angora48

Because I'm learning about Tumblr's link-posting limits, multi-chapter fics link just to their first chapter. From there, you'll find a link to the next chapter at the bottom of each one!

Hic Fic

OCs

Estella & Daniel

"The Interview" (m - Daniel)

"Wallflower Behavior" (f - Estella)

"Conflict of Interest" (f - Estella) - 2/2, complete

Layla & Tariq

"Unfamiliar Magic" (nb - Tariq / m - Aasif / f - Laila, Sita) - 7/7, complete

"Taking It Slow" (nb - Tariq / f - Laila / m - Aasif) - 6/6, complete

Maritza & Eric

"Saturday Morning Solitude" (f - Maritza)

"Friendly Fire" (m - Eric)

"Weekend Visit" (f - Maritza)

"Practice Pasta" (m - Eric)

"Nothing Special" (m - Eric)

"Yo-Yo Hiccups" (f - Lila) - 4/4, complete

"Something in the Air" (f - Maritza / m - Eric) - 4/4, complete

"Butterflies and Hurricanes" (f - Maritza) - 2/2, complete

"Stress Tells" (m - Eric) - 2/2, complete

Fanfic

Abbott Elementary - "Transferable Skills" (m - Gregory)

Abbott Elementary - "The Other 10%" (f - Janine)

The ABC Mürders - "In a Fix" (m - Inspector Crome)

Bänk of Däve - "The Perfect Hangover Cure" (m - Hugh)

Casanova - "An Intriguing Predilection" (f - Geneviève - OC) - 3/3, complete

Casanova - "Charming Proclivities" (m - Casanova) - 3/3, complete

Casanova - "The Mind Being Part of the Body" (m - Casanova) - 3/3, complete

Casanova - "Playing to an Audience" (f - Geneviève - OC) - 3/3, complete

Our Flag Means Death - "It Comes Back Out" (m - Wee John)

Our Flag Means Death - "(Room)Mates" (m - Frenchie)

Plebs - "All Praise to Bacchus" (m - Styläx) - 2/2, complete

Svengali - "3 a.m. Cures" (m - Macca)

Ted Lasso - "F-*huck!*-king Hell" (m - Roy) - 4/4, complete

White Van Man - "An Unprofessional Diaphragm" (m - Darren) - 3/3, complete

Sickfic

OCs

Malcolm & Andy

"Fictional Cuisine" (m - Malcolm) - 11/11, complete

"Bad Brain Days" (m - Andy) - 11/11, complete

"Summer Recess Woes" (m - Andy) - 10/10, complete

Megan & Francisco

"An Honor Just to Be Nominated" (m - Francisco) - 5/5, complete

"Ideal Sick-Day Viewing" (m - Francisco) - 5/5, complete

"Returning the Favor" (m - Francisco / f - Megan) - 5/5, complete

"Rule One of Hollywood" - (m - Francisco) 2/4, ongoing

Tommy, Jack & Kathryn

"Just Another Way of Caring" (m - Jack) - 14/14, complete

Fanfic

Captain America - "Old Habits" (m - Bucky)

Doctor Who - "Lost in Translation" (m - The Twelfth Doctor) - 17/17, complete

Our Flag Means Death - "Sympathy Sniffles" (m - Frenchie, Wee John, Lucius, Black Pete, Swede, Oluwande, Roach / nb - Jim / f - Zheng, Jackie) - 13/13, complete

Wicked - "Behind the Curtain" (m - Boq, Fiyero) - 9/9, complete

Francisco was in an odd position in Hollywood. He’d been in a few big films where he had very small parts, films that most Americans saw but that few would remember him from, and he’d starred in one wonderful independent film that never got a wide release. The people who saw Papi’s Stories from Sundown would know him well, but there weren’t too many of them.

Semi-Fixable was a next step for him. He was third on the call sheet, and while it was another indie film, it was one starring Rebecca Soczek and Jason Bateman: people would see this film, and see him in it. And if he wanted to keep making movies in the States, that meant he had to be great in it.

When he got to set that morning, he decided he was mostly the good kind of anxious, the sort of heightened awareness that would keep him present and grounded as he worked (whether that was true or not, it helped to tell himself that.) As he was getting ready, he alternated between chatting in hair and makeup and preparing to mentally slip into his character.

On set, Rebecca greeted him warmly, with a slight, winkingly self-conscious air. “You ready to do this, lover?” she teased.

“If I’m not, it’s too late now,” Francisco joked back. “If I got down and did more pushups, it wouldn’t help.”

Rebecca gave a hearty laugh. “Right. And you’re how old?” she asked.

“31,” Francisco replied.

“God, you’re a baby,” she remarked. “Don’t worry, you’re fine. Everything’s where it’s supposed to be.” She stretched her neck with a slow roll and shook her arms out a little.

There was an intimacy coordinator on the film. Francisco had never worked with one before, but almost immediately, he decided he liked it. Andrea walked him and Rebecca through the beats of the scene they were about to shoot and had them rehearse some of the different touches and interactions while they were still clothed. “How’s that?” Francisco asked Rebecca a few times, placing his hands where Andrea directed him. “Is this okay?”

Part of the scene had to be reblocked from the director’s initial plan. Brandon wanted Rebecca’s legs wrapped around Francisco’s waist once they got going, Francisco holding Rebecca up against the wall, but it quickly became apparent that that wouldn’t work. Rebecca was a good three inches taller than Francisco, and while there were techniques to disguise that in the film, Francisco wasn’t going to be able to hold Rebecca up very well.

“What about the counter?” Andrea suggested to Brandon, pivoting in the set made to look like the tight quarters of a boat cabin (they’d film on an actual boat for the interior shots, but it was cheaper to build a set of the cabin than try to figure out how to fit the cameras inside a real one.) “Francisco, you could boost Rebecca up onto the counter, and the two of you could do it there.”

