lisupandowntown

[lisupandowntown]

Girls night shenanigans

2 fics in one week? Yeah it is. Getting into the rhythm of writing and prepping so I know what's coming next for the plot. Not a massive fic, but a lil plot filler.

"JAYYYYYYY, YOU LEGENDDDD" Lyla cheered as she flung open the car door and her and Hope stumbled into the back.

"Hi Lyla," Jay laughed, "hey baby. Good night then?" He asks with a smirk as Hope flopped onto the back seat with a smile on her face.

"Best night. We've made a plan" Hope said, voice slightly slurred as she leant over the back of the driver's seat and planted a kiss on his cheek. She smelt of both wine and beer.

"ALLLLLLL THE PLANS" Lyla shouted, laughing mainly to herself.

"Oh yeah? Fill me in then." Jay smiled as he drove off, heading downtown towards Lyla's apartment.

"Vacation." Hope said as Lyla nodded overenthusiastically.

"Girls vacay?" He asked with a laugh. He loved seeing how happy the two of them were.

"Nope!" Lyla said, popping the P loudly, " FRIENDS VACAY!"

"Lylaaaaaa, stop yelling." Hope said in what Jay can only assume was meant to be a whisper, "gonna make him crash.'

"Shhhh, it's fine!" Lyla shout whispered back, but continued on with less volume but equal enthusiasm. "Rental at Kingswood Lake. 3 weeks from now, Friday to Sunday. All of us!" She smiled widely at Jay, as if announcing the best news ever.

Jay smiled back, "and who is all of us? Us three?"

"Noooo, boring!" Lyla said as Hope shushed her again.

"Us, and Jessie and Kai." Hope filled in, still smiling but now laying her head against the window with tired eyes.

"And you've booked it? What if they're not free?" Jay asked. He knew Lyla was spontaneous and rarely thought things like that through when sober, let along under the influence.

"Facetimed 'em before I booked." She smirked confidently.

"And Kai was okay with that?" He asked, not thoroughly convinced that Kai would actually want to do that kind of thing. With just the girls maybe, but he still struggled with long periods of time with Jay and Jessie. Not that Jay minded, he got it and wasn't offended in the slightest that Kai's walls were like mountains that he wasn't privileged enough to climb yet.

"Yeah he seemed down for it." Hope said with a small sigh as her eyes closed.

"Aww Hope, wake up! Post night out drinks at mine!" Lyla giggled as they pulled up to her apartment complex.

"No Lyla, Hope is done." Jay said, eyeing his girlfriend in the rear view mirror. She was just about able to open her eyes and acknowledge his stance with a hum of confirmation.

"Boringgggggg" Lyla whined, but grabbed her purse and opened the door. "I jest. I love you Hopesicle. And you to Jay. Good nighttttttt," she sang as she closed the car door and practically skipped up the path to her apartment building.

After ensuring that Lyla managed to get inside the actual building, Jay turned to Hope. Her eyes were closed but he could tell by her uneven breathing and slightly pinched brows she wasn't asleep.

"Moving into the front darling?" He asked softly.

"No." She responded, voice thick with sleep and drunkeness, "comfy."

"Sure you are, you look ever so comfortable with your face smushed into the window and your hair all over your face." He snorted, but knew better than to argue with a wasted Hope so he pulled off and started the 10 minute drive to their house.

Two blocks away he heard Hope groan, followed by a burp into the back of her hand. He flicked his eyes to her reflection. She was now sitting up, eyes still closed and head lolling forward slightly, but he could see how uncharacteristically pale she'd gone.

"Please don't puke in the car darling." He said, speeding up a little to get them home.

"Not...not gonna puke." She mumbled, though her hand was still clenched into a fist over her mouth.

"Yeah okay, sure thing." Jay said with an eye roll as they rounded the corner of their street.

Hope hiccuped and burped again, more thickly this time. "I'm fine." She slurred afterwards, opening a bleary eye as the car stopped on their driveway. Jay got out of the car and opened her door, wrapping his arm around her tiny waist and helping her out. He kicked the door closed with his foot and guided Hope into the house. The whole walk Hope hiccuped, with the only other noise she made being a handful of burps.

"Come on Hope, let's get you infront of the toilet and get all that up so you can come to bed." He cooed gently as he navigated her through the house and up the stairs into their en suite.

"Not... not gonna puke." Hope reiterated, raising an unsteady hand and booping Jay on the nose.

"Yeah you are, now get your butt in their." He smirked, giving her ass a light tap as he pulled her into the room and slid them both down on the floor by the toilet.

