoughts spiraled and Wendy lied awake in bed listening to Vin's soft snores for countless nights. Once the paranoia and insecurity were reinstated, it had all come crashing down at an alarming speed.

A decade of managing, eight years since she had last stepped foot in the nutritionist's office, eight years since her therapist had given her a go-ahead and told her she no longer needed direct aid, unraveling in front of her eyes at a mind bogging speed.

Why aren't you happy, aren't we doing enough?

Bad timing, Wendy had first thought. Jonah's wedding was the event of the year, she was the maid of honor, her boyfriend had moved in with her... Too many changes, too many demands. Breaking down at the parking lot after trying on bridesmaid dresses had been nothing but the culmination of bad timing.

Her avoiding food was only her avoiding another breaking down from happening. She knew her own triggers, all she wanted was to avoid things from getting worse — So she didn't eat. Not in front of people, specially not in front of Vince or Jonah or Bella or Luke or Leo or Max or Barbie or anyone who was close enough to really pay attention to whatever was on her plate.

Everyone would have been thankful if they knew she was only trying to make the best out of the situation. She just didn't want to be an inconvenience.

That night, after dining at Bell's, when she had first purged, Wendy had thought: a hiccup.

A horrible, nerve wrecking hiccup in her decade long remission, but just a fucking hiccup. Nothing she couldn't come back from, just that one single time.

A hiccup, that turned into two. Three. A habit, a demand.

It hit her, as the stomach flu had wracked their little apartment, plastering both Vince and Max onto their backs, that the little hiccup had turned into so much more than that. A need, something she couldn't avoid even as they had a guest, even as her boyfriend was burning up and the possibility of Max catching her was almost a certainty.

She couldn't call that a hiccup anymore. It was a relapse.

Wendy had promised herself nothing would tarnish Jonah's day. It was her role as a maid of honor, after all, to make sure things ran smoothly, that no guest got too drunk and caused a scene, that no offending comment made it to Jon or Leo's ears, that they were having the time of their lives. It was her obligation, then, to leave her crisis back in the apartment and pretend, as best as she had ever pretended.

It would've been hard enough to pretend she wasn't falling apart, if she hadn't opened her big mouth and brought up the children's subject when Vince got a little too close to comfort to finding out something was wrong.

Vin might be a little oblivious and he extended her far too much grace than she, or anyone, deserved, but he wasn't daft. Of course he had realized something was off, from her flinching to her zoning out, to her odd absence during meals. Even if he couldn't puzzle together an eating disorder, he definitely could arrive at the conclusion that something was wrong.

Children were a low hanging fruit in the tree of conflicts. It had been a tense topic for Jonah and Leo just recently, the fact it would be an obstacle in hers and Vin's relationship wasn't amiss to Wendy, although it was hardly to blame for her behavior, so Vince had fully bought it-

And now things were weird.

In her frenzy to keep Vince from realizing what was truly wrong, she had delivered that killing blow — I don't want children, I won't ever want children — with no subtlety, no care for his feelings. By the time Wendy had realized just what she had done, the damage was done and they were on the road, to the party where she was expected to pretend everything was fine, now doubly so.

Through all of the rehearsal, her thoughts kept spiraling, all of her energy dedicated to keeping a smile on. Bella noticed, because of course she did, but Wendy had been able to get her to drop it.

Jonah glanced her ways a couple times, brows meeting in a weird confused manner, the question — are you alright? What happened? — on the tip of his tongue, but it was as if he knew that it was a pandora's box that he didn't want to open on the eve of his wedding day. He never asked her and Wendy carefully avoided his gaze, much like Vince was avoiding hers.

Halfway through dinner she had come up with a half assed excuse about the hospital calling her, in order to slip out. It was too much. Vince painfully ignoring her, trying to keep a happy smile on, Bella's eyes searching hers, all that damn food-

Her stomach had been empty, painfully so, but that hadn't stopped her knees from nearly bruising against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor as she brought up just stomach acid and sobbed into her arms.

By the time Vince came back to the bedroom, giggling and singing as he said goodbye to Angelina at the door, apparently having befriended Jonah's baby sister through the dinner, Wendy had turned off all the lights and curled up under the blankets, staying as still as she possibly could.

Hopefully he'd think she was sleeping, the last thing she wanted was for them to get in a fight so late that night or for her to be on the receiving end of his too honest answers when he was a little sloshed.

Vince let out a sigh as soon as he shut the door, the giggles dying immediately. He had been faking it, they were a match made in heaven. Two idiots.

Quietly he moved around and Wendy squeezed her eyes shut, even if she had her back turned, as the bathroom lights turned on. She held her breath, heart racing, mind scrambling as she wondered if she had somehow left evidence behind. Her stomach clenched, squeezing with hunger.

Vince took forever to step out, but when he slipped under the covers she could smell the minty toothpaste. The guest room was too fancy, the bed was king sized and Wendy felt like there was an ocean keeping them apart. She forced out a breath, her back still turned to him.

He rolled on the bed, tugging on the sheets and pulling her closer to him, so Wen took a breath and coaxed some bravery she didn't feel, as she turned to face him. The room was pitch dark, not even the moonlight making past the blackout curtains drawn, so she couldn't see his face at all, which was a good thing.

Wen opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to come up with something to say. She couldn't apologize, because what was there to ask his forgiveness for? Different perspectives? Her less than stellar delivery of the crude facts?

No amount of apologizing could change the fact that they wanted different things, no matter how much she desperately wanted to.

Vince's lips pressed to the top of her head, his arms wrapping around her as he pressed her close and Wendy closed her eyes, trying to ignore the burning behind them or the way Vin's breath hitched several times until she fell asleep, as if he was trying to choke down emotion.

-------------

Jonah was in the best mood Wendy had ever seen him in. She had foolishly thought he'd be having a nervous fit, but instead he was all relaxed, taking pictures with her and Angie and chuckling as they helped him get dressed.

Wendy's stomach let out a growl and her cheeks caught on fire, but luckily none of the Banks siblings seemed to have noticed.

"Jonah Isaac Wagner-Banks," Wendy enunciated, as she sat down next to Jon, filling up a glass with lemon juice and clinking it against her friend's, "you sound like a lord."

Jonah grinned, his smile so wide that Wendy wondered if his cheek muscles were hurting, "I do, don't I? Knighted for my contribution to medicine and eating ass skills."

Wendy choked on the liquid, while Angie let out a long suffering "Eeeww! I'm in the room, Jonah!"

Wen exchanged an amused glare with Jon, wiping the juice off her chin while giggling, "well, either way it has an amazing ring to it."

"So does Wendy Marshall Monacelli," Jon had bowed his head in her direction and caused her to roll her eyes. She could tell he was trying to get a rise out of her, so Wendy exaggerated her reaction by letting out a gasp, as if the thought had never occurred her before. It had, many times. She wouldn't change her name, Wendy Marshall meant too much to her, held too many memories for her to change it.

"Wow," Wendy scoffed, pulling back as she played it all up, trying to ignore the sting she felt at the prospect she might never be Wendy Marshall Monacelli "playing matchmaker so soon in the evening? Leo did mention you're trying to pair Claire up, but leave me out of your schemes."

"You don't think Claire and Max would make a lovely pair?" Jonah questioned, leaning back on the armchair he was occupying, crossing his ankles as Angie walked over and bent down so he could close her necklace.

Wendy tried to ignore the weird way her head spun, as if she had gotten up too fast.

Max? He wanted to pair Max up with Claire?

Max, who was head over heels in love with Vince, who was antisocial on his best days, whose politeness and manners slipped at the smallest inconvenience, who was caring and fiercely loyal, whose laughter was becoming one of her favorite sounds. That Max?

She felt queasy.

"Who's Max?" Angie asked, perching her elbow on Jonah's knee, trying to join in the conversation.

"Vince's friend," Jon cleared up, smiling in a paternalistic manner at his sister, "Leo's integrat-"

"He's my friend too," Wendy interrupted Jonah sharply and her best friend's brows jumped up, Angie letting out a nervous chuckle.

"Awkward," she giggled, standing up as there was a knock on the door and she rushed up, telling Luke to come in.

Wendy hadn't anticipated how weird it would feel to walk down the aisle arm in arm with Vince. Even if they hadn't been on shaky grounds, she couldn't imagine it would've felt any weirder.

As a little kid, playing house had been her favorite activity. Her parents had kept her from anything they deemed feminine, so dolls were not in the picture, although her action-figures had reenacted the weirdest, controversial plots. By the time she had turned 13, when dating and romance started to become a reality as puberty hit, Wendy had already been keenly aware she was different and that those formative experiences wouldn't come in the usual packages.

Romance had been performative, not quite her role in it, but how it reassured her of her essence. Kissing preppy boys who kept her as a little secret made her feel dirty and Wendy had quickly catapulted into a more "mature" dating scene, freshmen college students acting as if it was perfectly normal to be with a sixteen year old and calling her "too grown up for her age".

With Vince it had been different. She had never felt more loved, more desired than when she was with him, more entertained and amused. It wasn't just what she got, but how she felt in return, a strong feeling that seemed to capture her heart and make her head spin, this insane desire to help him, make him happy in every way she possibly could, when she had been so used to being independent and alone.

Only with him, had she truly entertained the idea of marriage as a possibility. At one point, when he had told her in Doveport that he wanted to come back to Welton, that he choose her, it had not only been a possibility, but a likely outcome.

As relapse started to consume her thoughts, insecurities and paranoia eating at her, everything seemed to crumble.

"Wendy," Vince wrapped her up in his arms just as she got down the stairs, the steps giving her enough height they were eye to eye for once, "honey-"

Normally, Vin was very articulate, but it had been out of the window from the minute she delivered that killing blow. Instead all he could do was hug her close, pull her at arms length for a second as he took her in, a smile threatening to pull up his lips.

It made her eyes burn, face prickle, and Wendy shook her head, squeezing his hands in hers, "don't," she mumbled, trying to communicate now was not the time. It was Jon and Leo's time, not theirs.

Vince knew that, so he nodded and pressed a kiss to her brow, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and keeping her close as they waited for their cue to go down the aisle.

Everything was sort of hazy after that, the vows, Jon and Leo kissing, staying behind with Vin to help the grooms get rid of their jacket and ties, hugging Jonah so close that Wendy felt like he knew exactly what was wrong and was trying to mend her broken heart by squeezing her.

The conservatory was a dream. Her head felt floaty, from not eating all day, and Wendy smiled and hugged the Monacellis, left her boyfriend there as she moved to hug Bella- Then her eyes paused upon Max's head, two tables away, seeming lost and nervous.

Claire was sat next to him and Jonah's previous matchmaking schemes came back to Wendy's mind, a sudden flare of jealousy causing her face to burn as she saw the blonde doctor lean towards Max with interest, eyeing him up.

Wendy marched through the salon, planted her hands on Max's shoulders, startling him. She kept her tone light, humorous, biting back her tongue as she pointed out the fact that Claire too was single, probably masking off the weird jealousy churning in her stomach as ridiculous meddling.

All the while she spoke, Wendy carefully measured Max's reaction. The way he seemed mortified by her words, almost annoyed, how he leaned back as she squeezed his arms and shook him- Good. His lack of interest in Claire satisfied a sick desire in her and Wendy pulled back just as the ceremonialist announced the Wagner-Banks' first dance.

Her body was vibrating as she pushed through the crowd to get a better view of her friends, eyes searching for Vince as suddenly she felt like she had done something awful.

Wendy wasn't blind, from the first moment she had laid eyes upon Max she had seen he was attractive, almost as clearly as she had been able to clock his attraction for her boyfriend. It was plain to see, that silly animosity that was empty of any real heat, just banters and jabs as he measured Vince up several times, eyes lingering on the other man's body, on his lips.

None of that had surprised her, only emphasized her amusement and interest on the other guy, as she easily dismissed Max's crush as just loneliness and thirst for connection. She had exchanged smiles with Vince, a quiet conversation, smugness tinting his voice as he spoke with the other man, much like he sounded when Wendy herself got hit on. That's my girlfriend, yes I know she's nice to look at. Pride.

Somewhere along the way it had ceased being just amusement, much like Max's crush had ceased being just that, judging by how involved he was, how he was doing everything in his power to stay close.

"What the fuck was that, gorgeous?" Max's voice caused Wendy's stomach to collapse, her whole body getting covered with goosebumps as the other man's lips brushed her ear, "Are you auctioning me off?"

She stiffened up, frantically looking around the room to find Vin, a way out of this situation. Did this look as compromising to others as it felt to her?

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, praying her voice didn't betray her and fry. Max didn't answer her right away and Wendy entertained the idea that he had left.

"Uh-hu," he scoffed, then his voice was back, whispering in her ear, a whole note deeper than she had ever heard before, "my type is about half a foot shorter than Claire, so you're wasting your time."

Was he implying his type was her?

Wendy's head spun, significantly more than it had so far and she shifted her weight, adjusting herself so she didn't go down at the sudden dizzy spell.