“Let’s try it,” Rebecca said, and she and Francisco went through the motions. They hadn’t even started shooting yet, but Francisco could already tell she was a very thoughtful actress.

Once everything had been planned out and Francisco and Rebecca both felt as comfortable as it was possible to be when you were about to take your clothes off in front of your coworkers, they moved to their marks, ready to begin.

By the time Brandon called action, Francisco had placed himself into his role, Ramón, a well-traveled sailor who wasn’t one to plan for the future. Ramón lived each moment he was in—he didn’t overthink things or worry, but you might not know where you stand with him tomorrow. A good reason why Rebecca’s character Marissa would be drawn to him, and an understandable reason why she ends up back with her husband instead of Ramón.

As Ramón, Francisco rooted through a storage compartment in the cabin. “Don’t worry about it,” he assured Rebecca’s Marissa. “I’m sure I have more in here—somewhere.”

Rebecca watched him, standing lopsided in only one platformed sandal. Her stance was self-conscious. She was wavering, considering whether or not she should bolt. “You have extra pairs of women’s shoes?” she asked.

Francisco flashed her a grin, immodest but not obnoxious. “Well…” he replied, playful.

“Honestly, I-I should just go,” Rebecca insisted, turning to leave the cabin.

“Hey-hey-hey!” Francisco exclaimed. He sprang nimbly to his feet and took her hand, drawing her back around. “It happens, okay? It’s not a big deal.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he slowly lowered himself down until he was kneeling before her. “No need to ruin our day over something so small.” Gently, he lifted her foot and pulled the sandal off.

Rebecca’s face broke into a smile, relief and abandon and desire all in one. Her dark blond hair, with soft waves in it for this character, fell artfully down to her shoulders. “That’s one way to do it,” she remarked.

Francisco rose again, brought his hand to her cheek. “Better?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

“Better,” Rebecca agreed. She leaned in to kiss him, drawing her own hand into his hair.

When their lips parted, Rebecca said, “You know, on balance? I think shoes are overrated.”

Francisco grinned. “Wildly overrated,” he agreed. He brushed her hair behind her shoulder to kiss the crook of her neck.

“I can always buy more,” Rebecca mused.

Francisco lifted his head to make his reply, which he was supposed to deliver as he slipped his hand into her shirt, but a fierce itching sensation suddenly flooded his nostrils. He turned away, sneezing a strong, “Haaahhh-CHUHHHHHH!” into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said, sniffling as he reemerged. 

“Don’t worry, you’re good,” Rebecca replied.

“Still rolling!” Brandon called from his director’s chair.

Francisco gave his nose a quick rub, then returned to his grin. “Wildly overrated,” he said. Brushing Rebecca’s hair back, he kissed the crook of her neck.

“I can always buy more,” Rebecca mused.

Francisco lifted his head. “I’ll buy you more,” he vowed, his hand sliding into her shirt.

Rebecca smiled, half amusement and half arousal. “Is that right?” she asked.

Francisco considered. “I’ll fish more for you,” he decided. “The bay is full of shoes from women wh- who…” The line was supposed to be, “…from women who struggle with the concept of boat-appropriate footwear,” a mouthful of a line that had taken Francisco ages to learn (didn’t they know that English wasn’t Ramón’s first language either?) But there, as he was slowly undoing her shirt buttons and nuzzling her clavicle, another itch overtook him.

“W-ai-it…” Francisco had a chance to mumble before he sneezed again, jumping back so he wouldn’t sneeze on Rebecca’s half-unbuttoned chest. “hihhhh-ehhhhh-SHIOOOOO! Ahhhhhhhh…hehhhhh-CHIAAHHHHHH!”

“Gesundheit,” Rebecca said as Brandon called cut. “You okay?”

“Sorry,” Francisco repeated, sniffing. “I’m not sick, I promise. My nose is-- it’s just itching.” He scrubbed at his nose with his knuckles as he felt another tickle starting to build. “Heh-hehhhhhh….”

“Let’s just take a minute, then,” Rebecca suggested. “Let you get it out of your system.”

Francisco nodded, sneezing a hard “huhhhhh-ihhhh-CHIUHHHH!” into his fist. He sniffed again, but carefully—he could still feel the heady itching sensation. Biting back a sigh, he said, “One bidute,” before stepping aside, cupping his hands over his mouth against sneezes that bent him at the waist. “uhhhhhh-SHOOOOO! …hihhhhhh-CHIIAAHHHHH! Ihhhhhh…ahhhhhh-hehhhh-CHUHHHHHHH! Mbb….” 

Sneezing so many times so quickly made Francisco feel almost lightheaded for a second, and he exhaled slowly as he straightened back up. “…Better?” Rebecca asked.

Francisco took in a long breath and let it out, waiting to see if his nose was going to act up again. He tried not to contemplate how embarrassed he probably looked. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, I think I’m good.” His gaze flickered to Brandon, chastened. “I’m sorry about that,” he said again.

“Let’s take it from the top,” Brandon announced in a clipped tone. He didn’t acknowledge Francisco’s apology, but as Kendra, a PA, scurried up to Francisco to offer him hand sanitizer, he could read the director’s annoyance in the tightness of his jaw.

As they returned to their original marks, Rebecca gave Francisco a quick wink. “We’re gonna knock ‘em dead this time,” she predicted.

Francisco nodded along, but he knew his smile was both a little forced and a little confused. The States had a lot of expressions about killing that were apparently really positive. It was a weird thing about this country.

When Brandon called action again, Francisco and Rebecca restarted the scene. Francisco knew he wasn’t quite as present as he’d been on the first take. His own thoughts were intruding on Ramón’s a little, worries about annoying Brandon and embarrassment about having a sneezing fit in front of Rebecca Soczek and the whole crew.