"Naughty." Hope smirked back at him, turning so she was facing him and pulling herself up so their faces were level. She lent forward, sloppily kissing his face and finally actually finding his lips. Jay suppressed a laugh and kissed her back gently. Her hands moved to his hair and wound themselves tightly through it.

"Bruhhupp...oh 'scuse me!" Hope giggled as she burped almost directly into Jay's mouth. He pushed her away slightly, gently holding her in his arms.

"That was so fucking gross." He laughed as he ran his fingers up and down her back, coaxing up some more burps. "I'm so glad you had a good night out with Lyla."

"It was ....urpppp... great." Hope smiled slightly, eyes glassy and unfocused. She burped again, and then again. The last one was thick and tapered off with a frothy noise at the end. Jay softly pushed Hope in front if him and over the toilet bowl slightly.

"Jayyyy." She whined, hand now palming at her belly.

"I know darl." He soothed, pulling her hair up off her face with one hand, the other running up and down her back lightly. He felt as it tensed and contracted below his hand before Hope gagged hard, an impressive amount of wine and beer expelling into the toilet bowl.

"There you go baby, that's what you needed. Get it all out ya system so we can go to bed." He cooed as he continued to rub her back, mouth close to her ear as he reassured her.

She flung herself into his arms when she was done, burying her face into his collar bone and wiping her mouth on his shirt.

"Gross." She whimpered.

"Just a bit," he grimaced, "but you're done. It's all up. Shall I carry you to bed or do you wanna stumble?" He asked with a smirk.

"Don't be mean, 'm drunk" Hope mumbled into him, but he could feel the smirk against him as he picked her up bridal style and carried her to bed. He lay her down, undoing the intricate buckles of her heels and throwing them across the room. He then rolled her over onto her side, which caused her to grumble at him, and undid her dress zip. He slowly slid it off her, then worked on her bra.

"Take...me to dinner first." She mumbled sleepily, rolling onto her back and pulling him close to her face.

"Shut up and go to sleep ya drunk mess." He laughed, but met her half way, lips meeting hers with a tender peck before he rolled over onto the bed, pulling her with him and holding her close to his chest. "Sleep." He repeated, kissing the top of her head, resting his lips there until her breathing evened out into soft snore.

[lisupandowntown]

Some of my favorite scenarios -

I love private moments of sickness/caretaking between couples. At home, one not feeling well, soft caretaking, hoping things get better. And then they don't and there's the journey to the bathroom. And talking in between moments of getting sick. Intimate and loving.

I love food festivals and the accidental or on purpose overeating that happens at them, and the way the discomfort builds slowly. The sickie knows they should stop but there are so many good options to try. And they can power through for a while after they stop eating - feeling sick but not wanting to end the day for the other person or people they are with - but eventually it's too much. Maybe there is a miserable ride home, maybe they have to stop - either way.

I love a sickie at a public event revealing they don't feel well to only one person. Maybe its their partner but maybe not. The secret intimacy that is immediately created as the need to problem solve arises. Can they power through? Will people notice if they are gone? Do they need a bathroom and if so, do they care if it's a public one?

I love a sickie in the hospital who's sick from meds or anesthesia. The idea of needing help managing nausea, feeling horrible on top of whatever reason landed them in the hospital in the first place. Grasping an emesis basin "just in case." Wanting to talk to the people who've come to visit but they feel too sick.

There are many more, but these are a few scenarios I like.

Sunday Sickness Prompt 7/27/25

What are your favorite sickfic/whump scenarios? For writers and readers!

[lisupandowntown]

You’ve been feeding me so well with those two Jeremiah sick fics that I’m getting greedy. Will there be more fics with him as the sickie in this arc with him and Drew?

I'm so glad you're enjoying this arc - and I love sick Jeremiah too. Yes, we will see him sick again but not immediately. Sick Drew will also feature. Their arc is going to run concurrently with a couple of others for a while so there will be other sickies too.

[lisupandowntown]

I'm mad at Drew too. And I think he's so drunk on his parents' attention (again, that's such a good description) that it's causing him to take Jeremiah for granted. He's always been so dismissive of his father I think he (and Jeremiah) believed that he really didn't need him. So the running back the minute he got some positive attention is hard to understand. The medical boys are going to have some work to do on their relationship. Well, Drew does.

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.

[lisupandowntown]

I’m out of town right now so not a lot of time but @writing-whump - calling Drew drunk on his family’s attention is exactly right. And it’s made him irrational. I have so much more to say but it will have to wait. But thank you for seeing that.

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.