Max wasn't into her, he was into Vince. If anything, he wanted to push her out of the equation and Wendy couldn't even bring herself to be mad, because Vin looked so fucking happy around him, it made her heart squeeze.

Wendy wasn't a jealous person, much like Vince wasn't, but Max brought up a sharp pain in her heart, as if she was having a prophetic vision of the future and it didn't include her, when she so desperately wanted in. Not quite that she wanted Max gone, away from her boyfriend and their lives, but rather like she was missing something that hadn't even happened yet, locked out of a fantasy.

"Funny, because I thought it'd be about a half foot taller and wider," She whirled around to glare at Max, only for him look ridiculously surprised, as if his infatuation with Vin was a secret and not something they all knew. Then his eyes dropped to her lips and Wendy wondered if his previous jab, about her being his type, hadn't been just to rile her up. If she was reading too much into this small interaction.

"A beautiful beginning to what we know will be a beautiful journey. Let us now join the celebration. Ladies and gentlemen, the dance floor is open."

"May I?" Max asked and Wendy hesitated, but let him take her by the hand.

He wasn't a particularly good dancer, but he smelt like tangerine and leather, from his truck maybe?

Wendy ignored his shower of compliments, pressed closer as she investigated the smell. No, not from his truck, the smell was richer, more complex. Perfume. Max's hand cradled hers, thumb ghosting over her knuckles and Wendy leaned her head on his shoulder as suddenly she was overwhelmed by the thought that this should've been Vince, that it was her fault.

All the emotion she had carefully kept at bay all evening, the tears she hadn't allowed to escape even as Jonah and Leo kissed at the sunset, washed over her in one wave and caused her to gasp, suck in a sob as they spilled over.

She wanted Vince. His smile and the lavender smell and her boyfriend, the future she had dared to entertain.

Max spun her around, pulled her close and Wendy caught Vince's eye across the room. Just pulling apart as he twirled Bella in his arms, all warmth.

His curls were already messy and he smiled at her, as if all fight had left his mind, moving closer- His brows dipped as he noticed the tears, concern written clearly on his features and Wendy looked away.

"I think you stole my date," Vince's voice was firm, worried, and Max scrambled away from Wendy as if he had done something wrong, painfully missing the fact that he wasn't dating Vin, she was. She was dating Vince, breaking his heart, falling for Max, ruining everything...

"What's wrong?" Vince didn't say that, but his hand came to up cup her cheek, thumbs wiping away the tears and Wendy let out another watery sob, wrapping her hand around his wrist.

So, so much was wrong, she couldn't even begin to answer him.

Vin tilted up her chin, forced their eyes to meet and then closed the space between them before Wendy could even open her mouth to give him yet another half-assed excuse.

Just a peck, then a proper kiss, hand resting on her nape and arm wrapping around her back, pulling her off her feet. Nose brushing hers and him sucking her bottom lip, running his tongue over it and his mouth slightly to the left, so he could kiss the corner of her mouth, whisper in her ear, "I love you, I love you, I love you-"

Wendy wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him as close as she possibly could. Was this goodbye, farewell, it was good while it lasted? Or hello, I've missed you, I don't want to break up, I don't want the future I crafted for myself since I was a little boy and drafting it up at my parent's image?

Vin planted her back down, moving back just enough so he could press his mouth to her forehead and Wendy shook with yet another sob.

"No-not here," she shook her head, trying to explain that he could not break up with her in the middle of the ballroom, when Jonah and Leo were mere meters away, when this would sour everyone's celebration so intertwined their friend group was, "Vin-"

He wrapped his arms around her, guided Wendy through the crush of people and when she glanced back, past her boyfriend's shoulder, Max was gone. Vanished, as if he hadn't been just there.

Vince took her past the bathrooms in the back of ballroom, the staff entrance to the kitchens and then onto the garden. Hydrangeas bushes everywhere, a trashcan to the side of the door and an owl hooting away.

The bushes were sitting in a raised bed of bricks, the thick slabs forming a large enough space to sit and Wendy collapsed on to it, her head spinning. Not just from emotion, spinning, Vince's head becoming two as her sight blurred in and out and he crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his.

"Wen-"

She let out a shaky breath through her mouth, blinked several times to force him into focus, then nodded, putting up bravery that she didn't feel. Crisis mode, escape routes forming on the back of her mind. Luke could drive him back, she could take the car, go back home and sob through the night and Jon would be none the wiser-

"Honey," Vince pressed her knuckles to his lips, "honey, look at me."

She was looking. That ridiculous superman curl falling over his forehead and the warmth of his eyes and the way his cheeks grew pink with rosacea whenever he danced or did any exercise and how his mouth was quirking up at the corners- Smiling.

"I won't pretend it wasn't a shock," he said, slowly and carefully or maybe it was just how her brain was working, "that I wasn't frustrated and upset. I've had very little plans for my life, but children were always there. A very conventional way of thinking-"

"Vince-"

"And I won't lie that I still hope you'll change your mind," he continued on, ignoring her and Wendy recoiled, pulled her hands from his grasp. She wasn't going to lie to him, lead him on- "but if you never do, I'll still pick you."

"I won't," it wasn't charitable, or romantic like his words, but rather sharp and vehement. He needed to understand this, before he went on professing his love once again and she believed it.

Vince let out a sigh, but nodded, "then you won't-"

"I don't want you to- To resent me-"

"It's my choice to make," he cut her off, moving even closer, between her legs as much as her dress allowed him to, "you can't decide I will regret it and breakup with me, it doesn't work like that."

"I can," Wendy's chin wobbled and she clenched her fists, glaring at him, "I can breakup with you, I want you to be happy- Not half measures and compromises-"

"You make me happy," Vince scoffed, "right now, in the future, you make me happy. I like kids, Wendy, and I'd love to have them, but not with someone else-"

"And when you ch-change your mind?" She challenged, sniffling, "when you wake up ten years from now and-"

"How many times have I've proved you wrong by now, Wen?" Vince frowned at her, then opened a smile, "I love you, as much as I can possibly love someone. I love you, I need you to believe in this, like I believe in us," he let out a hopeful sigh, "can you do that?"

A sob blubbered up and Wendy nodded, grabbing Vince's shirt collar and he immediately surged up to kiss her, causing her body to tip back and for them to half in the bushes, her giggling into his mouth, "I can, yeah, I can."

The rest of her night was a hazy frenzy. Going back to the party, dancing — draining one singular glass of champagne and ending up giggly and drunk, because she hadn't eaten all day — watching as Vin and Max danced together and feeling like she could almost see herself between them, a missing puzzle piece — and then spinning and spinning and spinning.

When she woke up again, there were voices down the corridor. She was sprawled on the bed, out of her dress but still in the uncomfortable lingerie she had worn under it.

Wendy took her time stumbling to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, try to get a good look at herself. Everything felt- Weird. Cottony, like the world was faded at the edges. Her stomach squeezed with hunger.

She should've gotten dressed, they were still at the manor and the people outside her door were probably Jon's fancy guests, but instead Wendy just wrapped the maid of honor silk robe around her... What time was it? How early? When had she gone to bed?

All she could remember was spinning - Bella's face, chuckling, as her and Vin brought Wendy upstairs. Relief.

Her head throbbed as she moved out of the room. Bella was sitting on the first step of the staircase, arms crossed and a frown on, Vince and Luke were standing and they were arguing-

Voices coming from underwater.

"It looked like she was drunk!"

"Even if she was! Why'd you assume a thing like that?! How jealous can you be, Luke?!"

"Even if she was!?" Lucas exclaimed, incredulous, "Wendy nearly got assaulted at a party, you wanted me to leave drunk Sophia with some sleazy asshole-"

"What-" Wendy frowned, standing in front of Bella. The sun was so bright, Bella's complexion seemed washed out, too white, "where's Jon...? Leo...?"

"They left to the airport an hour ago," Bella rolled her eyes, not seeming one bit bothered by the screaming match, "Vince tried to wake you to say goodbye, but you sleep like the dead..."

"Uhm-"

"-A real nice person!" Vince exclaimed, Wendy's mind struggling to understand the argument. There were colorful dots around Vin's head, tiny, glittering like Christmas lights, "if you ever bothered-"

"He's been to JAIL, VINCE!" Luke was yelling now, so loud, it made Wendy frown. Her head throbbed. She felt nauseous and weak.

"OH MY GOD- Don't hurt your back reaching!? It was a one night occurrence, Lucas, Max's FINE! You're such a fucking asshole-" Vince tugged at the roots of his hair, as if he was so pissed, he wanted to rip it out. The sun was reflecting off his white shirt, so damn bright-

The colorful dots turned black. Like TV static, clouding her vision. Wendy blinked, shaking her head and heard Bella's voice coming from underwater...

"Wen?"

She took a step back, the little black dots starting to glue together like ink splotches, becoming one grand black hole in her vision. Wendy stumbled back even more and then her foot lost any support, as it met the stair's first step-

"WENDY!"

Everything went dark as she went down.

TBC

[bellysoupset]

Hi!

So uhhh saw u were taking requests so um

Would you be comfortable write anything with vore? Like, non-fatal soft vore. Just silly antics. And not specifically with your OC's but just...in general?

I feel like I'm not phrasing this right, lemme try again lol

When I say vore, I really just mean, y'know, getting eaten lol. Nothing insanely weird, the trope is just funny and kinda fun to read for me and I like the way you write so-

Look, what I'm trying to say is-

I like fantasy setting type vore. So what I'm asking is if you would perhaps write something where a giant and their human get in a petty little argument, and the human suddenly says an offhand comment such as 'you'd have to eat me to get me to do that' or smth and the giant is just like 'okay lol' and literally just- gobbles them up. But obviously the human isn't having it and starts kicking around or smth to obviously the giant is uncomfortable and-

Well, I think you can see where this whole thing is going.

Obviously you don't have to write something like this If yr uncomfortable with it. Just someone who likes yr writing and wanted a one shot like that just cause lol

(Note: If you do do this, I didn't specify any of yr OC's because I just wanted some random characters from some fantasy world lol)

Hi anon!

I only write for my OCs and since their stories are set in the real world, vore is not a thing. I'm sorry, but publishing this in case anyone who does write it want to speak up. Best of luck <3

[bellysoupset]

Finn Catches the Stomach Bug From Hell

Hi! I wasn't sure if I was going to write Finn catching the bug but I saw a scene in a movie that gave me ✨inspiration✨, so here we are.

For anyone who wants to follow the line of this stomach bug it started with Jules, went to Mila, and then to Remy, who has now given it to Finn.