Not that it mattered that he wasn’t as good on this take—they barely made it to the first kiss when Francisco’s nose started tickling again. He hurriedly broke the kiss and stepped back from Rebecca, not having time to apologize before another sneeze hit him hard. “hihhhhhh-SHNNNNFFHHH!” he sneezed, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Goddammit!” Brandon exclaimed, plucking his headphones off and throwing them to the ground.

But Rebecca put her hand on Francisco’s shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“I-- like I told you, I-I-aaaahhhh…” Francisco trailed off, lifting a hand to his face. “huhhhhh-CHIOOOO-ehhhh! Mmm, fuck! I’m not sick, really.” He sniffed, rubbing his nose hard. 

Kendra hurried back up to Francisco, holding out a tissue box. “Thank you,” he mumbled, giving her a nod as he took a tissue and wiped his nose.

“Something’s bothering my nose,” he went on. “I-- I don’t know what. hiiihhhhhh-ehhhhh-SHOOOOOO!” The sneeze snuck up on him, and he only had just enough time to turn away. 

“Oh my god,” Brandon grumbled, shaking his head in a disbelieving sort of way.

“I’m so sorry,” Francisco said again. “This ha-haasn’t--haaahhhh-CHUHHHHH! It’s never happened to me before.” He sniffled into the tissue.

“Do you think you’re allergic to something?” Rebecca wondered.

Francisco shook his head. “Just d-- dogs,” he replied. “Bu-uhhhh-ihhhh-SHIIAAHHHHH!” He pressed his nose to the back of his wrist, cringing. “But even if a dog was here, it’s not bad li-- like thi-is…”

Kendra handed him a second tissue just in time for another “Hahhhhhh-CHIOOOO!” Francisco sniffed again. “B-besides,” he added, “my allergies make my throat and eyes itch too, but this is-- it’s just…hihhhhhh-uhhhhh-CHUHHHH! Just my nose.”

“Well, something’s definitely setting you off,” Rebecca mused. “You were fine a minute ago.”

Even as Francisco’s furiously itching nose loudly demanded his attention, he still heard Brandon mutter, “Try five minutes ago,” under his breath. Francisco’s nose was the most irritated thing on set at the moment, but the director was a close second.

“I don’t--hihhhhh-SHUHHHHHH! Iiihhhhh-huhhhhh-CHOOOO!” Francisco sneezed rapidly. “I don’t know,” he confessed. His nose felt like it was beginning to run a little. He sniffed, holding a tissue to his nose.

Rebecca was peering around the set as though she would find a conveniently labeled sign saying “That Thing That’s Making Francisco Sneeze.” For his part, Francisco wasn’t much help. Besides the sorry state of his nose, his brain was a jumble of nervousness and embarrassment, making it hard to think too closely.

“You didn’t start sneezing until…oh god,” Rebecca said suddenly, her eyes widening.

Francisco sniffed, giving his nose a wipe. “Wha-aaat…?” he started to ask, lapsing into another “hihhhhh-CHIIUUHHHHHH!”

Rebecca pushed up her sleeve and held her arm out to Francisco. “Try and smell this,” she said.

It was so bizarre that, for a second, Francisco was sure he was misunderstanding her English. “I…what?!” he said.

“I just wanna see,” Rebecca prodded.

Very aware that the whole crew was standing around watching this strange little episode, Francisco hesitantly took Rebecca’s arm in his hand, lifted it to his nose, and inhaled.

The effect was instantaneous. “huhhhhhh-SHOOOOO!” Francisco sneezed, letting go of Rebecca and whipping around so he wouldn’t sneeze on her. “hihhhhh-CHHUHHHH! Ahhhhh…hehhhh-SHIIOOOOO! Ehhhhh-SHUHHHHHH!” Mmm…” He was grateful that Kendra held a fresh tissue right in front of his face, so he could grab it without raising his eyes to look at anyone.

“What?” Isaac, the boom guy, remarked. “He’s allergic to you?”

“It has to be my lotion—dammit!” Rebecca said. “It’s a new brand, scented with lavender and…I don’t even know what else. I’m so sorry, Francisco, I had no idea.”

“No,” Francisco insisted. “Ih-hihhhh…hehhhhh-ihhhhh-SHOOOO! It’s not your fault.”

“You know,” Brandon called, in a conversational tone with a dark edge to it, “I could’ve sworn we were here to make a movie, not play south-of-the-border Scent Detective.”

“I-I’m sorry--” Francisco started to say, but his nose wouldn’t let up. “hahhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHH!”

Rebecca faced Brandon, but she lightly touched her fingertips to Francisco’s shoulder. “He can’t help it,” she pointed out.

“Great,” Brandon drawled. “It’s still a waste of my time.”

He was right, of course. Americans said “time is money,” and in Hollywood, it was really true. All those people, each one with a union that said how and when they got paid. Every moment of wasted footage meant lost dollars, and every minute not shooting or setting up a shot meant lost time, which amounted to the same thing.

But Rebecca wasn’t finished. “You heard him—this has never happened to him before,” she told Brandon. “What do you expect him to do? He can’t shoot like this.”

“ihhhhhh-SHHHNFFFFF!” Francisco sneezed, biting back a cringe as he clamped his hand tightly over his nose and mouth. Rebecca glanced over at him, as if to say, See?

“So we’re out a whole day of shooting because Francisco’s delicate nose can’t handle scented lotions,” Brandon remarked. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

“I--I don’t--I can--” Francisco began, not that there was much point in trying. “hihhhhhh-SHIIAAAAHHHHHH!”

“What if we break for, like, an hour?” Rebecca suggested. “I can take a shower, try to scrub this scent off, then get back into hair and makeup. It’s worth a shot, right?”

Francisco’s nose, though still itching, was giving him a brief reprieve. Holding a tissue to his nose, he quickly broke in, “That sounds good!”

Brandon sighed deeply. “I suppose anything’s better than standing around here with our thumbs up our asses,” he grumbled, a visual that was as perplexing as it was disturbing. “One hour.”