[lisupandowntown]

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.

[lisupandowntown]

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.” 

[lisupandowntown]

Soooooo we definitely need a fic about Adam getting sick... and of course what him and Avery were up to!

You got it!

[lisupandowntown]

Adam and Avery are my absolute favourite duo!! 😍 Any chance you could continue with Avery going back to check in on Adam? I’m soo curious to see how that pans out 👀

Just answered this, anon!

[lisupandowntown]

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.” 

[lisupandowntown]

No more Taco Tuesdays

If you see typos, pretend you don't. Enjoy my first fic in months!

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

The sweet smell of fresh raspberry danishes filled the apartment, the buttery scent curling in the air like a warm hug. Luna stood by the counter, carefully drizzling a zigzag of vanilla glaze over a cooling tray of pastries, humming to herself.

The moment Daniel opened the front door, he froze. His stomach twisted, not from excitement but from dread.

"Oh no," he muttered, one hand shooting up to clutch his middle. "She baked."

The scent hit him like a brick wall. Buttery pastry, sweet jam, and a whisper of lemon zest in the glaze. And beneath it all, the slight presence of regret: carnitas tacos.

"Babe?" Luna called, cheerful. "Guess what I made for -"

"I can't talk about food right now," Daniel groaned as he stumbled toward the coach. He dropped down with a heavy fwump, arms wrapped protectively around his torso. "It's happening again."

Luna peeked out, confused. "What's happening- oh no. Again?"

"I told you not to let me eat spicy food at work," he moaned, eyes closed. "It's like lava is fighting acid in my chest, and the acid is winning."

She walked over, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes narrowing in that familiar "I told you so" way. "Daniel. You said - and I quote - 'I can handle taco tuesday. I'm a grown man."

"I was wrong!" He whimpered. "They added that aioli I like, I was practically seduced."

Luna sighed, crouching beside him. "You don't look great."

Daniel let out a sudden, loud, wet-sounding belch that he halfed-smothered in his sleeve.

"Ugh, sorry. They keep sneaking up on me."

"What does it feel like?"

He rubbed his chest, brow furrowed. "It feels like a pressure in my chest. Then it gets worse when it pushes up into my throat."

Another hiccup escaped him, sharp and sudden. He jerked forward and clutched his middle again.

"Great, now I have hiccups. This is the worst combo since someone put pineapple on pizza."

"You like pineapple on pizza," Luna reminded him.

"I did. Before my body declared war on flavour."

She gave him a couple of chewable TUMS and rubbed circles on his back while he sat up, hiccuping and burping miserably between sips of water.

But then he caught a whiff of the danishes again.

"Oh god." He gagged, hand instantly clamping over his mouth. "Why do they smell so good when I feel this bad?"

Luna froze. "Want me to put them away?"

He shook his head, eyes glassy. "Just... don't let me look at them. I think my stomach is trying to escape my body."

He let out another slow, painful-sounding burp. It started deep, like a rumble in his gut, then crawled its way up his throat in a sickening gurgle. His face contorted like he'd just tasted something foul.

Luna studied him. "Does it feel like it's in your chest?"

"It's moved lower," he mumbled. "Fuck, it's like sludge, my stomach's bloated, and my throat burns... and I might be feeling better?"

He leaned back cautiously, testing the feeling.

A minute passed.

Two.

Then, his body tensed.

The nausea punched him out of nowhere, cold and sudden, like someone had flipped a switch. He opened his eyes and sat up, taking a deep breath and resting his elbows on his knees.

Luna looked at him, confused. "What baby? What is it?" She sounded concerned now.

"It came back, I feel nauseous." He looked up at her, and she noticed the slight desperate look on his face followed by his pale complexion.

"Bathroom." Luna said quickly, grabbing his arm.

Daniel didn't answer. He was already on his feet, stumbling across the room with one hand on his mouth and the other around his stomach. The moment he hit the bathroom, he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.

Time slowed.

He sat hunched there, knees aching against the cold tile, forehead resting against the seat. Waves of nausea rolled through him, thick and cruel. He hiccuped again, wet and almost gagging.

Each burp had a different texture. Some were sharp and acidic, burning the back of his throat. Others were slow and bubbling, full of air and that horrible sour taste.

His body trembled. Sweat started to collect at his temples.

Luna felt useless standing outside, hovering in the doorway. "Want me to come in?"

Daniel groaned weakly. "You don't... wanna see this."

She sighed. "You are being ridiculous," she said as she walked in anyway, crouching beside him.

She wet a cloth under water and pressed it against his neck. "Hey," she said gently. "You're okay. Let it happen."