I hope you all enjoy Finn absolutely suffering.

~~~

Drew rolled over, her arm searching the bed in the dark for Finn and coming up empty.

She lifted her head and looked around the room, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The room was empty and the clock on the bedside table said 4:23am. She laid back down and stretched before leaving the warmth of the bed to search for him.

She found him asleep on the couch, shirtless with his arm thrown over his eyes. There was a cup of water and a bottle of pills that had the top twisted off next to it on the coffee table.

“Finn?” Drew placed her hand on his shoulder and shook him softly, “What are you doing out here, baby?” She could feel the fever rolling off his skin.

“Hm?" He stretched and rubbed his eyes before planting a hand on his stomach. "Don’t feel good, didn’t want to get you sick.”

“Finn, the couch can’t be comfy for you.” She sat on the edge of the cushion and put her hand on his chest, rubbing it gently. “It’s alright, just come to bed.”

Finn grimaced and shook his head, “You can’t catch a bug like this… the baby.”

Drew rolled her eyes, she hated being treated like she was fragile.

“You’re not going to feel any better on the couch. Have you taken anything? You have quite the fever.”

Finn nodded, swallowing thickly. 

She sighed, getting up from the couch. “Finn, just come to bed. I’ll stay on my side, we can even make a barrier with pillows if that makes you feel better. It’ll be fine.”

Finn opened his eyes and nodded again before sitting up. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and muffled a burp into the back of his hand.

“You okay?” Drew asked, her brows furrowing with concern.

Finn cleared his throat and shook his head, “I don’t feel well… at all.” 

“I’m sorry.” Drew stepped towards him and carded her hand through his hair. He leaned his forehead against her. “Let’s get you to bed, Babe. C’mon.” 

He groaned into her stomach and then pulled away, pushing himself up from the couch.

“You can go back to bed, I’m gonna-” He paused and gagged into his hand, “I’m gonna be sick.”

Finn sidestepped Drew and made his way toward the bathroom. She winced as she heard the grating retch come from down the hall.

Just hearing him made Drew’s stomach clench. She went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water before returning to the bedroom to wait for him to be done.

When Finn finally made his way to bed he looked absolutely wrecked. He was in pretty good shape, he no longer had the abs that he had when Drew and him first met, but by no means had he let himself go. Right now however, he was bloated and his stomach extended past the waistband of his sweats that sat low on his hips. He sat on the edge of the bed and took a sip of the water Drew had put on his bedside table. He seemed unsure whether or not he wanted to lay down but eventually laid back on top of the blankets with his hand resting on his stomach.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Drew asked him, her voice filled with sympathy.

Finn took a deep breath and swallowed hard before sitting back up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “No.” He mumbled, shaking his head and getting up again.

When Drew heard him start vomiting again, she got up and grabbed his water, making the trip down the hall. 

“Here, Love. I brought your water.” She said, sitting the cup on the sink and retreating back to the doorway. 

He nodded, not even lifting his head from the toilet. His spine curled and stomach tensed with another retch, whatever was left in his stomach splattering into the water.

Drew grimaced at the sound and placed her hand over her own stomach.

“I’m going to be in the room… if you need anything at all just call okay?”

Finne laid his head on his arms and rolled it to the side to look at her. His eyes were teary and bloodshot.

“Yeah, thank you.” He mumbled, his voice hoarse and breathy.

Drew hated leaving him there but she wasn’t going to be helping by staying and making herself sick. She went back to the room, and got into bed, sitting up against the pillows.

More retching filled the quiet apartment and Drew sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

[bellysoupset]

Gabe Regrets Meeting Adam for Lunch

For all of those who wanted Gabe sick and Logan caretaking. But there are snippets of other arcs floating through here too.

“I should warn you, I’m kind of nauseous.”  Instead of leaning in for a kiss like he’d normally do, Gabe stepped back as soon as he opened the door to let Logan into his apartment. “So can we maybe wait a little for dinner?” He moved even further away when she reached out a hand, shaking his head.  “I . . . I don’t think I’m sick, but just in case.  Don’t want you to catch anything.” 

Logan huffed with impatience and then felt Gabe’s forehead anyway. “No fever,” she proclaimed, examining  him critically.  Gabe didn’t look too bad, but she could tell he wasn’t feeling great. His complexion was kind of washed out and he just seemed generally uncomfortable, expression vacant and one hand wrapped loosely around his waist.  He was also wearing his loosest pair of pajama pants and no shirt instead of date clothes - or any clothes, for that matter  Mentally, she revised their plans to a quiet evening on the sofa. Hopefully he’d rally enough to eat something later, but with the way he currently looked she very much doubted it. 

“When did you start feeling sick?” Logan followed Gabe over to the sofa, and as soon as she sat down he snuggled in next to her and buried his face in her lap, curling the rest of his body around one of the throw pillows.  So much for his concern about being contagious.  

“Less than an hour.” Gabe’s voice was muffled by the fabric of Logan’s jeans.  “Came on fast.”  He rolled suddenly onto his back so he could look up at her. “That means probably food, right?” he asked hopefully.  “I really don’t want the stomach flu.” 

“Neither do I,” agreed Logan. “So let’s hope it’s something not sitting well.”  She rested her hand on his cheek, grimacing slightly at how clammy his skin was. “Can you stand to tell me what you ate today?” 

Gabe swallowed hard.  “Bagel and cream cheese here,” he mumbled.  “And then I ran into Adam at Sam’s . . . Sub Shop.”  He gagged a little over the words.  “But they were slow and he was late for some Pride convention, so I ended up taking mine to go.  “Finished . . . finished it at like 1:30.”  He swallowed again, words sounding sticky in his mouth.  “Full-size . . . turkey . . . club.”  He closed his eyes and began breathing slowly, in and out.

“Anything else?” Logan hated to ask, but if Gabe had eaten something bad, they needed to know.

“Chips,” he muttered tersely, curling back onto his side and this time mushing his face fully into her stomach so he could wrap his arms around her waist. It was kind of cute, actually, and when Logan began scratching her nails over his scalp he hummed with contentment and some of the tension left his body. She relaxed too.  So maybe it wasn’t that serious; Gabe had eaten something that wasn’t agreeing with him, but he’d be able to ride out the belly ache lying here on the sofa. The only unfortunate part was that her phone was on the coffee table. It was too far to reach without disturbing Gabe and she didn’t want to take the chance when he seemed to have found a comfortable position. So she just kept playing with his hair. It was a little longer than normal, his bangs flopping forward instead of sticking up in front like they usually did.  She kind of liked it, but knew he’d have to get it cut soon.  Keep it “investment banker professional” and all that.

When he’d been quiet for almost five minutes, Logan brushed the hair off his forehead. “Feeling any better?”

“Mmmm,” Gabe mumbled noncommittally.  “Not really.”  He pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned forward over his lap.  “Kind of feel like I’m gonna throw up.”  

Well shit. Logan’s heart sank as she watched Gabe’s expression morph from ‘kind of queasy’ to ‘pretty nauseous.’ He gulped down, looking over at her miserably.  “I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” Logan scoffed.  “Not your fault.”  

Gabe grimaced. “I wanted to take you out tonight.  On a date.” He sounded nearly as upset about canceling as he did his upset stomach. “I had a fun one planned.” He winced and dug his hand into his side. “Now it’s ruined.” 

“We’ll reschedule,” Logan assured him, kissing his temple.  “We’ll make it twice as long, if you want.  Or three times. And you can keep it a surprise too; I’ll just have to wait and get excited for a little while longer.”  She was babbling, she knew, but if she could keep Gabe engaged and talking, that meant he didn’t feel that bad, right?” 

And he was still talking, kind of.  “O - -kay,” he nodded, the word getting caught in his throat when he ducked his head to burp under his breath. He paused a second, and then burped again.  “Okay.  Three times as . . . long.” He looked up to give her a bleary, queasy smile.  “I promise.”  

“Sounds like a plan,” Logan proclaimed.  She reached forward to grab the television remote, clicking it on.  “Should I put on a show? I think we have the next episode of The Pitt to watch.”  Too late she considered that a medical drama may not be the ideal thing right now. 

“You watch.” Gabe’s voice had grown more strained.  “And . . turn it up loud.”  He pushed himself off the sofa, gagging with the movement.

Logan’s own stomach rolled in sympathy. “Should I come?” she asked, not sure he’d be able to answer. Her boyfriend was perfectly capable of getting sick on his own, but he usually liked her around when he wasn’t feeling well.

Now he shrugged, walking quickly in the direction of the guest bathroom.  Clearly he was feeling too sick to make it to the ensuite.  He didn’t close the door though, and Logan watched as he fell to his knees and braced his arms around the bowl.

Before she could even move, Gabe belched and vomited a huge gush, then sucked in a breath and threw up again. After hovering a few more seconds, he exhaled and fell back onto his heels with a sigh.  Another beat of silence went by, and then he reached up to flush and got shakily to his feet to rinse his mouth.  By the time he returned to the living room, a little bit of color had returned to his cheeks.

“Much better,” he proclaimed, falling back onto the sofa.  “I think I just needed to get out of my system.”  He snuggled back into her side.  “Not sure I’m ready to eat something, but it’s okay if you want to order in.”  He twisted his head to look up at her.  “I’m still giving you that extended date though.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” laughed Logan.  The anxiety in her chest eased a little now that they knew Gabe’s upset stomach had been food related. Not that she would have done anything different if it had been a stomach bug, but there was always something a little uncomfortable about knowing you’d been exposed.  It was like waiting for a bomb to explode when you didn’t know how long the timer was. “Can you stomach some Gatorade yet?” 

“Soon, I think.”  Gabe nuzzled her neck.  “Wanna cuddle first.”  

One thing Logan had learned about Gabriel over the past year was that he always got extra physically affectionate when he wasn’t feeling well. Normally he respected that she sometimes needed physical space. They might sit together on the sofa with their legs intertwined for holding hands for a while, and then separate and spread out while she regrouped. It was the same in bed. Logan loved the sex and cuddling, but when it came time to actually sleep, she was happier hugging a pillow than her boyfriend.  And that was fine, Gabe promised, as long as she understood that all of that went out the window when he was sick. Now she opened up her arms and let him press large parts of his body against hers, his head tucked into the crook of her neck and legs over her lap.  

“Thank you,” he mumbled, content. Logan kissed the top of his head. The vomiting had been brief enough that he wasn’t sweaty or overheated, and she settled into the idea of just staying put for a while.

It was quiet; she was scrolling on her phone with one hand when Gabe swallowed audibly, his body shuffling on the sofa.  Logan froze. 

“You still okay?” she asked cautiously, hoping against hope that he’d reassure her he was fine, and did she want to order pizza or Chinese?  Instead, he wordlessly shook his head, letting out a soft burp before he spoke. 

“Nauseous again,” he groaned.  “Tried . . . tried to ignore it. Hoped . . .” he trailed off as his body jumped with a deeper belch.  “Fuck, I’m going to . . . hrrRHRK . . . oh god.” He lurched off the sofa, but this time stumbled down the hall towards his bedroom and the ensuite bath.  Logan paused only long enough to grab a bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge and then followed.

By the time she got into the bathroom, Gabe was drooling over the toilet, his breath coming out in strained pants that kept catching in the middle. It sounded terrible, gags turning into burps that turned into retches as he finally lost more of his lunch.

This time, he got almost no relief between rounds, his body seeming determined to purge everything he’d ever eaten.  When he’d vomited for the sixth time in an hour, Logan texted Jeremiah and Drew. Gabe had barely been able to pull his head away from the toilet - even when he wasn’t bringing anything up, he couldn’t stop gagging emptily, his body contorting with the effort.  

“Hurts,” he grunted, digging his hand into his side.  “Really don’ feel good.”

“Is it a cramp?”  Logan wasn’t sure how to touch Gabe without making things worse.  Before he could answer, he was vomiting again.

Jeremiah responded to her text almost immediately: Going into a procedure; Drew, can you help?  I’ll check in about an hour. Keep him hydrated!

But Drew didn’t respond, and so Logan rubbed Gabe’s back and wet a washcloth for his neck and hoped this ended soon. 

When he was still puking an hour later, she texted Rory and Noa.  The phone rang almost immediately, and she gratefully connected with her boyfriend’s sister.  Gabe had just hauled himself up over the toilet to start retching again, and Noa’s voice was full of sympathy.

“That sounds bad,” she agreed.  “How long has he been throwing up?”

Logan looked at her watch, startled at the time. “Almost three hours, although he’s only bringing up bile now. But he’s so weak - he tried to stand up earlier and almost fell over.”  That was when Logan had made him try to drink some Gatorade, worried about dehydration.  He hadn’t kept it down for more than a few seconds though, and the next time she tried he’d batted the cup away, groaning that he was too nauseous.  “Do you think I should take him to the hospital?

She listened while Noa consulted with Rory, and then he got on the phone.  “Have you called Jeremiah or Drew?”  

“Jeremiah’s in a procedure, although he should be almost done by now.  I haven’t heard from Drew,” she explained. Behind her, Gabe burped and then moaned, whether with nausea or pain, Logan wasn’t sure.  

“Fuck, right, he’s still in Atlanta.” Rory was quiet for a minute while Gabe kept heaving.  “Is he coherent?”

“Uhh, sort of?”  As much as she hated to do it, Logan poked Gabe in the side and he looked up at her, eyes glassy.

“Whaaa?” he slurred.  “Don’ feel good. Lo.”  He turned back to burp up more stomach acid, and then began panting again.  “Hurtsss.” 