“Ready?” Tariq asked. Even from across the room, Laila could see the bowl of rice in the genie’s hands shaking with anticipation.

“Ready,” Laila replied. That was all the encouragement Tariq needed, and they practically dove headfirst into the bowl.

Laila had to say this for Tariq: the genie knew how to enjoy himself. It was no surprise that the sumptuous dishes at the palace drove them wild, but Tariq had basically the same level of unbridled excitement for the meager meals Laila managed to scrape together. Rice or flatbread, a sauce if they were lucky, some kind of meat if they were very, very lucky. And yet, Tariq would attack her meal like it was made from the finest ingredients by the best chefs in Iqara, even licking their bowl clean when they were done.

“It’s delicious!” Tariq groaned happily through a garbled mouthful of rice. “Mmmmm-mmmmmm!”

Laila wished she could let herself feel such unvarnished enthusiasm like that.

Several more bites, and…“*HIC-olk!*” Right on cue came Tariq’s hiccups. They barely slowed the genie down as she gobbled up her food.

Laila could feel herself smiling a little. “I’m glad you like it.”

“You’re th-*huck!*-the best!” Tariq cried. “I’ve said-*HIC-ulk!*-thank you for letting m-*heek!*-me have food, ri-- right?”

Okay, she was definitely smiling now. “Every time we eat,” Laila replied. “Now come on, stress me out or make me mad.”

“Sur-*herk!*-re,” Tariq agreed. “How?”

Laila rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

 In truth, though, the longer their acquaintance, the less the genie annoyed her. To be sure, he still annoyed her, undeniably—but they annoyed her less. Laila sometimes caught herself thinking about wishes, wondering if it worried Tariq that she wasn’t fulfilling her duty as their master. Wondering what would happen to them if Laila used all three of her wishes. She supposed Tariq would have to go back into the lamp and wait for his next master to find it. And Laila had heard enough about Tariq’s past masters that she didn’t like the thought of them having to make that gamble again.

A hard “*hulp!*” hit Laila, and she lay her hand across her chest.

“Hey, I di-*hic!*-did it!” Tariq exclaimed.

“I told y-*hmmp!*-you you would,” Laila replied softly. “*hic-ulk!*” Wincing, she rubbed her chest with the side of her hand.

“Ooh, do th-*hup!*-they hurt?” Tariq asked. “I don’t-*HIC-uck!*-like those.”

“Kind o-*hulp!*-of,” Laila admitted.

Tariq wrinkled their nose. Stuffing the last scoop of rice into her mouth, she got to their feet and asked, “Can I c-*hup!*-come over ther-*herk!*-now?”

“Yeah, that’s-*holp!*-fine,” Laila told them. “Once I’ve g-*hulk!*-got the hiccups, *HIC-ulp!* it doesn’t rea-- really matter any-*HOLK!*-more.”

As long as money didn’t get too tight, they ate twice a day, and Laila and Tariq had come to an arrangement about their meals. In the morning, Tariq would do her best to pace himself, at least attempting not to scarf and avoid ending up with contagious genie hiccups. That was…iffy. So far, they’d only managed to do it once.

In the evening, meanwhile, Tariq was free to gobble away. Knowing that hiccups were pretty much inevitable there, Laila instead focused on testing the reaches of the strange interactions Tariq’s body had with his magic. She wanted to find out what the limits were, if there was anything either of them could do to avoid Tariq’s hiccups spreading. Tonight, Laila and Tariq had seated themselves at opposite ends of her one-room hovel, seeing if that could be a way to avoid the effects of the magic. 

Sitting on opposite sides had worked once before, but Laila hadn’t interacted with Tariq at all—she’d not spoken to them or looked at them, even going so far as to turn her back to him. But those were pretty extreme measures, and it didn’t seem fair to put Tariq through that, so this time, Laila had hoped the distance alone would be enough to prevent catching the genie’s hiccups. Apparently not.

“You’ll th-*hic!*-think of something,” Tariq encouraged as they came over to sit down beside Laila. “You’re g-*hoop!*-good at tha-A-at.”

Laila gave them a soft bump with her shoulder. “Thanks. *HIC-ulk!* Ooh…” With a grimace, she rubbed her chest again.

“Here-*herk!*-let me get r-*HIC-olk!*-rid of mine,” Tariq offered, readying to hop right back up again. “*HIC-uck!* That way, *hulk!* you can c-*hup!*-cure yours.”

“In a-*holp!*-a minute,” Laila told her. She grabbed Tariq’s arm so they couldn’t scurry off. “You d-*HIC-ulk!*-don’t always have t-- to jump to do-*HIC-ulp!*-doing things for m-*ulp!*-me.”

“But I wa-*holk!*-want to!” Tariq pointed out eagerly.

Laila sighed through another hiccup. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “I kn-- know,” she said. “*HIC-ulp!* You can take-*hulk!*-a second, though, o-*holk!*-okay? I won’t b-*ulp!*-be mad if you don’t in-*HIC-ulk!*-instantly fix everyth-*hmmk!*-thing.”

“Okay,” Tariq agreed, although they didn’t look convinced that this was a valid option. “I-*huck!*-I don’t like i-*hic!*-it when you hur-*herk!*-hurt, though.”

“It’s not tha-*holp!*-that bad,” Laila promised her. “Just a li-*HIC-olk!*-a little uncomforta-- able, that’s-*ulp!*-all.”

“Hmm-*mmp!*” Tariq murmured. After a beat, his face lit up hopefully and they asked, “Can I hel-*hulk!*-help?”

“I’m good-*ulp!*” Laila said. She rested her head on the genie’s shoulder. “Just sit wi-*HIC-ulp!*-with me. We-*holk!*-we can get the water-*hulp!*-in a few mi-IN-utes.”

“All ri-*HIC-ulk!*-right,” Tariq said. Settling in, she rested their forehead against Laila’s. Both their hiccups jostled one another when they were sitting so close, but Laila didn’t mind.