He hated how well she knew him. He hiccuped again - then heaved. His body lurched, a violent wave shooting up from his stomach.

He coughed, gagged, and then vomited. The first wave was small, mostly fluid, but his body didn't care. It wrenched him forward like it was trying to turn him inside out.

He gasped between breaths, arms shaking.

Luna rubbed his back steadily. "Breathe, you're not breathing." She thumped on his back, worrying slightly.

Another burp came up, soaked in bile, and he retched again. This time harder. More came up, and he groaned through it, forehead now slick with sweat.

"God," he rasped between heaves. "This is the most dramatic I've ever been."

"You say that every time"

He coughed, spit, and leaned against the seat. "I mean it this time."

For the next several minutes, he stayed there, curled forward with the toilet as his reluctant companion. His hiccuped slowed, then stopped. The burps thinned out and the worst had finally passed.

He sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling with heavy, exhausted breaths. Luna handed him the wet cloth, which he pressed gratefully to his face.

"You okay?" She asked softly.

He nodded at that. "I feel like a deflated balloon," he said hoarsely. "But less festive."

Later, wrapped in a blanket, freshly brushed and tucked back into bed, Daniel lay curled on his side while Luna sat next to him, cradling a cup of chamomile tea.

"I'm never eating tacos again," he mumbled, voice scratchy.

She grinned and offered him a spoonful of tea. "You said that last week."

"This time, I really mean it."

"You say that every week, babe."

"Then, next week, stop me."

She leaned down, kissed his temple, and whispered, "Only if you let me film this next time so you remember the trauma."

He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. "Please don't use my weakest moment for educational purposes."

"Too late," she said sweetly. "Already logged it in the 'Daniel vs. Spicy Food' journal."

His muffled voice came from beneath the blanket. "At least save me a danish?"

"You sure you want it?"

Silence.

Then, "...Maybe just a bite."

[lisupandowntown]

Travel sick Lyla

And finally, just like that, final reoccurring character introduced. I hope you all grow to love Lyla like I do!

"I'm so excited to check out this new market" Lyla says excitedly, Kai could feel the genuine buzz of joy exuding from her from the passenger seat. He couldn't help but smile. Her mood, as always, was infectious and he was honestly excited to be able to spend some one on one time with Lyla. As much as he appreciated his friendship group, he'd missed the days of just them. If only Hope hadn't already had plans for the day, it could have been just the three of them like old times. Even though he's known Jessie and Jay for a while now, he still didn't feel like he could completely relax and be himself around them. It was nothing on them, it was entirely Kai's own issues and he knew he was definitely getting better at not being a dick to them, especially with Jess now that they hung out separately from the group. But being with his girls, he felt comfortable. Free. They know him better than anyone on the entire planet.

"I'm excited you're excited" Kai replies, smiling at her.

"Aka, you're happy to spend time with me but hippy markets are absolutely not your vibe?" She laughs her almost musical laugh.

"Pretty much." He smiles harder.

"You'll like it, I'm sure we'll find something that you'll like!" She says, opening her sprite and taking a sip.

The drive was about an hour and a half. Why Lyla couldn't have found a closer market to be this excited about he didn't know, but the drive allowed them to talk and catch up on life.

"Have I told you about Kelly and Geoff?" Kai asks as he changes lanes to overtake.

"No?! What's happened now?" Lyla asks, turning to give him her full attention, her dark green eyes lighting up at the sound of some work place gossip.

Kai gave her the rundown. How Kelly, a peadatric nurse on the ICU, had been sleeping with Geoff, a senior neurosurgeon. He went into detail about how they were caught having sex in the on call room by a janitor. Which wouldn't have been a big deal if it wasn't for the fact Geoff was married. With 4 kids. Kai went into all the details, giving Lyla all of the backstory of the whole affair that had apparently been going on for almost 2 years.

"Honestly I don't know how they didn't think they'd get caught out. I guess they'd been doing it for so long they assumed the secret was undiscoverable, they got sloppy" Kai finished his rant, which had been going on for far longer than he realised as he relished in the drama.

Lyla hummed a response which lacked her previous enthusiasm and added commentarry for the story, and for the first time in about 40 minutes Kai finally turned to look fully at her. She was no longer looking at him, eyes trained forward at the horizon. She looked pale, not that that was hard for her, her skin was a light porcelain at the best of times. He also noticed the thick swallow she'd made after the hum.

"Lyla?" He questioned as he placed a gentle hand on her knee.