Just then her phone dinged with another text: Jeremiah checking in.  Logan sent him a quick update while she heard Rory telling Noa that Gabe needed the hospital.  

“I already texted Jeremiah,” Rory confessed.  Gabe needs something to stop the vomiting. Do you think you can get him downstairs?” 

“Absolutely not; he can barely sit up.”  Logan felt remarkably calm, but she didn’t want to downplay the seriousness of the situation.  Jeremiah apparently agreed with her, which was why twenty minutes later they were in an ambulance rushing to Mass General.

The paramedics had started an IV of saline before loading Gabe into the back, but he still didn’t stop puking - his body jerking on the gurney every time he heaved.  Logan held a plastic emesis basin in front of his face even though he barely had anything to spit up at this point.  And he still felt so queasy. The zofran the ER nurse gave him didn’t even touch his nausea, and while the doctors were conferring about what to try next, Rory and Noa came rushing in and enveloped her in an enormous hug.  

“I’m fine, really,” she assured them.  “Just hate seeing him feeling so terrible.  They can’t get the vomiting under control.”  She grimaced.  “I really hope I don’t catch this.  We thought it was food poisoning from Sam’s Subs, but this seems really violent.”

Rory snapped his fingers.  “Sam’s Subs?  Hold on, let me call Morrison.  He was with Adam today, until Adam started puking.  I think that’s where he ate.”

Logan didn’t miss the way Noa’s eyes lit up when she heard that her brother had been with Rory’s partner, and she bit back a grin of her own. Even Gabe had gotten invested in the saga of Adam and Avery, and she couldn’t wait until he felt well enough to hear the tea. 

“Here.” Rory shoved his phone in her face.  Talk to Morrison while I go find Jer.  Noa will sit with Gabe, okay?” Rory looked carefully at her face, as if to assure himself that she wasn’t going to fall to pieces.  

“You know I’m fine,” Rory,” she laughed.  “Dragging Gabe’s puking ass to the hospital is a regular date night for us.” 

It was loud by Gabe’s bed, so Logan wandered down the hall to talk on the phone, finally stopping at the end of the line of bays where there seemed to be less action. 

Avery’s news assured her that what Gabe had was just a terrible case of food poisoning made worse, no doubt, by the fact that he’d eaten an entire extra long sub.  

“I’ll check in with Adam; make sure he’s okay,” Avery told her before they hung up.  Logan didn’t think she was imagining how eager the agent sounded at the prospect of contacting Adam again.  Something else to tell her boyfriend - and Noa for that matter.  Not that she said any of that to Avery.

She disconnected the call and looked around for the ER doctor to give her news about Gabe’s food poisoning. But another voice drifted out from behind one of the curtained bays: Jeremiah was talking to someone and sounding angrier than she’d ever heard him. 

“For two hours?  What the hell?”  For a minute Logan thought he was berating an intern about a mistake made in the emergency room.  But she’d never so much as heard Jeremiah raise his voice before and couldn’t imagine him yelling at a subordinate. Even though she knew she should probably leave, something about the man’s tone pinned her in place.  She couldn’t hear what the other person was saying, but when Jeremiah spoke again, there was an undercurrent of pain in his words.

“I get it, I really do . . . sweetheart. And I’m happy you’re able to help.  But I’d expect you to respond to one of our friends when they . . . I know your dad doesn’t like cell phones on the course, I just thought . . .right.  I see.”  Jeremiah grew quiet again and Logan held her breath.  She hadn’t thought much about the fact that Drew hadn’t texted her back, but now that she thought about it, it was unusual for the nurse.  Unless he was sleeping he was reachable by phone, and never made anyone feel like they were a bother for asking.  

Except for right now, maybe. Jeremiah was still talking - “. . . Thursday. I’d really like it if you could . . .” -  And Logan realized that she’d drifted right up to the edge of the curtain, and could just see the edge of Jeremiah’s white coat through a break in the fabric.  She flushed with guilt and quickly turned away, thoughts swirling. 

The information that Gabe most definitely had food poisoning meant that the doctors were comfortable that he didn’t need a chest x-ray. What he did need was stronger meds; when Logan got back to his bed he was curled on his side, still gagging weakly.  She ran her hand over his hair and he cracked open his eyes. 

“Thisss sucks,” he told her, turning his head to spit up yellow bile onto the pillow.  Logan picked up a washcloth and carefully wiped his mouth.

“Yeah, well, you’re a mess, Calder.  And you’re going to really owe me that date.” Gabe had closed his eyes again, but he managed a small smile. “Promise,” he said.  “Imma . . . Imma. . .” his words trailed off.

“It’s about time he stopped vomiting.”  Jeremiah was standing at the end of Gabe’s bed; Logan hadn’t even heard him come in.  He gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and checked Gabe’s IV.  “The Haldol should keep him comfortable, and asleep, for a couple of hours.  Assuming he doesn’t wake up vomiting you’ll be able to take him home after that.”  

“Not . . . not gonna puke,” Gabe mumbled.  “Tell . . . Drew I don’ need . . .” he stopped talking again, and his breathing evened out.  

Noa snorted with laughter.  “We’re all so used to Drew taking care of us when we’re nauseous he’s in our subconscious now.”  She gave Jeremiah a side hug.  “Not that you aren’t great too, but we all miss Nurse Thorton. Almost as much as I bet you do,”

“I’ll be sure to tell him when I . . . when I see him,” Jeremiah promised.  “He’s coming home Thursday.  I think.” 

Noa’s eyes lit up.  “Oh good, then he’ll be able to come to the My Brother’s Keeper fundraiser Friday night.  The FBI is sponsoring it and Rory’s going to sing karaoke!” 

“Maybe,” Rory interjected good naturedly.  “I said I’d ‘maybe’ sing.  That’s more of an Avery thing.  And Drew too; wasn’t he a theater kid?”  He turned suddenly to Jeremiah for confirmation. 

Jeremiah looked like his mind had been a million miles away.  “What?  Oh, yeah, he was.  But backstage.  Although he does love to sing.”  His expression grew wistful.

“Awww, you two are so damn cute.” Noa cooed, arm still around the doctor.  “I may have to call Drew myself; tell him to get his ass - and the rest of him - back to Boston.”

Logan was probably the only one who noticed the way Jeremiah’s lips tightened for a moment.  Then his expression evened out again.  “You don’t . . . I might take you up on that,” he said finally.  “If he doesn’t make it Thursday.”

“Yeah, well he will if he knows what’s good for him,” said Noa cheerfully.  She tugged on Logan’s arm.  “C’mon, have you eaten anything?  Let’s go get food before Gabe wakes up.  Rory’ll stay here and watch him.”  

“Oh I will, will I?” grinned Rory.  He seemed to be in an awfully good mood - probably waiting to interrogate Avery about his activities today or something, Logan thought.  And oblivious to whatever was going on with Jeremiah.  Her stomach gurgled, and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten since lunch. Gabe was in good hands, she wasn’t about to get the stomach flu, and whatever was going on with Jeremiah and Drew, well, they were adults and it was none of her business.

“Yeah,” she told Noa, linking arms with her.  “Let’s go eat.”

[bellysoupset]

Jon saying he'd be knighted for his contribution to medicine and eating ass skills is a banger line, 11/10

😌😌 thank you thank you, I like to think Jonah doesn't do a lot of jokes and when he does he always repeats them back to Leo, bc husband is the only one who Appreciates his humor

[bellysoupset]

not a single person has commented on Jon saying he'd be knighted for his contribution to medicine and eating ass skills and i'm offended on his behalf 🙄

[bellysoupset]

Hi Jey!!

I just wanted to ask if you could write an emeto fic with Colin and Rowyn (I love them smmm!!)☺️

Okay this ask has been sitting in my inbox for months now, so if there's any chance this anon is still around; HI! Thanks for the request! Sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to do it justice :)

ROWYN: Didn't Go Home

I do have a follow up fic in the works, mostly the aftermath from Colin's perspective

------

Rowyn glances over at the growing line of customers, and sighs. He finishes retying his apron, approaching the counter, and pasting on his Customer Service Smile, knowing it doesn't quite reach his eyes as he says, “Hello, how can I help you today,” just a bit too sarcastically to be genuine.

The person rattles off an excessively complex order and he holds back an eyeroll as he logs it in the system. He grabs the muffin they wanted, sliding it into a paper bag and handing it over, revelling in the few seconds of calm before the next customer interaction.

It’s already felt like an impossibly long day, and it’s only 3:00. He had a lab this morning, he barely made it to the café in time for his shift, and he works until 8:00 tonight when a closing manager will take over for him.

Customer service is his least favourite part of this job, having to listen and be gracious to all the ridiculous people who don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s a wonder he was upgraded to a manager, but at least it means fewer cashier shifts.

As it stands, he’s currently pulling double duty, helping with taking orders, and filling them, while they wait for the high school student who starts at 4:00.

When she walks in, Rowyn feels a surge of relief, being able to pass off the order-taking to the pleasant small-talking Kyla, who slides right into the role.

He shifts his attention to the orders, checking the form and moving through the motions fluidly. It’s here that he finds his mind wandering the most, able to slip from reality as his hands move through the orders on autopilot.

Today, he finds himself running over the situation from the night before.

“I’m going out, I’ll be back late!” calls Colin as he moves towards the door. Rowyn looks up from his books at the kitchen table, surprised.

“Where are you going?” he asks, frowning.

“Um, Julie invited me out. She wants to catch up, outside the pool,” he replies with a small laugh. When Rowyn doesn’t laugh with him, he sighs. “I’ll see you later.”

Rowyn tries to return to his work, but his mind won’t stay on task and he stares unseeingly at the pages and groans under his breath, not sure why Colin’s spending the evening with Julie.

It shouldn’t matter. They’re friends, he thinks, but it’s a big deal, at least to him. Something about it feels wrong, and there’s a tightness in his gut that he can’t explain. A foreboding feeling without a real cause.

After another fruitless 30 minutes of attempting work, he slams his book shut in annoyance, and goes to the living room, where he finds Max and Charlie.

“Doesn’t it seem weird, Colin and Julie hanging out like this?” he asks without preamble, biting his nail as he watches their reactions.

Max just frowns, but Charlie perks up a bit, and turns to him with a little smile.

“This isn’t the first time they’ve spent time together, Ro,” Max says gently.

“I know that, but it’s different this time.”

“What is it you don’t like? Her, or the fact that Colin likes her?” That question throws him off, and he hesitates.

“She seems nice!” Charlie interjects.

Rowyn scoffs, “Nice is not the word I’d use.”

—---

It seems he was too far in his head this time, for he jolts suddenly from the memory at a call of his name.

A sharp pain on his hand makes him look down, and he realizes he fully zoned out, enough that the coffee is starting to overflow onto his hand.

He stifles a yelp of pain, and sets the coffee down. While he’s running his hand under cold water, he mentally slaps himself for the screw up, and resolves to pay more attention for the rest of the night. He can’t afford too many mistakes, especially as a manager.

When his hand has stopped throbbing with pain, he glances at it to find the skin red and angry, but he pats it dry and returns to his duties. He swipes up the now-cooled coffee, and remakes the order, hurrying through the next few to catch up.

The noise from the café starts to vibrate through his head and he closes his eyes, willing away the burgeoning headache. Now is not a good time.

Another call of his name pulls his attention, and he gets swept away in another round of orders.

When he eventually gets a short break he ducks into the back room and closes the door behind him.

The darkness soothes the throbbing of his head. He sighs, feeling like his body was moving through molasses for the last hour of work. There’s a familiar unsteadiness starting in his head and reaching his shaking fingers, and he knows he has a fever.

He kneads at his eyes for a moment, and he shakes his fingers out needing to ground himself. Only 2 more hours, he recites to himself, pushing off the wall and over the tiny closet of a staff washroom.

He glances at his reflection in the mirror and grimaces. Not only is he pale, but he’s bordering on grey. His face isn’t hiding anything, the bright red splotches on his cheeks a clear indicator of the fever burning through his skin.

It’s just stress, he tells himself. This is nothing new. Only 2 more hours.

Returning to the busy café is torturous, but he steels himself, and marches back to his post by the coffee machine, waiting for the next order.

He squints at the paper until the words come into focus, and he hurries to complete the drink.

He fumbles too many times over the next hour, struggling to grab the right sized cups, adding too many pumps of flavouring, or simply making the wrong drink. He’s missing things left and right, and he’s beyond frustrated.

It’s not just that he’s messing up, it’s that there’s no tangible reason he should be feeling this bad. It’s just stress, fucking with his body temperature. Nothing new. So why is he so miserable, and unable to complete the simple tasks of his job?

Vaguely, he registers a small pain starting in his stomach, but he has too much to worry about already. He’s behind on orders and he has to finish each one painstakingly slowly to avoid anymore fucked up drinks, and his headache is pounding behind his eyes, and his limbs feel increasingly heavy, and he just wants to be home, and really he just wants Colin.

The dull ache in his stomach grows throughout the next half hour, until he’s forgotten the discomfort of the fever in favour of his upset stomach. Now that he thinks about it, he didn’t eat lunch, too worried about getting to the café on time for his shift. Maybe he’s hungry. That could explain the headache too…

He groans under his breath. Just what he needed today.

He grabs himself a drink of water, and sips on it slowly, hoping it will trick his stomach into thinking he’s eaten, at least for the next few hours.

Trembling with fever-induced shivers, he scrambles through a few more orders, passing them off to either the customers or Norah, who’s helping in the kitchen and delivering to tables today.