“It’s okay i-*hic!*-if nobody looks-*HIC-uck!*-at me or talks t-*hoop!*-to me,” Tariq offered. “I kn-*holk!*-know getting the hiccu-*huck!*-ups can bother the rest o-*hup!*-of you.”

“No,” Laila told them firmly. “*HIC-ullk!* We’ll find somethi-- ing else that wo-*holp!*-works. And if not, *ulp!* we humans will j-*hulk!*-just suck it up.”

“Mmm,” Tariq murmured, jerking with a distracted-sounding “*HIC-ulk!*” He chewed on their thumbnail. “You don’t h-*hmmk!*-have to do that, *HIC-uck!* though.”

“I wan-*hulp!*-want to,” Laila insisted. “And the o-*hulk!*-the others will too-- oo, at least m-*HIC-ulk!*-more than they-*hmmp!*-want you to be lef-*holp!*-left out.”

Giving a contented sigh, Tariq said, “You’r-*herk!*-the best.”

Laila chuckled. “*hulk!*--*HOLP!* So you keep t-*HIC-ulp!*-telling me.”

If she told Tariq she’d been thinking about wishes, they’d probably be ecstatic. The genie had stopped pestering Laila about it, but only because she’d ordered him not to. A few weeks ago, the thought of using a genie’s wishes as a shortcut had almost felt like an affront to Laila. Now, it seemed silly to scrounge and steal to keep her and Tariq fed when a genie could ensure that she never went hungry again. And as she faced the prospect of pursuing Sita in a genuine way, Laila knew how much Tariq’s magic could help with the logistical challenges: she couldn’t keep wearing the same two nice dresses if she was supposed to be a noblewoman. (If this was to become something real, Laila knew she’d eventually need to come clean, but she wasn’t ready for that yet.) 

Even so, for all that a genie’s wishes could do for her, Laila was rapidly finding herself unable to imagine her life without Tariq in it. She didn’t know how she could say goodbye.

Laila let out a strong “*HIC-ulp!*”, a hard thump in her chest. “*HOLK!*” With a little grunt of discomfort, she rubbed her chest with her knuckles.

“You’ve g-*hulk!*-got them really b-- bad this time,” Tariq noted. Before Laila could argue with her, the genie jumped to their feet. “H-*heek!*-here, let me!” Tariq fetched the water pitcher, filled their cup, and bent over to drink from the wrong side.

He was getting pretty good at that now. Despite their hiccups, Tariq emptied the cup without spilling a drop. When they straightened back up, curiosity danced in her eyes as she waited to see if they were cured—Laila watched in amusement.

“Hey, it worked!” Tariq said, and the delight in their voice made Laila feel warm.

Coming back over to sit beside Laila again, Tariq urged, “Now you!

Laila held her breath, but she could still feel herself hiccupping through it. “I don’t th-*HIC-ulk!*-think that’s gonna d-*holp!*-do the trick,” she admitted. “I-*holk!*-need some wate-*HULP!*-water.”

“Wait here!” Tariq cried, scrambling up again.

It would’ve been logical to just bring the pitcher and both their cups over the first time, but Tariq wasn’t exactly the most logical of beings. Laila looked on as she ran back to the pitcher, realized they’d forgotten to grab Laila’s cup, went to pick that up, then returned to the pitcher again and filled it.

Finally, the genie brought the cup over to Laila. “I really hope it helps,” they said, and he managed to inject more sincerity into those few words than Laila thought she’d ever felt in her entire life.

How could she go back to life without them?

Laila drank the water with slow continual swallows. When she finished, she couldn’t help grinning at the eager hopefulness in Tariq’s eyes. “Give it a second,” Laila told them. She waited, but there were no more hiccups.

“Yeah, that did it,” she said, and Tariq pulled her into an exuberant hug.

“Oh, good!” he exclaimed. “Always tell me if they hurt, okay? I want to stop mine as soon as possible if yours are hurting you.”

Although Laila made herself roll her eyes, drawling back, “You worry too much,” she was genuinely touched by the genie’s concern.

“No I don’t!” Tariq pointed out. “Because you worry way more than I do, and you don’t worry too much. You worry just the right amount.”

Laila laughed. Was there anything they didn’t think was perfect about her? “Fine, have it your way,” she replied.

Wishes or no wishes, there was no way she could just send Tariq back to his lonely lamp, Laila realized. Not an option.

Most of the time, life seems to happen in ways you’d expect. You book jobs or you don’t, the weather is always just slightly off what your app tells you, your old roommate from college is gonna give her ex one more chance (for the last time, she swears!), and you get a discount email from that slightly-too-pricey takeout place exactly three days after you’ve been there.

It was a lot like movies that way, where you know the couple isn’t getting together until the last minute, the ragtag team of scrappy underdogs is gonna win the championship, and the hero is gonna walk away calmly as the bad guy’s lair explodes behind them. Seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all, right?

But life, like movies, was still capable of surprising you every now and then. Megan could’ve never imagined getting an Oscar nod for Best Sound Editing at 33, and even though she didn’t win, it was thrilling just to hear her name share space with some of the best folks in her industry. That was a big ol’ surprise right there. And then, of course, there was the very unexpected turn that night took and the wildly improbable sequence of events that followed.

Francisco Morales—bona fide Mexican movie star, Hollywood up and comer, and star of the indie film she’d sound edited—sought her out in the awards show crowd to congratulate her on her nomination. He wound up taking her to a party after the ceremony, and within a week, she had legit hung out in his hotel room, not once but twice, and they were DM-ing on the regular. How do things like that happen?

(Did she mention that he had a cold the whole time? Because he had a cold the whole time. Be still her goddamn kinky heart.)