She didn't say anything, but briefly flicked her eyes to look at him. They were slightly glassy but mainly just sad.

"Do you need me to stop?" He asks softly, knowing her propensity to get travel sick and her absolute hatered of it.

"Not yet." She said, swallowing thickly again and rolling down the window.

"Did you take your meds?" He continued to probe as he lightly massaged her knee.

"Yeah, but the not as good ones. Didn't wanna be drowzy." She whines, rubbing her face and taking a few deep breaths, "thought they'd do the job."

"Clearly not love. We've got about another 30 minutes until we get there, so if you need me to stop, please tell me. I hate seeing you feeling unwell and not being able to help." And he was being truthful, his heart clenched seeing how quiet and withdrawn she now looked compared to how much she had previously been buzzing with anticipation. Despite having seen Lyla like this way too many times to count, it didn't make it easier.

"I'm okay for now. My stomach's churning but the nausea is low key so far. Mainly just uncomfortable rather than imminent puking territory." Lyla says as she rests her head on the side of the door, allowing the breeze from the open window to blow over her, her vibrant red hair fluttering around her from the air movement.

Kai continues massaging her knee softly, giving her something to both ground and soothe her. He then continues talking, a lot less animatedly, about work. Giving Lyla the chance to be distracted without any need to participate, knowing the routine of things that helped keep her mind off of feeling pukey.

"So one of my NICU babies graduated last week. He'd been there for the last 9 weeks, remember the one I told you about who literally only ever desaturated when I was on shift? I honestly think he just liked my personal attention. But he's finally been able to go home, still on oxygen but honestly I'm so happy. He was so unwell when he was born, I honestly thought we were going to lose him on multiple occasions. His mom and dad brought in these beautiful handmade name tags when they took him home. Wooden engraved ones with little animals in the corner. Mine has a lion and says "Dr Kai - Best Pediatrician in the world". I don't think I'm actually allowed to wear it in work, probably get sued for claiming that. But it's getting pride of place on my office wall, thinking about putting it directly above my PHD." He rambles on, smiling slightly to himself as he thinks about it. Feeling appreciated and people actually going out of their way to let him know he'd made a difference filled him with so much joy. Joy that was quickly replaced with concern when he looked over to Lyla again.

"Lyls? Love?" He asked as she went almost gray and swallows convulsively. She opened her eyes and bolted upright, hand flying to her mouth. "Okay, pulling over."

He swung the car to the side of the road, earning a honk from the car behind him. Normally he'd have flipped him off, but his attention was entirely on getting Lyla out of the car before she threw up. He quickly undid her belt as she opened the door and leaned out. He grabbed her around her shoulders with one strong arm, holding her so she didn't fall out, and held her shoulder length hair back with the other as her body jolted forward with a heave.

"Let it out Lyls. You're doing fine. I've got you, just get it up." He soothed, rubbing her shoulder soflty with his thumb. He felt her body tense and contract as she heaved again, bringing up more of her breakfast. "You're going to be fine. Absolutely fine. We've stopped moving. You'll feel so much better once you've been sick and rest a little. Just get it up."

After another minute of vomiting and retching, Lyla groaned and lay her head against the headrest, body still sideways with her legs now hung out of the door. Kai moved his hands, one to stroke her hair and pull a few stray bits off of her sweat covered face and up into a scrunchie from the pile in the center console that was always there for moments like this, and the other to her stomach where her gently started moving his hand in small but soothing circles.

"Done?" He asked softly.

"For now." She responded weakly, causing Kai's heart to clench further. He slowly moved himself away from her, moving to get out of the car and around to her side. He carefully avoided the puddle of vomit, and crouched beside her. He took in her complexion, white as a ghost and clammy, and cupped her cheeks with his hands.

"What can I do that'll make it easier until it passes Lyls?" He says, slowly smoothing her face with his thumb as she leant into his touch. It didn't matter that Kai had seen her motion sick more times than he could count, he hated seeing her like this. All of her usual firecracker personality wiped out to pure exhaustion.

"I need to lie down." She said quietly, voice almost trembling. Kai nodded and slowly helped her up out of the passenger seat, tactfully avoiding the vomit, and lay her down on the back seats. It was a little bit of déjà vu, seeing as this was the exact position Jessie had helped him into just two weeks prior when he had his last migraine. His heart fluttered slightly at the thought of the mans help, no matter how unwanted it had been at the time, but he pushed the sensation aside as Lyla groaned.

"Are you gonna be sick again love?" He asked gently, sliding into the back with her as he rested her head in his lap.