Norah passes by with a particularly aromatic sandwich, and his stomach flips, sending a burp rushing up his throat. He manages to muffle it in his hand, but just barely. He pauses all movement and wills his stomach to settle. It does, at least for the moment, and he breathes out through his nose, resuming his task.

He slows considerably over the next ten minutes, when his stomach refuses to let him rest for more than 30 seconds without forcing up burps and sending ripples of pain across his torso.

He goes to call out the next order to Norah, and finds he can barely speak through the saliva pooling in his mouth and his stomach chooses that moment to grumble audibly, squeezing and sending up a harsh burp that he can’t quite contain, followed by a string of small groans and smaller burps.

He freezes, his mouth puffing with another small burp, and he stumbles toward the toilet, logic finally winning out when he realizes he can’t keep fighting this. He knows his body enough to know the warning signs of vomiting.

Locking the door behind him, he sighs, only to be interrupted by yet another burp, as his stomach squeezes harshly. Clearly all the water was a bad idea. He definitely wasn’t hungry. Just the thought sends him leaning over the toilet.

Even with his stomach grumbling unpleasantly, and feeling less settled by the second, still all that comes up is air. Burp after burp, but no vomit. He strains over the toilet, willing his body to just get it over with, but after minutes of hovering there unproductively, he leans back with a groan. After all, he’s always been slow to vomit, even when he needs to.

There’s a knock at the door, and Norah’s voice calling “Rowyn? You good?”

He hums a weak affirmative through the door, but still reaches for the counter, pulling himself up. He swishes some water around his mouth to clear the sticky saliva, and splashes some on his face, then swallows carefully. When his stomach doesn’t immediately protest, he cautiously leaves the bathroom.

Norah takes one glance at him and whistles, “Dude, you’re like, grey. Why are you still here?”

“What do you mean?” he asks tiredly, not in the mood for, well, anything.

“You’re clearly sick, you shouldn’t be out of your house, let alone handling people’s food. Go home.”

He just shakes his head, reaching under the cupboard and pulling out a mask. He fits it over his face, pulling on a pair of gloves, and returns to work, regretting the choice immediately.

He really should’ve gone home when he had the chance, but he refuses to skip out early, leaving his team short staffed. (even if he’s more of liability at the moment than an asset)

Plus he’s already made too many mistakes today, leaving early would not show in his favour, especially to his bosses.

And honestly, he needs the money.

So to him, this was the only choice, and he sets back to work, Norah discreetly checking the orders before delivering them and counting down the minutes until the next manager arrives and she can push him out the doors.

When 8:00 comes, she turns toward him to tell him to leave, only to find he’s not there. Shrugging, she assumes he grabbed his stuff and slipped out the back way.

Unfortunately, Rowyn did not slip out the back way. He did, however, slip away to the bathroom, once again locking the door and this time sliding right onto the floor. He leans over the toilet with a sickening burp, lurching forward as his body jolts.

He pushed his body for too long, swallowing back burps, holding back little heaves, and he can’t do it anymore.

His mouth is so sticky, his stomach is full and tight despite not having eaten in hours, and it rumbles ominously. He shivers, sweat starting to drip down his back as he leans fully over the toilet, barely remembering to pull down the mask off his face.

A burp echoes through the bathroom, and he groans, just wanting it to be over already.

Finally, he feels it, like a switch is flipped. The empty burps rumbling up from his stomach start to catch in his throat, and finally his stomach flips and caves inward pushing up a splash of mostly water.

The heaves keep coming now, spilling liquid, mostly clear, but so bitter, into the toilet. The nausea surges, and the vomit just keeps coming.

His mouth burns with the taste of pure stomach acid, as more sour liquid pushes past his lips, catching in his nose and causing him to splutter forward with a cough.

Leaning against the toilet, he trembles, gasping through a final heave, vomit still surging into the toilet, now tinged green with bile.

He spits into the toilet, fumbling for the handle to flush, and he clumsily swipes his face.

His brain drifts away from him for a moment, and by the time he finds his body again, he realizes he has no idea how long he’s been sitting there, only that his headache is somehow worse, and he feels absolutely awful, and he just wants to go home.

Sitting up on his knees, it takes almost all his energy to stand up, wavering on his feet, until he manages to find his footing. He struggles through washing his hands, because even devastatingly ill, he has enough common sense to realize the bathroom is not sanitary.

He wobbles down the hallway, hand against the wall to make sure he’s walking at least somewhat straight. He returns to a much calmer darkening café. Without thinking about it, he glances at the next order and grabs a cup starting to fill it up.

He’s startled when Norah, standing directly behind him, exclaims “Rowyn!” and he spins around. He nearly loses his balance, head spinning even after his body has stopped, and he must have dropped the drink because it’s not in his hand when he finally refocuses except maybe that’s it on the counter there? Did he put that there? He shakes his head, regretting it when it sets the world twirling again. Norah’s hands on his arms help ground him and stop the movement.

“-owyn”

“Hmm,” he mutters, trying to kickstart his brain into action.

“What are you doing?” she asks incredulously, looking at him like he has two heads. Now that he thinks of it, she has two heads, fuck his head is really spinning.

“Workin’,” he mutters, tongue feeling heavy.

“Dude, your shift finished ages ago? Didn’t you see Michael walk past you? I thought you’d left already.”

The door chimes open, but neither of them look over, Rowyn because he feels like he could collapse from relief. Or honestly, just collapse in general.

From behind him he hears another voice, and this time, it’s the voice he’s been craving for hours.

“Rowyn! Hey I’m so sorry, I know I said I’d pick you up, and I tried to be on time, but I went to the wrong pla- Whoa, what’s wrong?” Colin changes mid sentence as Rowyn turns and he actually looks at his boyfriend.

Rowyn stumbles around the counter, bumping into the corner and almost sending himself to the ground, but Colin reaches for him, steadying him and bringing him into a hug.

His overheated head finds Colin’s shoulders, and he drops his shoulders, relaxing into the hold and almost falling asleep on his feet.

“Wh- What happened?! Wh- I don’t- Why are you… You know what, never mind.”

Rowyn feels the shift as Colin starts to pull away from the hug, and he whines gently. Now that he’s done work, and Colin’s there, he wants nothing more than to give in to his body.

Except, a small voice whispers in his mind, reminding him he’s still in his place of work, and despite everything in him wanting to remain against Colin, common sense wins out again, and he forces himself to stand a little straighter, pulling back just enough that it looks like he’s standing on his own, rather than leaning almost all his weight on Colin.

He peels his eyes open, focusing on Colin, who looks worried. Why does he look worried? And who is he talking to? Rowyn slowly turns, once again feeling as though he’s moving through molasses, and realizes Colin’s talking to Norah. She also looks worried. Huh.

“-ell him to go home hours ago… adamant on staying… -ought he’d already left.”

Colin answers her but Rowyn forgets to listen, and then Colin’s attention is on him, his big brown eyes filled with concern.

“Where’s your stuff?” he asks quietly, voice rumbling through his chest.

“‘n the backk,” Rowyn mumbles back.

“Okay. Then just sit here,” he instructs, pushing Rowyn into a chair, “and just wait, like, two minutes.”

Just then, a small crowd comes into the café, laughing and chatting, and Norah turns her attention to them. Michael comes out of the kitchen to help make the drinks, and Rowyn drops his head forward to the table, helping drown out the increase in noise.

---

Colin rushes into the café, expecting Rowyn to be annoyed, and probably glaring at something. He was supposed to pick him up almost an hour ago, but he accidentally went to the university library first, and wandered around looking for Rowyn until he realized he was working and finally made it to the café.

He did not expect Rowyn to be looking half dead and pale as a ghost, still standing behind the café counter.

Colin pulls him into a hug, and he’s shocked by how weak he seems, melting right against him.

He has so many questions. The first aider in him wants to know all the information, but instead he turns to the short blonde lady behind the counter.

“He seemed fine when he got here,” she shrugs, “I tried to tell him to go home hours ago, but he was adamant on staying. I thought he’s already left, but he came out of the bathroom a few minutes ago, looking like that.” 

“Shit. Okay, thanks.” He turns to Rowyn, concerned, but Rowyn just looks at him with dazed green eyes and flushed cheeks.

He sets Rowyn on a chair, and goes to find his stuff, collecting his jacket, his bag, and after a minute of searching, finds his phone tucked in a cubby. Glancing at the phone, he sees all the messages he’d sent throughout the day, still sitting on the lock screen, unread.

He frowns, returning to the front of the cafe, but he softens when he sees Rowyn slumped pitifully against the table.

He slides into the chair next to him, wrapping an arm around him.

“How’re you doing?” he asks gently, “Ready to go home?”

Rowyn nods, and Colin, relieved, stands and pulls him up, leading him to the car.

On the way home, he glances over at Rowyn, surprised to find him awake, and more alert than he’s seen from him so far.

When they stop at a red light, he turns to him enough to see his glare and his arms wrapped around his middle.

“Babe? You okay?”

Rowyn looks over at him and shakes his head, eyes teary. “Think y-you should p’ll over,” he murmurs, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Shit, okay, okay,” the light turns green, and he has no choice but to cross the intersection and drive until there’s a shoulder to pull over on. He pulls to a stop and turns back to his boyfriend, who hasn’t moved, sitting stalk-still, with a hand hovering in front of his mouth, body lurching with a small gag.

Colin sighs gently, getting out of the car, and crossing to the other side, opening Rowyn’s door, and reaching over to unbuckle him.

“You’re okay,” he comforts, dragging his feet out of the car. His torso follows, and Colin hurries to brace him, and stop him from tumbling out the door.

He heaves again, body straining against Colin’s arm. He jumps forward with another gag, producing a splash of bile.

“Hey, I think you’re empt-” he starts, but then Rowyn heaves up a large splatter of something more solid that lands on the gravel with a sickening splat, “Or not, never mind. I’ve got you, just get it up.”

Rowyn gags weakly for another minute, still leaning out of the car, and vomiting up whatever was left in his stomach from this morning.

When he finally stops lurching forward, he remains slumped against Colin’s arm, head hanging over the puddle of vomit. “Ughh,” he groans weakly. “I f-feel awwfulll,” he slurs, fully leaning into Colin.

Colin lifts his face, thumb stroking his cheek, saying whatever comes to mind, trying to comfort him.

He looks so sick and miserable.

He shoves Rowyn’s legs back inside in the car, and gently sets him back against the seat. He fishes around in the glove compartment, hoping there’s still some napkins in there from the last time he got takeout. He finds a cheap paper napkin, and pulls it out victoriously, taking Rowyn’s face in his hand again, and gently wiping the drool and vomit from his mouth.

He kisses his forehead, wincing at the heat, and whispers something reassuring into his hair, that he probably didn’t even hear, but it makes Colin feel better to be doing something.

He runs back around to the driver’s side and finally finishes the drive.

[bellysoupset]

Storm Reforming

Isaiah’s still sick, Rip’s unraveling, and Kieran’s learning way more than he bargained for. Dual POV (Kieran & Isaiah). Rain‑soaked angst, snark and extra comfort included.

The worst thing about this already shitty night was that Kieran’s efforts showed zero progress.

Every time he thought Isaiah finally fell asleep, the wolf would groan and shift on the couch, shiver, or make a face, revealing he wasn't sleeping at all.

When Isaiah muffled another breathy burp under his nose, Kieran was the one getting frantic at how not better this was.

"You still feeling sick?"

Isaiah cracked one green eye open at him, hugging himself with his arms.

"Cold? You're under two blankets, man." Kieran reached over, rubbing Isaiah's upper arm up and down. From this close, he could see the goosebumps covering the wolf's neck.

Isaiah tucked his chin, looking down. "You can go home now. I'm fine on my own."

"Yeah, sure." His brows furrowed into a deep frown. "No way I'm doing that, so stop asking."

Kieran didn't think the wolf actually wanted him gone, cause he wasn't growling or flinching at his touch. If anything, Isaiah seemed to melt into it while suppressing quiet, relieved sighs.

This guy could barely ask for water, let alone company. Leaving him alone in this state and time felt like a crime.

Isaiah winced so suddenly under his palm that it broke Kieran's chain of thought, burying his head into the backrest of the sofa.

The lights above them flickered to light, a bit uneasily but still.

"Yay, power's on." Maybe Kieran would start to believe not everything was against them tonight.

"Kier-"

"No, fuck that. You ask that one more time, and I'm spilling cold water on you."

That actually made Isaiah chuckle lightly, lips flexing into a tiny, exhausted smile. Fighting the gravity.

"You don't like people helping?" Kieran asked matter-of-factly, looking around the room in the new light. The rain was still on, but it turned into a drizzle instead of firing bullets.

"I don't like dragging them down."

Kieran pointed his finger at Isaiah's chest. "Hopeless idiot. Remind me to never listen to you."

Another faint chuckle that turned into a cough midway through...and then into an empty retch.

Kieran helped Isaiah turn over on the couch over the mixing bowl he located with the help of his phone light.

Nothing came up but a few splashes of bile, though Isaiah's body was rather determined to make him dry-heave over and over, whole frame spasming under Kieran's hands.

"I’ll give you this," Kieran said, holding Isaiah's arm for balance while rubbing his back, "you don't do anything halfway. Must have been a nerd in school, right?"

Another little flicker of Isaiah's mouth. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, sagging forward. Kieran was very proud for the strength and reflexes it took to lift the wolf up again.

Whatever. Every twitch of the cheek, a feeling smile or eyes focusing on him were a hard-won victory.

He wrapped Isaiah back in the two blankets, while the wolf hugged himself close and curled up against the backrest again.