Since then, most of Megan’s day-to-day life had ticked back over into ordinary. And the Francisco Morales part of it? Was somehow becoming incorporated into her ordinary, which Megan wasn’t sure if she’d ever fully get used to. It had happened gradually but astoundingly. Talking movies and work over DMs and video chats had turned into sharing memes and food pictures, then funny stories about their days, then honest admissions of deeper stuff.

And somewhere, in all that, it became more than DMs and video chats. Megan had practically been making heart eyes at Francisco from the moment she met him, so nothing unusual on her side, but he kind of bowled her over that night when they were chatting and he stopped and said, “I want to hear your laugh every day.” Megan, who happened to be obliging him at that moment, grew serious at the something in his tone, the sincerity of it, the way she felt like his gaze was about to set her phone screen on fire.

Megan hadn’t been in a long-distance relationship since just after she moved to LA (that had crashed and burned in, what was it? three months? maybe four?), but when Francisco Morales is into you and he lives in Mexico City, you make it work. 

And it worked, better than Megan would’ve thought. Francisco’s fame back home kept him busy, but they found time for video dinner dates, Netflix watch parties (exchanging gifs and emojis during the show or movie, then calling to dissect it afterwards,) and late-night phone discussions while Megan sat out on her balcony, imagining the stars behind the light pollution.

Weirdly, it was kind of an ideal way to start dating. Away from the immediate vicinity of Francisco’s thousand-watt smile and dangerously-perfect jawline, Megan was better able to handle her freak-out reaction to being with him in the first place. When he was on her phone and not standing in front of her, she had time to contextualize him, not as Movie Star Francisco Morales, but as Francisco the person who just happened to be utterly gorgeous and a damn talented actor, the guy whose written DMs were about one-third emojis (his English was fantastic, but he was self-conscious about it in writing) and who was apt to send her pictures of incredible-looking meals with multiple exclamation points and zero context.

Thanks to that initial distance, when Francisco came out to LA seven weeks later for a few auditions and three days filming a bit part in big-budget zombie movie (“Spoiler—I die so bad!” he confided,) Megan was able to be like 80% girlfriend-ish and only 20% fangirl.

(But the sex. Good lord, the sex!)

Now, Francisco was in LA again—he was almost always working, which took up a lot of his time but conveniently helped in closing the distance between them—this time for close to a month. He’d booked a pretty decent-sized part in Semi-Fixable, a small film with some big actors. It was about a couple in an unhappy marriage, which nearly falls apart until the wife has an affair with a sexy young sailor (a.k.a. Francisco.) This makes the husband realize he still wants to fight for their marriage, and rather than deciding to live with Francisco on his boat forever and have sex every day (like a person with eyes would,) she ends up going back to her husband in the hopes of working it out.

At this point, Megan and Francisco had been seeing each other for a little over four months, and while they knew each other intimately through their long-distance arrangement, being in the same room was still in the new-and-deliciously-exciting phase. When Francisco broached the idea (almost shyly? bless him) of staying with her while he was in town, Megan pointed out that her cheap-ass apartment was prohibitively far away from where he’d be shooting, but it worked out. Being Mexico-famous made you kinda LA-middle-class, and Francisco scored a sublet on a small but stylish furnished apartment much closer to the action. Megan had been staying over pretty much every night since Francisco had arrived, and since she could generally work on sound editing anywhere her laptop was, it was way better than making Francisco shlep across zip codes every morning to get from her place to his set.

They were in bed now, sharing a post-sexytimes cuddle. “Are you excited?” Megan asked, walking her fingers lightly across Francisco’s bare chest.

He smiled at her, a sleepy sort of fondness and maybe just a hint of ticklishness. “Mostly excited,” he confirmed. “A little nervous too.”

His days so far had been spent on some pre-production stuff, but tomorrow was his actual first day of shooting. “You’re gonna kill it, obviously,” Megan informed him. He frowned at her and, realizing the phrase might not translate well between English and Spanish, added, “You’re gonna be awesome.”

“I hope so,” Francisco replied. “I’m glad I had a little time with Rebecca before, you know, before we shoot it tomorrow.”

Rebecca Soczek (pronounced “SO-check”) was a rom-com queen of the early 2000s, an actress with the kind of attitude that refused to change her name and the kind of clout that made people learn how to say it anyway. She’d fallen a bit off the radar since her heyday, and from what Francisco said, playing the wife in Semi-Fixable was something of a passion project for her, a complex leading role for a woman over 40 and a chance to stretch acting muscles a lot of people probably didn’t realize she had. 

The last time Francisco had been in LA, he’d gone in for a chemistry read with Rebecca, and in the lead-up to shooting, the film’s director had arranged a few lunch-date type meetings between Rebecca and Francisco before they had to film scenes together that were going to be, like, 80% wild monkey sex. And last weekend, Rebecca had actually paid for a spa day for her and Francisco, and to hear Francisco tell it, they spent the entire day getting to know each other over massages, facials, and body scrubs.

Full disclosure, Megan was a bit nervous about the whole thing. Obviously, sex scenes in a movie were worlds apart from actual sex—“You’re standing there with your dick in a sock and 50 people staring at you!” Francisco told her—and Rebecca Soczek was equal parts happily married and 18 years Francisco’s senior, but there was still just that little something that snagged insecurely in her brain when she thought about Francisco and Rebecca acting wild monkey sex together.

Like, for instance, they would be doing tomorrow.

“It’s—I mean, always it’s awkward,” Francisco was continuing. “And for the first day of me shooting! You know how, in the early days of CGI, there was so much greenscreen that there was nothing for the actors to hold onto, they didn’t know what to do? This is like that for sex scenes.”

Megan winced sympathetically. “I honestly can’t imagine taking my clothes off in front of a camera,” she said.

Francisco leaned in to kiss her neck. “You would have nothing to worry about,” he assured her, grinning cheekily as he lifted the sheet to take a peek at her.