"No. Everything is just spinning." She sighed as hse buryed her head into his stomach and turned onto her side. Kai brought a hand to her hair and smoothed it rhythmically.

"Just lay still, eyes closed. We'll wait it out until you feel a bit better. The market is open all day, there's no rush." He soothed softly. This he could do. Caring for people was part of his daily job, sure, but caring for Lyla after a bout of motion sickness? That's something he'd done for over a decade. He lay his head back against the headrest and started to hum, his fingers never stopping their movement through her hair, his other hand resting over her stomach lightly and stroking it with his thumb.

"Elvis? Really?" She laughed lightly into his stomach.

"You love it, as much as you pretend to only be into your emo shit. " He replied, closing his eyes too and continuing his hum where he'd left off.

[lisupandowntown]

Well, I'm glad for her thoughts, finally. And finally just letting herself feel! At first I was unsure how much of her wants to change - is she saying she likes Isaiah wearing a mask with her? -

''Even if they were only their best versions to each other, weren't those the most valuable ones? If they lived out their lives how they were supposed to be?"

I don't know what version of herself she's ready to be, and if she only does it because Isaiah asks, will that lead to resentment? She wants to do better, be a better witch, but I hope it becomes something for her. That it's real and not just another mask for her to wear. And that she doesn't miss the freedom she thought she used to have.

Isaiah and Rip curled up on the sofa reminded me of him and Matt and their dogpile cuddling. I can't see Seline joining this one though, lol.

I'm glad he was honest with her about the pain his shadow is in now. It's clear how much he loves her - purely and romantically and irrationally. I see glimpses of it in her, but she's still so shaken - not sure what she's truly feeling yet.

I'm glad she missed Matt.

Even if it hurts

Seline comes back. Isaiah gets sick. Emeto included.

Seline returned at sunrise, tiptoeing through her own home like a thief, Rip's words still loud in her head.

If you care about him at all...you condemn him...

She had truly not known leaving would have such dire consequences. Isaiah had his mask on, he looked all straightened up and ready to face something she didn't even understand. And then wasn't reachable and then it all just spiraled.

Once she asked, Kieran had been messaging her during the night to keep her updated.

Even told her now the air would be clear, cause he needed a change of clothes and a shower and would be back with breakfast.

She wasn't sure what he was giving her an out for. To pack her things and leave? Or to stay and pretend she never intended to?

Isaiah was curled up on the couch with Rip. At first, she didn’t quite understand what she was seeing.

They were a tangle of limbs and blankets, bodies drawn toward each other by something wordless. Rip was pressed tightly into Isaiah’s chest, one fist curled into the front of his hoodie like a child holding on for safety. His legs were tucked under himself awkwardly, as if he hadn’t meant to sleep but had simply collapsed into stillness.

The boy’s cheek was resting against Isaiah’s shoulder, his brow faintly furrowed even in sleep. He didn’t look like a stray or a fighter or a wolf. He looked so young.

And Isaiah—he wasn’t holding Rip, exactly. But his arms had formed around him naturally, one elbow propped on the back of the couch, the other draped loosely over Rip’s side.

His chin was tilted slightly toward the top of Rip’s head. The picture was both protective and unguarded. Like they had kept each other warm through the stormy night.

Actually, had she ever seen Rip sleep before?

As she stood there over the sofa over the sleeping wolves, she was torn with indecision. Everything rational in her was telling her to leave. Even Violet said Seline was filling the air with her fear and frustration, that this wouldn't do a wolf any good.

Maybe she should just stay away and meditate, how Violet told her. Sit in the rain, resonate, calm herself until she could emit something positive and helpful.

What was a witch if she wasn't helpful?

She couldn't make herself stop staring at Isaiah's face though.

He was pale and unshaven, the line of his mouth drawn tight even in rest. His eyelid twitched twice already as if his sleep wasn't deep. There were blankets on top of the heat being this up, as if someone was sick. Was Isaiah feeling sick?

Why else would Kieran be keeping him company all night? But why? He wasn't hurt, was he? Did he feel faint from his heart? Stress sick, maybe? He tended to throw up a lot when he was stressing himself out...

Maybe she should have waited longer. Come back calm, composed, regulared. Until she could approach him without her pulse raising, without flinching whenever she looked at his hands.

She didn't know how to put Isaiah, her Isaiah, together with the man with cold eyes and loose shoulders, who had told her that night he had killed someone in that dry tone. As if he told her it would rain soon and oh yes, this would be problematic and dangerous. Probably shouldn't come out alone, who knows what the wolves will do.