"I'll turn up the heat," Kieran offered, shrugging off his own jacket. Now that the power was back, heat pooled in his collar. Nonetheless, he got up to find the heating system, putting the degrees up.

When he flopped down on the end of the L couch next to Isaiah, he offered him water, but the wolf turned away as if it smelled bad.

"Light on or off?" Kieran asked.

"I would rather-"

"Off it is. You need sleep," Kieran decided, getting up just as briskly to switch it off. At least there were electrical noises coming from the kitchen, reminded them the power was finally working.

"Don't think I can."

"Keep trying. Your defeatist attitude is pissing me off."

Another dry chuckled that sounded like someone was choking and not laughing.

Kieran settled back by Isaiah's feet in the corner of the L, reeling a bit from the sudden changes in light. Of course, Isaiah didn't even blink at that.

But he was responding a lot more coherently, so Kieran was doing a good job.

They waited in silence for a while, Kieran fighting off a wave of sleep that came with the regular sound of rain.

"Did you see how...how she looked at me?"

Kieran shook himself awake. That was the first time Isaiah said something on his own. "Who?"

"Seline. She...I don't know how to describe it. She was so...disgusted."

"Nah, no way, man. She was shocked and scared maybe, but she wasn't anything like that. She was just processing."

"She and Dylan should leave. They are not prepared...for any of this."

Kieran threw him a dirty look. "You're gonna need them, so quit that."

"It's not part of the deal. I promised them normal lives. Now I broke that promise."

"Well, that's your own damn fault. How could an Executioner offer something like that? The only reason they are struggling right now is that you have kept them in the dark for so long."

Isaiah's gaze slowly turned to him.

"Yep, you heard that right. Seline doesn't know how to sense you out, Dylan sucks at tracking and ended up at Hector's place, when he couldn't find Rip...why would you keep them so helpless? If you wanted them safe and feeling safe, you should have taught them how to use what they have."

A long beat of silence that was a lot less relaxed.

"Seriously," Kieran continued. "You don't train a surgeon on a heart operation. You start with a frog first. Ever heard of that?"

"Don't-don't kick me when I'm down," Isaiah said. He was smiling like someone who was just sentenced to death but didn't want to cry in front of the tribunal.

Kieran felt a stab of guilt. "Alright. Just this once, since you look so pathetic already."

Cause there was a bunch of things that needed to change around here if they were to overcome this crisis. One problem at a time though. Dominick always called Kieran impatient.

Damn, but it was getting hot in the room. Kieran tugged at his collar, tempted to ditch the shirt, but he didn't want to alarm the wolf with something "inappropriate". Isaiah seemed like the stuck-up kind of guy to care about such shit.

The warmth wasn't helping with the sleepy heaviness either. He should move around a bit.

Quietly as he could, Kieran slid off the couch towards the balcony door, opening it just enough to stick his head out. The air outside was blissfully cold and fresh, chasing some of the sleep away.

Kieran sighed in relief, scanning the wide balcony. Was it because it was the roof apartment that it was this long? It was like it's own room-

That's when he noticed the boy leaning against the door from the outside. Short black hair, dripping with water, arms hugging his knees to his chest.

"Rip?" Kieran said in surprise.

The small wolf looked up, blue eyes glinting in the dark like a cat's.

"What are you doing here?"

A beat of silence as if the kid considered if to bother with a reply or not. "...wanted to check if Isaiah was home." It came out quiet, reluctant, almost defensive. Like he was expected to be chased away.

Kieran rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, but why didn't you just come inside?"

"...didn't want to intrude."

Right. Kieran barely suppressed an eye roll. What else could you expect from Isaiah's apprentice? With that martyrdom complex, the guy shouldn't be allowed to teach.

"Don't be stupid. Isaiah was worried about you. He'll be glad to see you." Kieran pushed the door wide open. Then again, he wasn't sure if seeing Isaiah in this state or Isaiah being seen was such a great idea. But he couldn't just leave the kid on the balcony like a soaked rat.

Rip only got to his feet when Kieran stepped back into the room, making the only human realize than posture, proximity and touch were going to be important with this pup.

While Kieran could mostly forget it around Isaiah, who was too well-trained and maintained to react to breaches in wolf protocol or basic instincts, Rip moved so he always kept Kieran in at least 2 meters distance.

In reaction, Kieran put the couch between himself and the kid, not wanting to add to his distress. Rip already held himself tense as a string, his feet ghosting over the floorboards softer than the rain’s hush.

Rip took in the room, quick lightning washing his back in white. A quiet hiss, when he noticed Isaiah and then looked at Kieran.

The stuntman made his way towards the wall, literally backed up against it to let Rip feel in control.

With his mentor down for the count like that it was important Rip wouldn't find Kieran's presence a threat.

Then Rip turned to Isaiah, letting out an entirely unexpected sound.

A tiny sob.

Kieran felt as stunned as Isaiah looked. Tiredness suddenly gone, Isaiah lifted himself up to sit, throwing the blankets he was shivering under just 10 seconds ago away like they annoyed him.

"Hey, hey, hey, what's wrong, buddy? You're all wet, come sit down."

Not minding that Rip was drenched in water, as if he had gone swimming with his clothes on, Isaiah pulled him to sit beside him, arm around his shoulders.

"Did something happen? Are you hurt?"

Rip shook his head vigorously. "I'm fine- I'm sorry, sir, I don't-"

"Shhhh," Isaiah soothed, though Kieran could see from his angle that the older wolf was palming around, searching for injuries. "Everything's fine. I was worried you ran into trouble. It's risky to be outside right now."

"Sorry-"

"Don't leave my side again, okay?" Isaiah looked back at Kieran, something intense in his eyes that had Kieran feeling almost commanded to move like he was summoned.

Then he realized it was more of a plea for a towel.

Keeping his hands close to his sides and hands still open, moving painfully slowly, he took the first towel he found in the bathroom and brought it back to Isaiah.

The wolf snatched it from you hands, his own movements brisk and energetic, leaving Kieran to step back into the kitchen.

It was kinda mind-blowing. Isaiah seemed so fragile and tired just a minute ago. Out of it, too restless to sleep, too sick to rest.

Now he was back to himself, power and confidence in his posture like pain was just something to shrug off, like exhaustion could be defeated by the power of will.

Like nothing in the world could possibly keep him from caring about his pup.

Since the moment he had found Isaiah on that bridge, teetering on the edge, Kieran wondered if Isaiah really was the killer Executioner everyone always called him. If he had what was required for the job, even.

He seemed too soft for what was necessary to do.

Looking at him now, lightening flashing in his eyes, the whole room charged with protective anger, Kieran changed his mind.

Isaiah might have been soft, but it was his greatest source of strength.

...

Isaiah was hurting.

Every inch of him throbbed, yet the worst of it lived in his shadow.

Surprisingly—or not so—fighting a witch felt unnatural, like ramming a silver spike through his own spine. It felt wrong, like he was going against nature. His shadow was burning from the inside out, even when it was drawn out of sight.

He figured the rest—the fever like chills, the sourness and the ache in every bone—was only exhaustion. Shock and horror at what he had done, guilt at how much trouble he caused—and still would.

And the hollow shock of having erased a heartbeat.

He had killed before, of course. More than his fair share. Yet it didn't make it easier to take, especially after so long. Every time he did, something slick and empty split open inside his chest, as if one more breath might scatter him like ash.

Father always insisted killing was a wolf’s duty, a clean fact of nature, but Isaiah had spent years clawing toward anything gentler: talk before teeth, calm before claws. He had believed that restraint made him better than the other wolves.

He had thought himself so special. Like he was above killing now. If he did everything the opposite way from the other Executioners, from Levi, then father…he thought that would mean a win. That he could tear himself a piece of normalcy and civility.

Killing Margaret proved how fragile that belief was.

It was a failure on every front—of principle, of protection, of promise. He should have shielded the people under his care from madness, not handed them a bloody example of it. The thought yawned like a dark pool at his feet, tempting him to fall in.

Then Rip arrived, and sinking stopped being an option.

The pup had refused to leave, even drenched and shaking. Isaiah’s strength flickered with Rip’s presence but could not banish the dizzy waves or the see‑saw nausea. Whether it was the shadow’s constant keening, two days without food, or sheer weary grief, standing felt Herculean.

But he would not let Rip see him crumble.

Now the boy lay warm and dry against Isaiah’s side, cheeks flushed from a shower Kieran insisted on. Isaiah hooked an arm around him, a protective knot tightening in his chest. No wolf—or human—would suffer because Isaiah had done what duty demanded.

That resolve struck like ice, quenching the inner blaze and channeling the pain into something steady, a slow river under frozen glass.

Rip’s heartbeat thundered in Isaiah’s ears; his shadow was creased, as if badly folded. Isaiah reclined, vision blurring when he tried to sit straighter, but he kept the comforting weight of his arm in place. Close breath and shared pulse were balm for a frayed shadow.

Rip melted closer with a tremor. Isaiah ruffled the damp hair that still smelled faintly of rain and soap. Up close the twenty‑year‑old seemed impossibly young.

"Deep breaths," Isaiah whispered, thumb drawing lazy circles on the boy’s shoulder. "Stay near me. Your shadow will settle."

Rip’s face pressed into Isaiah’s collar, voice muffled. "But what about you? Your—" He touched his own sternum, indicating Isaiah's heart.

“That isn’t hurting right now,” Isaiah answered, softer still. Only when my shadow refuses the pain does my heart feel it, he thought, and tonight his shadow was taking more than its share.

"Then what-"

"It's fine," Isaiah shushed him. "This is helping me too. Just a bit of rest and I'll be alright." He wasn't lying, if stretching the truth a little.

The pool was still dangerously close, still deep, still...tempting. But he wasn't going to let himself sink.

[bellysoupset]

Sugar, we're going down - Relapse IV

This one is the penultimate instalment of the Wendy Relapse arc. Here's a list of the triggers:

Briefly mentioned in the past: suicide attempt, drug overdose. | Mentioned in the past but not prevalent: transphobia. | Mentioned, but not graphic: bulimia, purging.

As always, I'll post a tl/dr of what happened in this fic for those who are not able to read it!

A huge shoutout to @tummyachesandchocolatecakes for all the counseling with Wen's ED!

--------------

Relapse was a funny thing.

For ten years, Wendy had battled against this dark desire to punish herself for not measuring up to her imagination.

During the first two years, bulimia had been her constant companion.

She had been fresh out of the hospital — stomach pumped, mind still fuzzy from the amount of drugs she had taken and the ins and outs of the place. Her parents had insisted she went home as soon as the doctor gave in to their relentless pestering, Wendy's father in his usual state of sullenness and her mother downright hysterical as she flip flopped between concern and annoyance at what their family and friends would think of a suicide attempt. A suicide attempt at sixteen!

Once she was reinstated home, Wendy had foolishly thought things would've been easier. For once, her parents were using the correct pronouns, although they slipped up more often than not and then seemed annoyed at her when correcting themselves. Nevertheless, they called her Wendy. W-E-N-D-Y, five letters and a name she had been happily giving out to her friends for the past year, resonating much like a gunshot when she first heard it out of her father's lips.

Crisped mouth, spelling it out slowly and then sighing, "at least you kept your initials," as he comforted himself in the small concession, "doesn't feel right."

She couldn't have agreed, heart hammering away in her chest as she sat in the big king sized bed in the middle of her bedroom, the piles of unopened gifts still sitting at her desk, as she hadn't gotten to it on her birthday night, too busy sneaking the pills out of her mother's medicine cabinet, the alcohol from the party that had already ended.

"I'd have liked if you picked something more in fashion with your real- With what I would have picked," Lydia had been pressed to the closet door, keeping her distance, arms crossed and wearing a perfectly ironed peachy suit, "Whitney used to be my pick before we found- Before."

Wendy had wrinkled her nose, rolled her eyes, "ironic and grim, mother," she hadn't been able to help the jab, as she was reminded of how the most famous Whitney anyone knew had died. In a bathtub and in February, no less. Too many coincidences not to cause her to snort and Lydia to flinch, her cheeks turning pink.

Simon had been sitting at the foot of Wendy's bed and for the first time in God knows how long, Wen had seen him open a little amused smile at the dark comment.

"I suppose Wendy it is," he declared, as if she would've taken any of their inputs into account.

For the next two months, she had been so euphoric over the newfound freedom of being accepted, however poorly, that everything had been buried under it. She had foolishly convinced herself that no depression could touch her as she was in cloud nine and that if her appetite wasn't back just yet, then good. She had had her stomach pumped after all, maybe those were just side effects, and hopefully a permanent one so she'd never again have to think about diets and jeans sizes-

It didn't work that way.

When Wendy had found herself, again, curled up on the bathroom floor of her suite and with her knuckles bleeding as they chaffed against her teeth, the skin weakened by the stomach acid, she had wept so hard that felt like a toddler.

Face swollen and a splintering headache, drool and vomit clinging to her chin as she buried her face in her arms and sobbed over the fact that things weren't magically fixed, that she wasn't magically fixed.

Admitting to it, that maybe her issues went beyond her parents lack of support of her identity, that perhaps her insecurities and short comings ran deeper than she had ever thought, was the hardest feat of all.