Megan couldn’t help grinning back, even as a small part of her mind was trying to remember how Rebecca Soczek looked (besides flawless) in her less-than-dressed scenes from a few of her old romcoms. “You tell the most charming lies,” she replied.

Francisco cupped his hands around her thighs, which he could somehow do without making her feel self-conscious about her body. “I’m only telling you what I see,” he insisted.

Megan wondered if he could sense her nerves, if he was trying to make her feel better even though he was the one that was going to be naked on a film set tomorrow. But in a weird way, his nerves did make her feel better about her own.

“Oh,” Francisco went on, “but I was going to say, it’s better if you’ve met the person. Even if you haven’t acted together before, it’s good to talk and understand each other a little, not just say, ‘Hello, so great to meet you! I’m going to put my hands on your breasts now.’”

He managed to make Megan laugh with that one. “Yeah,” she agreed, “feels like you’ve missed a few steps there.”

“Just a few,” Francisco said, his smile brightening the dim room. He moved his fingers gently through her curls, then gave a resigned sigh. “I should sleep,” he admitted. “I have to be on set early tomorrow.”

“Absolutely,” Megan replied. “Gotta be ready for action.” And even though her stomach still did a bit of an odd flip to think that the next person in Francisco’s arms would be Rebecca Soczek, she gave him one last kiss and then rolled over to switch off the lamp.

Aasif walked briskly back from the kitchens, his quarry tucked into his sleeve. No reason to advertise—the servants or guards would only wonder why he was carrying such a thing through the palace, and he really didn’t see why anyone else had to know.

He returned to his bedroom and set his prize on his desk. For a moment, he just eyed it, wondering about the best way to begin. Should he just go for it?

At that moment, his door opened, and Aasif let out a long-suffering sigh. “What do you want, Sita?” he called over his shoulder. It had to be his sister. Any of the palace staff would’ve knocked, and his parents didn’t come to him—they’d send one of the servants to fetch him.

Sita hung back in the doorway, holding up a vase of cut flowers. “I got these from the gardens, thought you might like some,” she explained.

Well, how was Aasif meant to be annoyed with her when she was all thoughtful? It was one of the most aggravating things about his sister. “Yes, thank you,” he said in a resigned tone. “Come on in.”

He stood in front of the desk to block her view, but Sita didn’t seem to be paying much mind anyway. “What are you up to?” she asked, fussing with the (admittedly very pretty) flowers as she walked into the room.

“Oh, you know—plots, schemes, the usual,” Aasif replied.

“Huh?” She looked up at him.

Aasif chuckled. “Nothing, Sita.”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “Right.” As she looked around the room, Sita murmured to herself, “Now where to put you?”

“Maybe over by the—” Aasif started to say, gesturing to his bedside table, but Sita approached the desk instead.

“What about here?” she asked in the same breath as Aasif. Slipping past him, Sita set the vase down and was pulled up short by what she found on the desk.

“That’s a hearth pepper,” she said.

Aasif gave the thing a glance. “Is it?” he mused, as if he’d only just noticed himself.

“Why do you have a hearth pepper in your room?” Sita wondered.

No, she was annoying. Definitely annoying. “It brightens up the atmosphere,” Aasif drawled back.

“Aasif,” Sita said.

Aasif’s sister could be meek and withdrawn in company, but if she felt comfortable enough with you, she could be downright stubborn. With another sigh, Aasif admitted, “I need…practice.”

Sita frowned. “Practice at what? Eating the hottest food that grows in Iqara?” Rolling her eyes, she asked, “Is this a bet? With who, Rashad from the stables?”

“It’s not a bet,” Aasif told her. “It’s…” Between the two of them, it was very rare that Aasif was the tongue-tied one. He wondered if Sita was enjoying the role reversal. “Look,” he finally said, “it’s to help me get ready for seeing Tariq again.”

“But why would Tariq want you to—?” Sita began, and Aasif saw the exact moment she realized what he was doing. Her eyes widened in surprise, and a small laugh escaped her.

Aasif gave a small huff and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Go on, say it.”

“You’re trying to get the hiccups?” Sita asked.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Aasif retorted. “I always get so embarrassed and cranky when I have them. Tariq’s curse is non-negotiable, so I have to figure out a way to get used to them. And I thought, practice—this is the first thing I could think of that might work.”

As she thought this over, Sita cocked her head. “Wait here,” she told him. “You’d better at least have some milk ready for yourself, or you’ll regret this fast.”

All right, so Aasif couldn’t be annoyed at Sita’s smarts either, not when they saved him from his own impulsivity. “Yeah,” he agreed, nodding. “Good idea.”

Heading for the door, Sita added, “I mean, you might regret the idea anyway. But at least you can prepare yourself for the fallout.”

“Thanks, Sita!” Aasif called after her.

While he waited, Aasif discovered that he was starting to feel apprehensive about the whole thing. Whenever the cooks served dishes made with hearth peppers, it never took more than a few mouthfuls for him to start sweating, and that was when they were blended into a sauce. They were supposed to be even hotter when they were raw, weren’t they?

That was the trouble with Sita’s pragmatism—when she pointed out all the logic, it gave you time to second-guess yourself. If not for her, Aasif would have done it already. Of course, that might’ve meant he’d be curled up on the floor with his mouth on fire, so there were pitfalls on either side.

A few minutes later, Sita returned with a pitcher of milk and a goblet. “You didn’t tell anyone what you needed it for, did you?” Aasif asked.

“Of course not,” Sita replied. “I didn’t think you’d want the servants to know the man you like is cursed, so you’re giving yourself the hiccups to help you cope with it.”

“Not man,” Aasif pointed out.

Sita’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I don’t think Tariq’s a man,” Aasif explained. “Not exclusively, anyway.”

“What makes you say that?” Sita asked.

Was Aasif stalling? Hard to say. “Didn’t you hear Laila the last time they were here?” Aasif said. “She used ‘he,’ ‘she,’ and ‘they’ when she was talking about Tariq.” With a playful grin, he just nudged his sister. “Or when Laila talks, are you too busy getting lost in her eyes to hear what she says?”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Sita informed him, making a face.