He said it like it was a fact. Like ‘I’ll be out late tonight’ or ‘I fixed the sink.’ Like death was just another item on his list.

She could have understood shock, fear, guilt or pain. Looked for signs of something, anything, moving in his face. That it cost him something, no matter how much self-defense it was.

But how could she forgive his composure?

How could he be the same? Would he still have that soft look to him when he smiled at her? Would he still cook in the morning, trying out seasonings and new recipes from YouTube, the more complicated the better? Would he still put on a suit and a smile and go to class on Monday? Would they talk over papers and news on the sofa while his eyes sparkled in challenge?

Could they come back from this to what they had—to who they were to each other? Maybe it was all just a play-pretend. But she loved the side he showed her, and she could tell he basked in her joy of it.

Even if they were only their best versions to each other, weren't those the most valuable ones? If they lived out their lives how they were supposed to be?

Isaiah, with his kindness of giving himself out to others, and her with that inconvenient pride and obsession with freedom, the tendency to ram against the wall headfirst if things didn't go her way...couldn't they just be people to each other?

But no. What he needed now was a witch, calm and composed, to soothe his shadow and turn the tides.

She was the opposite of composed. Even if she meditated and learned to emit and sense as a witch should this very week, it would be too late for a skill she should have used for him yesterday.

She didn't know how to fix this. How to comfort him when she didn't know how to resolve this in herself. If she didn't want to feel panic—and she refused to—then she could only see the reasons why to leave. Why a place that made her feel unsafe, why the man that could kill without consequences, why her presence here as unqualified as it was, weren't a good idea.

It irked her she couldn't help. Didn't know how. That she couldn't just shrug off the horror, that she couldn't accept this so naturally as Kieran and Dominick did. Dominick, who had talked about calculated arranged weddings and then did exactly the right thing, worrying for Melissa. When she could only stand there and quietly absorb and then only run, because it was too much.

If anything, the whole situation made her angry. At herself for being weak and letting this happen, not seeing it coming. For letting herself be so spoiled and complacent. At Isaiah for creating this mess and then expecting her to deal with it. At Rip for growling in the corner, like he was the only one on Isaiah's side. At Matt for not being here.

Oh god, how much she wanted Matt to be here.

The situation would have been torturous for Matt and he would surely feel guilty for causing this. But she wanted him to hug her and tell her it was going to be alright and that it's alright she is upset and that Isaiah is too, but they could make it together—the three of them, against the world, forever.

Useless to think about it now. To mourn the promise that had already been broken, no matter the noble reasons.

Everything in the apartment felt so dark and foreign. Was this the sensing thing? The first parts of that blocked ability or her own mind playing tricks with her?

It made her spine curl up, shivers running up the back of her neck.

Her hand hovered at the back of the couch, then dropped again.

She stayed frozen there, the darkness thick in her mouth, her own pulse too loud.

...

It was barely dawn. The rain hadn’t started again, but the clouds were looming over the sky heavily. She gripped the railing with both hands, knuckles white.

The air was cool and damp, not pressing down on her like inside the overheated living room. Finally, she could breathe, even if she got cold quickly after. Should have worn a warmer jacket.

She didn’t hear the steps behind her at first. Only when the glass door opened again with a hush of displaced air did her spine stiffen.

Isaiah’s quiet presence was unmistakable. Still barefoot, from the way his steps padded. Still too pale.

Seline turned around, hands braced on the railing behind her. She wanted to say something soft and comforting, burned with the need to say the right thing.

Instead, what came out was too sharp. "Did you sleep well?"

He blinked at her, voice low and horse, too tired to pretend. "Did you?"

She bit down on her lower lip. Hard. "Are you accusing me of something?"

"You left the place, not me."

"You should have ordered me then." Jesus, that's not what she meant to say. She wanted to apologize. Or defend herself. Blame him, cause he should have communicated what he needed from her.

I want you to tell me what you want me to do. I'll let you order me around—just this once!

He let out a brittle breath, eyes narrowing. He was angry now. She had never been the one on the recieving end of that anger.

Something changed though. His shadow was close to the surface. Somehow she could feel it closer, pushy and upset.

"You can go," he said quietly. "If this feels wrong. If you’re here out of debt or pity. I don't want you here against your will."

She hated it. She hated that she’d come back just to start a fight she didn’t have the heart to finish.

"Sorry, I’m not the witch you could use right now," she said, voice dripping with venom. "Should’ve brought Violet. Or someone who can glow and hum and make you feel all better."

"I didn't want a witch," Isaiah cut in, voice suddenly rough. “I wanted you.”

That stopped her.