Until the day she died, Wendy would remember the disappointed look in her mother's face as she told them over dinner that she needed help... A wrinkle between her green eyes, exactly the same as Wendy's, that frustrated sigh at Wen's weakness and the manner she had dejectedly pushed away from the table and scoffed, "why aren't you happy? What else can we do to make you happy, aren't we doing enough?"

Certain words echoed through time, ghost whisperings that lasted from teenage years well into adulthood.

At twenty six, Wendy thought all of that was behind her. She had never felt better in her own skin, she had built a life to herself that she not just endured, but enjoyed. A career she felt accomplished in, the jolt of satisfaction at another crisis well managed enough to keep her going for hours. Friends, whom she didn't need to hide from, who found her quirkiness endearing rather than annoying. A boyfriend, who seemed so perfect Wendy sometimes wondered if she had made him up, from personality to looks to intellect, Vince seemed like he was a wish she had made upon a star.

Or a genie. A monkey's paw.

Why aren't you happy, aren't we doing enough?

Her new life seemed so utterly perfect, Wendy caught herself wondering where exactly did she fit in it. Reality and fantasy clashing, the woman she was not measuring up to the woman she wished she was.

She wished she had more time, in order to better distribute it between the hospital, her boyfriend, her friends, her hobbies. There were only twenty four hours in a day and she had to make concessions, cut things as she opened up space in her life to integrate Vince fully in it.

The hobbies had gone first. Probably for the best, Vince and everyone else had voiced their displeasure at the sheer amount of things she roped herself with, Bella bluntly telling her that she needed more hours to eat and sleep or she'd collapse.

Wendy was self aware enough to admit that she had overworked herself, filled her calendar a little too much, not only because she had the availability, but because it helped her not feel so- So lonely, when Vince was far away living a life she had thought would only culminate in their relationship crumbling and her heart exploding in a bunch of little pieces.

Part of her had been so certain of their tragic outcome, that she had been all too happy to let harder conversations slip them by. She had thought they already had a scheduled conflict in their horizon, why bother to bring up all the other obstacles that she could map out?

It was an extremely practical view of the world and Wendy knew others would have raised their eyebrows at it, nothing like the sweetness she projected or the bubbly attitude she tried to maintain. Jonah would've been aghast, the romantic that he was, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

Wendy had already defended herself inside of her own head. She didn't think that thinking their romance was doomed made her love Vince any less, on the contrary. She had been so sure of the heartbreak to come, but still she hadn't been able to turn away, clinging to the hope she felt when they were together. Those flashes of the future, that certainty that he seemed to sport on them, she had been willing to go through the heartbreak if only to bask in his love for a little longer.

When he hadn't chosen Doveport and instead chosen her, Wendy's didn't know what to do with herself. Relish, of course, enjoy every little new tidbit of intimacy that they now shared. How Vince's hair looked every morning and how he liked his coffee — more sugar than coffee, although he always put all the disgusting sweeteners in his own mug, so she could have the black coffee intact.

She loved hearing him hum in the kitchen as he prepared them dinner, or how he flinched as she pressed her cold hands and feet to him in bed and she loved the fact Vince craved sunlight like a fat housecat or a plant, how his mood always seemed to tank as dark clouds littered the sky.

What she didn't love was how odd she felt in this new order of things. How she felt awkward in her own home, always wanting to play the perfect girlfriend as if they were forever stuck in those early days courtship stage. How she sucked in her stomach whenever Vince wrapped his arms around her or how she couldn't say not to all the million little pastries he cooked up and how the bathroom scale hadn't realized she was living in a romcom and was instead daring to go up in digits.

She didn't like the paranoia that followed, or most importantly, the shame, as her thoughts spiraled and Wendy lied awake in bed listening to Vin's soft snores for countless nights. Once the paranoia and insecurity were reinstated, it had all come crashing down at an alarming speed.

A decade of managing, eight years since she had last stepped foot in the nutritionist's office, eight years since her therapist had given her a go-ahead and told her she no longer needed direct aid, unraveling in front of her eyes at a mind bogging speed.

Why aren't you happy, aren't we doing enough?

Bad timing, Wendy had first thought. Jonah's wedding was the event of the year, she was the maid of honor, her boyfriend had moved in with her... Too many changes, too many demands. Breaking down at the parking lot after trying on bridesmaid dresses had been nothing but the culmination of bad timing.

Her avoiding food was only her avoiding another breaking down from happening. She knew her own triggers, all she wanted was to avoid things from getting worse — So she didn't eat. Not in front of people, specially not in front of Vince or Jonah or Bella or Luke or Leo or Max or Barbie or anyone who was close enough to really pay attention to whatever was on her plate.

Everyone would have been thankful if they knew she was only trying to make the best out of the situation. She just didn't want to be an inconvenience.

That night, after dining at Bell's, when she had first purged, Wendy had thought: a hiccup.

A horrible, nerve wrecking hiccup in her decade long remission, but just a fucking hiccup. Nothing she couldn't come back from, just that one single time.

A hiccup, that turned into two. Three. A habit, a demand.

It hit her, as the stomach flu had wracked their little apartment, plastering both Vince and Max onto their backs, that the little hiccup had turned into so much more than that. A need, something she couldn't avoid even as they had a guest, even as her boyfriend was burning up and the possibility of Max catching her was almost a certainty.

She couldn't call that a hiccup anymore. It was a relapse.

Wendy had promised herself nothing would tarnish Jonah's day. It was her role as a maid of honor, after all, to make sure things ran smoothly, that no guest got too drunk and caused a scene, that no offending comment made it to Jon or Leo's ears, that they were having the time of their lives. It was her obligation, then, to leave her crisis back in the apartment and pretend, as best as she had ever pretended.

It would've been hard enough to pretend she wasn't falling apart, if she hadn't opened her big mouth and brought up the children's subject when Vince got a little too close to comfort to finding out something was wrong.

Vin might be a little oblivious and he extended her far too much grace than she, or anyone, deserved, but he wasn't daft. Of course he had realized something was off, from her flinching to her zoning out, to her odd absence during meals. Even if he couldn't puzzle together an eating disorder, he definitely could arrive at the conclusion that something was wrong.

Children were a low hanging fruit in the tree of conflicts. It had been a tense topic for Jonah and Leo just recently, the fact it would be an obstacle in hers and Vin's relationship wasn't amiss to Wendy, although it was hardly to blame for her behavior, so Vince had fully bought it-

And now things were weird.

In her frenzy to keep Vince from realizing what was truly wrong, she had delivered that killing blow — I don't want children, I won't ever want children — with no subtlety, no care for his feelings. By the time Wendy had realized just what she had done, the damage was done and they were on the road, to the party where she was expected to pretend everything was fine, now doubly so.

Through all of the rehearsal, her thoughts kept spiraling, all of her energy dedicated to keeping a smile on. Bella noticed, because of course she did, but Wendy had been able to get her to drop it.

Jonah glanced her ways a couple times, brows meeting in a weird confused manner, the question — are you alright? What happened? — on the tip of his tongue, but it was as if he knew that it was a pandora's box that he didn't want to open on the eve of his wedding day. He never asked her and Wendy carefully avoided his gaze, much like Vince was avoiding hers.

Halfway through dinner she had come up with a half assed excuse about the hospital calling her, in order to slip out. It was too much. Vince painfully ignoring her, trying to keep a happy smile on, Bella's eyes searching hers, all that damn food-

Her stomach had been empty, painfully so, but that hadn't stopped her knees from nearly bruising against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor as she brought up just stomach acid and sobbed into her arms.

By the time Vince came back to the bedroom, giggling and singing as he said goodbye to Angelina at the door, apparently having befriended Jonah's baby sister through the dinner, Wendy had turned off all the lights and curled up under the blankets, staying as still as she possibly could.

Hopefully he'd think she was sleeping, the last thing she wanted was for them to get in a fight so late that night or for her to be on the receiving end of his too honest answers when he was a little sloshed.

Vince let out a sigh as soon as he shut the door, the giggles dying immediately. He had been faking it, they were a match made in heaven. Two idiots.

Quietly he moved around and Wendy squeezed her eyes shut, even if she had her back turned, as the bathroom lights turned on. She held her breath, heart racing, mind scrambling as she wondered if she had somehow left evidence behind. Her stomach clenched, squeezing with hunger.

Vince took forever to step out, but when he slipped under the covers she could smell the minty toothpaste. The guest room was too fancy, the bed was king sized and Wendy felt like there was an ocean keeping them apart. She forced out a breath, her back still turned to him.

He rolled on the bed, tugging on the sheets and pulling her closer to him, so Wen took a breath and coaxed some bravery she didn't feel, as she turned to face him. The room was pitch dark, not even the moonlight making past the blackout curtains drawn, so she couldn't see his face at all, which was a good thing.

Wen opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to come up with something to say. She couldn't apologize, because what was there to ask his forgiveness for? Different perspectives? Her less than stellar delivery of the crude facts?

No amount of apologizing could change the fact that they wanted different things, no matter how much she desperately wanted to.

Vince's lips pressed to the top of her head, his arms wrapping around her as he pressed her close and Wendy closed her eyes, trying to ignore the burning behind them or the way Vin's breath hitched several times until she fell asleep, as if he was trying to choke down emotion.

-------------

Jonah was in the best mood Wendy had ever seen him in. She had foolishly thought he'd be having a nervous fit, but instead he was all relaxed, taking pictures with her and Angie and chuckling as they helped him get dressed.

Wendy's stomach let out a growl and her cheeks caught on fire, but luckily none of the Banks siblings seemed to have noticed.

"Jonah Isaac Wagner-Banks," Wendy enunciated, as she sat down next to Jon, filling up a glass with lemon juice and clinking it against her friend's, "you sound like a lord."

Jonah grinned, his smile so wide that Wendy wondered if his cheek muscles were hurting, "I do, don't I? Knighted for my contribution to medicine and eating ass skills."

Wendy choked on the liquid, while Angie let out a long suffering "Eeeww! I'm in the room, Jonah!"

Wen exchanged an amused glare with Jon, wiping the juice off her chin while giggling, "well, either way it has an amazing ring to it."

"So does Wendy Marshall Monacelli," Jon had bowed his head in her direction and caused her to roll her eyes. She could tell he was trying to get a rise out of her, so Wendy exaggerated her reaction by letting out a gasp, as if the thought had never occurred her before. It had, many times. She wouldn't change her name, Wendy Marshall meant too much to her, held too many memories for her to change it.

"Wow," Wendy scoffed, pulling back as she played it all up, trying to ignore the sting she felt at the prospect she might never be Wendy Marshall Monacelli "playing matchmaker so soon in the evening? Leo did mention you're trying to pair Claire up, but leave me out of your schemes."

"You don't think Claire and Max would make a lovely pair?" Jonah questioned, leaning back on the armchair he was occupying, crossing his ankles as Angie walked over and bent down so he could close her necklace.

Wendy tried to ignore the weird way her head spun, as if she had gotten up too fast.

Max? He wanted to pair Max up with Claire?

Max, who was head over heels in love with Vince, who was antisocial on his best days, whose politeness and manners slipped at the smallest inconvenience, who was caring and fiercely loyal, whose laughter was becoming one of her favorite sounds. That Max?

She felt queasy.

"Who's Max?" Angie asked, perching her elbow on Jonah's knee, trying to join in the conversation.

"Vince's friend," Jon cleared up, smiling in a paternalistic manner at his sister, "Leo's integrat-"

"He's my friend too," Wendy interrupted Jonah sharply and her best friend's brows jumped up, Angie letting out a nervous chuckle.

"Awkward," she giggled, standing up as there was a knock on the door and she rushed up, telling Luke to come in.

Wendy hadn't anticipated how weird it would feel to walk down the aisle arm in arm with Vince. Even if they hadn't been on shaky grounds, she couldn't imagine it would've felt any weirder.

As a little kid, playing house had been her favorite activity. Her parents had kept her from anything they deemed feminine, so dolls were not in the picture, although her action-figures had reenacted the weirdest, controversial plots. By the time she had turned 13, when dating and romance started to become a reality as puberty hit, Wendy had already been keenly aware she was different and that those formative experiences wouldn't come in the usual packages.

Romance had been performative, not quite her role in it, but how it reassured her of her essence. Kissing preppy boys who kept her as a little secret made her feel dirty and Wendy had quickly catapulted into a more "mature" dating scene, freshmen college students acting as if it was perfectly normal to be with a sixteen year old and calling her "too grown up for her age".

With Vince it had been different. She had never felt more loved, more desired than when she was with him, more entertained and amused. It wasn't just what she got, but how she felt in return, a strong feeling that seemed to capture her heart and make her head spin, this insane desire to help him, make him happy in every way she possibly could, when she had been so used to being independent and alone.