Just for a second, just long enough for her breath to catch. He was standing just inside, the glass door shut behind him, shadows like bruises under his eyes. Arms wrapped around himself like the chill was inside him.

Their eyes locked.

Neither of them moved. She didn’t even blink. Something in her chest clenched—an ache, maybe. A hunger. A protest.

Then Isaiah’s expression twisted. His brows twitched tight, his hand went to his stomach, and before she could ask—

He folded in two and threw up all over the floor and his pants. Pure liquid tinged with yellow.

"Isaiah!" She lunged forward, all her armor scattering like leaves.

He had crumpled to one knee, gripping the balcony rail with one hand, his other arm clutched over his middle. His breathing was shallow and fast.

She crouched beside him, heart racing. "Hey—hey, it’s okay, I’ve got you, what’s-what's wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first. Swallowed hard. Closed his eyes. Then, barely audible: "It’s—your—" he coughed, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I can feel it. It’s loud.”

Her hands trembled where they hovered at his shoulders. She didn't know if she should hold him or not. Her heart was beating too fast.

"My what…?" She blinked. "You felt me?"

A small, pained nod. "Waves of anger coming of you. And pain."

Her breath hitched. "But why? It shouldn't work this fast." She hadn't done any meditating yet, any resonating; it was too soon for there to be a noticeable difference.

"My shadow's a little...more sensitive today."

Her fingers brushed his arm. He didn't flinch away, but the pained frown worsened. "Are you hurt?"

Isaiah shrugged, his smile shaky, sweat pearling on his forehead and along his hairline. "Shadow’s torn open,” he said hoarsely. "From Margaret." His voice was barely audible now, fraying at the edges.

Seline stared at him, stunned, losing her balance and dropping on her butt gracelessly.

Isaiah dragged himself closer to the railing to slump against it, chest heaving. His pants were soaked with vomit, sticking to his knees. Sweat clung to his forehead and neck. His fingers trembled where they rested on the ground.

"I can handle it," he said, closing his eyes with a shallow breath. "But I can’t stop feeling her. And when I feel you, and you’re afraid of me too—it rips wider. I’m sorry."

He slipped lower again, the strength gone from his knees.

"I’ll go," she whispered, the words scraping her throat. At least it was something to do. She wanted desperately to have something to do. Something right. "If it’s hurting you, I’ll leave."

"No," he said, barely above a breath.

She hesitated. But his eyes didn’t open.

“I can’t stay if being near me makes you—” she began again, trying to keep her voice even, but it cracked. "If you’re throwing up because of me, Isaiah, then what the hell am I doing here?”

He reached for her wrist. Not hard. Not commanding. Just there—a quiet plea in the shape of his fingers wrapping around her skin.

Her words died in her mouth.

He tugged gently, shifting closer, and she followed. Fell into him without thinking. His forehead found her neck, pushing himself close.

"I want you to stay," he murmured into her shoulder. "Even if it hurts. Even if you hate me right now."

Seline froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs, her breath shivering out.

And yet here he was, trembling against her, sick and stubborn and somehow still warmer than anything else in this place.

Something inside her click. It wasn't logic, it wasn't anything reasonable. She didn't have a list of arguments in his favour.

But she wrapped her arms around his back tightly, slipping into his vomit-soaked lap and held him.

"I don’t hate you," she said shakily. "I just don’t know how to do this."

"I don’t either."

"I don't want to hurt you," she said, tears pressing against her eyes.

His arm went around her back, slow and careful, like he was afraid it would scare her. She squeezed him closer and he returned the hug then, dropping the carefulness.

"I don't care. I want you here."

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered.

"Just don't go. That's enough," he breathed out, sounding broken.

They sat there, curled in each other, silent except for his shaky breathing and the faint rustle of early morning wind through the crack in the balcony door. Her shoulder was damp from his skin, her throat tight. He could feel him breathe against her neck, his chest under hers, his sticky pants against hers.

Seline didn’t know how long they stayed like that.

But for once, she didn’t try to measure the moment. Didn’t analyze it or chase it off with what it should be. She just stayed.

And Isaiah didn’t let go.

[lisupandowntown]

I’ve had three people already ask to see what happened when Avery dropped Adam off - hoping for a continuation of the two of them. And they started talking in my head and insisting there is no way Adam could make it up to his apartment alone. And I agree. So despite my best laid plans, you are going to be seeing them again next. Drew/Jeremiah drama with a side of steaminess will have to wait.

[lisupandowntown]

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.”

[lisupandowntown]

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.

[lisupandowntown]

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.”