Only with him, had she truly entertained the idea of marriage as a possibility. At one point, when he had told her in Doveport that he wanted to come back to Welton, that he choose her, it had not only been a possibility, but a likely outcome.

As relapse started to consume her thoughts, insecurities and paranoia eating at her, everything seemed to crumble.

"Wendy," Vince wrapped her up in his arms just as she got down the stairs, the steps giving her enough height they were eye to eye for once, "honey-"

Normally, Vin was very articulate, but it had been out of the window from the minute she delivered that killing blow. Instead all he could do was hug her close, pull her at arms length for a second as he took her in, a smile threatening to pull up his lips.

It made her eyes burn, face prickle, and Wendy shook her head, squeezing his hands in hers, "don't," she mumbled, trying to communicate now was not the time. It was Jon and Leo's time, not theirs.

Vince knew that, so he nodded and pressed a kiss to her brow, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and keeping her close as they waited for their cue to go down the aisle.

Everything was sort of hazy after that, the vows, Jon and Leo kissing, staying behind with Vin to help the grooms get rid of their jacket and ties, hugging Jonah so close that Wendy felt like he knew exactly what was wrong and was trying to mend her broken heart by squeezing her.

The conservatory was a dream. Her head felt floaty, from not eating all day, and Wendy smiled and hugged the Monacellis, left her boyfriend there as she moved to hug Bella- Then her eyes paused upon Max's head, two tables away, seeming lost and nervous.

Claire was sat next to him and Jonah's previous matchmaking schemes came back to Wendy's mind, a sudden flare of jealousy causing her face to burn as she saw the blonde doctor lean towards Max with interest, eyeing him up.

Wendy marched through the salon, planted her hands on Max's shoulders, startling him. She kept her tone light, humorous, biting back her tongue as she pointed out the fact that Claire too was single, probably masking off the weird jealousy churning in her stomach as ridiculous meddling.

All the while she spoke, Wendy carefully measured Max's reaction. The way he seemed mortified by her words, almost annoyed, how he leaned back as she squeezed his arms and shook him- Good. His lack of interest in Claire satisfied a sick desire in her and Wendy pulled back just as the ceremonialist announced the Wagner-Banks' first dance.

Her body was vibrating as she pushed through the crowd to get a better view of her friends, eyes searching for Vince as suddenly she felt like she had done something awful.

Wendy wasn't blind, from the first moment she had laid eyes upon Max she had seen he was attractive, almost as clearly as she had been able to clock his attraction for her boyfriend. It was plain to see, that silly animosity that was empty of any real heat, just banters and jabs as he measured Vince up several times, eyes lingering on the other man's body, on his lips.

None of that had surprised her, only emphasized her amusement and interest on the other guy, as she easily dismissed Max's crush as just loneliness and thirst for connection. She had exchanged smiles with Vince, a quiet conversation, smugness tinting his voice as he spoke with the other man, much like he sounded when Wendy herself got hit on. That's my girlfriend, yes I know she's nice to look at. Pride.

Somewhere along the way it had ceased being just amusement, much like Max's crush had ceased being just that, judging by how involved he was, how he was doing everything in his power to stay close.

"What the fuck was that, gorgeous?" Max's voice caused Wendy's stomach to collapse, her whole body getting covered with goosebumps as the other man's lips brushed her ear, "Are you auctioning me off?"

She stiffened up, frantically looking around the room to find Vin, a way out of this situation. Did this look as compromising to others as it felt to her?

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, praying her voice didn't betray her and fry. Max didn't answer her right away and Wendy entertained the idea that he had left.

"Uh-hu," he scoffed, then his voice was back, whispering in her ear, a whole note deeper than she had ever heard before, "my type is about half a foot shorter than Claire, so you're wasting your time."

Was he implying his type was her?

Wendy's head spun, significantly more than it had so far and she shifted her weight, adjusting herself so she didn't go down at the sudden dizzy spell.

Max wasn't into her, he was into Vince. If anything, he wanted to push her out of the equation and Wendy couldn't even bring herself to be mad, because Vin looked so fucking happy around him, it made her heart squeeze.

Wendy wasn't a jealous person, much like Vince wasn't, but Max brought up a sharp pain in her heart, as if she was having a prophetic vision of the future and it didn't include her, when she so desperately wanted in. Not quite that she wanted Max gone, away from her boyfriend and their lives, but rather like she was missing something that hadn't even happened yet, locked out of a fantasy.

"Funny, because I thought it'd be about a half foot taller and wider," She whirled around to glare at Max, only for him look ridiculously surprised, as if his infatuation with Vin was a secret and not something they all knew. Then his eyes dropped to her lips and Wendy wondered if his previous jab, about her being his type, hadn't been just to rile her up. If she was reading too much into this small interaction.

"A beautiful beginning to what we know will be a beautiful journey. Let us now join the celebration. Ladies and gentlemen, the dance floor is open."

"May I?" Max asked and Wendy hesitated, but let him take her by the hand.

He wasn't a particularly good dancer, but he smelt like tangerine and leather, from his truck maybe?

Wendy ignored his shower of compliments, pressed closer as she investigated the smell. No, not from his truck, the smell was richer, more complex. Perfume. Max's hand cradled hers, thumb ghosting over her knuckles and Wendy leaned her head on his shoulder as suddenly she was overwhelmed by the thought that this should've been Vince, that it was her fault.

All the emotion she had carefully kept at bay all evening, the tears she hadn't allowed to escape even as Jonah and Leo kissed at the sunset, washed over her in one wave and caused her to gasp, suck in a sob as they spilled over.

She wanted Vince. His smile and the lavender smell and her boyfriend, the future she had dared to entertain.

Max spun her around, pulled her close and Wendy caught Vince's eye across the room. Just pulling apart as he twirled Bella in his arms, all warmth.

His curls were already messy and he smiled at her, as if all fight had left his mind, moving closer- His brows dipped as he noticed the tears, concern written clearly on his features and Wendy looked away.

"I think you stole my date," Vince's voice was firm, worried, and Max scrambled away from Wendy as if he had done something wrong, painfully missing the fact that he wasn't dating Vin, she was. She was dating Vince, breaking his heart, falling for Max, ruining everything...

"What's wrong?" Vince didn't say that, but his hand came to up cup her cheek, thumbs wiping away the tears and Wendy let out another watery sob, wrapping her hand around his wrist.

So, so much was wrong, she couldn't even begin to answer him.

Vin tilted up her chin, forced their eyes to meet and then closed the space between them before Wendy could even open her mouth to give him yet another half-assed excuse.

Just a peck, then a proper kiss, hand resting on her nape and arm wrapping around her back, pulling her off her feet. Nose brushing hers and him sucking her bottom lip, running his tongue over it and his mouth slightly to the left, so he could kiss the corner of her mouth, whisper in her ear, "I love you, I love you, I love you-"

Wendy wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him as close as she possibly could. Was this goodbye, farewell, it was good while it lasted? Or hello, I've missed you, I don't want to break up, I don't want the future I crafted for myself since I was a little boy and drafting it up at my parent's image?

Vin planted her back down, moving back just enough so he could press his mouth to her forehead and Wendy shook with yet another sob.

"No-not here," she shook her head, trying to explain that he could not break up with her in the middle of the ballroom, when Jonah and Leo were mere meters away, when this would sour everyone's celebration so intertwined their friend group was, "Vin-"

He wrapped his arms around her, guided Wendy through the crush of people and when she glanced back, past her boyfriend's shoulder, Max was gone. Vanished, as if he hadn't been just there.

Vince took her past the bathrooms in the back of ballroom, the staff entrance to the kitchens and then onto the garden. Hydrangeas bushes everywhere, a trashcan to the side of the door and an owl hooting away.

The bushes were sitting in a raised bed of bricks, the thick slabs forming a large enough space to sit and Wendy collapsed on to it, her head spinning. Not just from emotion, spinning, Vince's head becoming two as her sight blurred in and out and he crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his.

"Wen-"

She let out a shaky breath through her mouth, blinked several times to force him into focus, then nodded, putting up bravery that she didn't feel. Crisis mode, escape routes forming on the back of her mind. Luke could drive him back, she could take the car, go back home and sob through the night and Jon would be none the wiser-

"Honey," Vince pressed her knuckles to his lips, "honey, look at me."

She was looking. That ridiculous superman curl falling over his forehead and the warmth of his eyes and the way his cheeks grew pink with rosacea whenever he danced or did any exercise and how his mouth was quirking up at the corners- Smiling.

"I won't pretend it wasn't a shock," he said, slowly and carefully or maybe it was just how her brain was working, "that I wasn't frustrated and upset. I've had very little plans for my life, but children were always there. A very conventional way of thinking-"

"Vince-"

"And I won't lie that I still hope you'll change your mind," he continued on, ignoring her and Wendy recoiled, pulled her hands from his grasp. She wasn't going to lie to him, lead him on- "but if you never do, I'll still pick you."

"I won't," it wasn't charitable, or romantic like his words, but rather sharp and vehement. He needed to understand this, before he went on professing his love once again and she believed it.

Vince let out a sigh, but nodded, "then you won't-"

"I don't want you to- To resent me-"

"It's my choice to make," he cut her off, moving even closer, between her legs as much as her dress allowed him to, "you can't decide I will regret it and breakup with me, it doesn't work like that."

"I can," Wendy's chin wobbled and she clenched her fists, glaring at him, "I can breakup with you, I want you to be happy- Not half measures and compromises-"

"You make me happy," Vince scoffed, "right now, in the future, you make me happy. I like kids, Wendy, and I'd love to have them, but not with someone else-"

"And when you ch-change your mind?" She challenged, sniffling, "when you wake up ten years from now and-"

"How many times have I've proved you wrong by now, Wen?" Vince frowned at her, then opened a smile, "I love you, as much as I can possibly love someone. I love you, I need you to believe in this, like I believe in us," he let out a hopeful sigh, "can you do that?"

A sob blubbered up and Wendy nodded, grabbing Vince's shirt collar and he immediately surged up to kiss her, causing her body to tip back and for them to half in the bushes, her giggling into his mouth, "I can, yeah, I can."

The rest of her night was a hazy frenzy. Going back to the party, dancing — draining one singular glass of champagne and ending up giggly and drunk, because she hadn't eaten all day — watching as Vin and Max danced together and feeling like she could almost see herself between them, a missing puzzle piece — and then spinning and spinning and spinning.

When she woke up again, there were voices down the corridor. She was sprawled on the bed, out of her dress but still in the uncomfortable lingerie she had worn under it.

Wendy took her time stumbling to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, try to get a good look at herself. Everything felt- Weird. Cottony, like the world was faded at the edges. Her stomach squeezed with hunger.

She should've gotten dressed, they were still at the manor and the people outside her door were probably Jon's fancy guests, but instead Wendy just wrapped the maid of honor silk robe around her... What time was it? How early? When had she gone to bed?

All she could remember was spinning - Bella's face, chuckling, as her and Vin brought Wendy upstairs. Relief.

Her head throbbed as she moved out of the room. Bella was sitting on the first step of the staircase, arms crossed and a frown on, Vince and Luke were standing and they were arguing-

Voices coming from underwater.

"It looked like she was drunk!"

"Even if she was! Why'd you assume a thing like that?! How jealous can you be, Luke?!"

"Even if she was!?" Lucas exclaimed, incredulous, "Wendy nearly got assaulted at a party, you wanted me to leave drunk Sophia with some sleazy asshole-"

"What-" Wendy frowned, standing in front of Bella. The sun was so bright, Bella's complexion seemed washed out, too white, "where's Jon...? Leo...?"

"They left to the airport an hour ago," Bella rolled her eyes, not seeming one bit bothered by the screaming match, "Vince tried to wake you to say goodbye, but you sleep like the dead..."

"Uhm-"

"-A real nice person!" Vince exclaimed, Wendy's mind struggling to understand the argument. There were colorful dots around Vin's head, tiny, glittering like Christmas lights, "if you ever bothered-"

"He's been to JAIL, VINCE!" Luke was yelling now, so loud, it made Wendy frown. Her head throbbed. She felt nauseous and weak.

"OH MY GOD- Don't hurt your back reaching!? It was a one night occurrence, Lucas, Max's FINE! You're such a fucking asshole-" Vince tugged at the roots of his hair, as if he was so pissed, he wanted to rip it out. The sun was reflecting off his white shirt, so damn bright-

The colorful dots turned black. Like TV static, clouding her vision. Wendy blinked, shaking her head and heard Bella's voice coming from underwater...

"Wen?"

She took a step back, the little black dots starting to glue together like ink splotches, becoming one grand black hole in her vision. Wendy stumbled back even more and then her foot lost any support, as it met the stair's first step-

"WENDY!"

Everything went dark as she went down.

TBC

[bellysoupset]

HISBAND S🍄

HUSBANDS!!!! I love saying it 😭

[bellysoupset]

hello beautiful people of my phone, please help me answer a pondering of mine * for reference, the fic in question is a deep dive in Wen's psyche and will answer some POV questions, the "sickfic" aspect only really comes up at the end, although there's emotional whump

[bellysoupset]

i've seen a lot of people be surprised at how much of a dick Lucas was in the previous fic and all I want to say is...yeah.