“I happen to be an excellentjudge of my own humor,” Aasif countered.

“Fine—the person you like is cursed then,” Sita said. She sank down so she was eye level with the desk and looked at the hearth pepper. “Are you stalling?”

“I would never!” Aasif exclaimed. Sita raised her eyebrows at him and he realized that, if he talked much longer, he’d wind up backing out. If he wanted to go through with this, it would have to be now.

So, taking a breath, Aasif said, “I’m ready.” As he picked up the pepper by its stem, Sita filled the goblet with milk for him.

Just raising the hearth pepper near his face was enough to make his eyes water. Aasif told himself that that was good—it meant it had a good chance of working.

Okay, now or never.

Somehow reckless and cautious at the same time, Aasif took the smallest bite possible of the hearth pepper. It gave him about half a second of grace before it assaulted his tongue. By the time Aasif managed to swallow, he was already sweating.

“Oh-oh-oh!” he panted, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.

“Aasif,” Sita prompted. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she held up the goblet.

Aasif seized it with both hands and gulped down a few swallows. “Oh my g-*ulk!*-god!” He downed the rest of the milk and handed the goblet back to Sita. “More, pl-please,” he begged. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he fanned at his tongue.

“Yes, I have it,” Sita assured him.

Another hiccup hit him while she was refilling the goblet, a hard “*huck!*” God, his throat and chest were burning now too. “Hurry!” Aasif insisted, his eyes streaming.

Sita gave him the goblet and watched as he tried to quench the fire he’d just swallowed. “Aren’t you glad I came along?” she asked.

“Shut up,” Aasif replied between gulps of milk. It was helping a little—the heat wasn’t unbearable—but he still felt like, if he breathed too hard, his desk would go up like kindling. “*hup!*”

“At least it worked,” Sita offered, giving Aasif a sympathetic smile as she took the empty goblet from him and refilled it again.

Aasif wasn’t so sure. After four goblets of milk, he was feeling slightly more human again, but in that time, he only counted six hiccups.

“I don’t think I have them,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Sita argued. “You started hiccupping as soon as you swallowed it.”

“It made me hiccup,” Aasif conceded. “But I don’t think it’s given me the hiccups. It’s like th-*hmmk!*-they haven’t fully taken.”

Looking with grim resignation at the hearth pepper, Aasif realized, “I need to try again.”

Sita gave him an incredulous look. “Do you seriously want to put yourself through that a second time?”

“I’m nearly there,” Aasif told her. “At least, I think I am. I bet one mor-*herk!* bite would put me over the edge.”

Sighing, Sita refilled the goblet in readiness. “Have it your way.”

It took a firm resolve to back go for a second round when Aasif’s tongue still felt tender from his first attempt. But he reminded himself of Tariq’s sunshiny face and gorgeous black curls. If Aasif was going to get over his damn embarrassment over getting the hiccups, he’d have to face it head on.

The second bite was, if possible, even smaller than the first, but it packed just as much a wallop. Aasif’s poor beleaguered tongue, mouth, throat, and stomach staggered like wounded troops being told to get ready for the next bout.

Sita was on hand with the goblet, and Aasif doused his mouth with a few swallows before the first “*HUP!*” hit him. Another swallow, a “*HUCK!*--*ulk!*”, then a rat-a-tat of “*hmmp!**ULK!**HUCK!*” kept him from drinking any more.

With a wince, Sita offered, “Well done?”

Aasif nodded weakly through a “*HERK!*--*HUP!**HUP!*”, hiccupping too fast and too hard for much else. He’d never had hiccups this badly before, and he was all but at the mercy of them. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, he grimaced at the unforgiving drumbeat of hiccups slamming against his throat and chest, which were still searing from the heat of the pepper. “*HMMK!**HMMP!**hmmp!*--*ULK!**HMMK!*”

“Sit tight,” Sita told Aasif, squeezing his shoulder. She emptied the goblet back into the pitcher and ran to fetch a different one, the water pitcher by his wash basin. Hurriedly, she returned to the desk and refilled the goblet with water.

“Th-*HUP!**HUCK!*-the-*HMMK!*-point i-*HERK!*-is-*HMMP!**ulk!**HUCK!*-to h-*HUCK**HUCK!**HERK!*-hav-*ULK!**HMMK!**HUP!*”

Aasif gave up—he was barely eking out his words anyway, and from Sita’s expression, she was having trouble following him. Fumbling on his desk for paper and ink, he scrawled a hasty note in a hand that jerked from his hiccups.

The whole point is to have them, not cure them

Sita read his note, then looked back up at him. “I know,” she said. “But frankly, I doubt water would cure them right now. I was just thinking that it might slow them down a little, let you catch your breath.”

There she went again—logical. With a “*HMMP!**HERK!*--*HUCK!**HUP!**HUP!*--*hmmk!*”, Aasif nodded, and Sita gave him the goblet.

“Slowly,” she counseled. “See if you can manage a small sip.”

She had a point. Aasif would probably start sputtering and coughing if he tried to drink normally. He wasn’t sure what effect that might have on the hiccups, but he could guess that it wouldn’t be good.

“*ULK!**herk!**HUCK!**HERK!*” A tiny sip, barely enough to wet his tongue. “*HUP!**HMMK!*--*ULK!*” Another sip. “*HUP!**HUP!**HUCK!*” Another.

It took all of that goblet, but Aasif got himself down to the slightest reprieve between hiccups. “*HUCK!*--*ULK!*--*HERK!*--*hmmp!*” Although they were still much harder than his normal cases ever were—faster too—they felt like less of an assault on his body. “*HUP!*-Can-*HMMK!*-I-*HUCK!*-have-*HERK!*-anoth-*HMMP!*-nother?” he asked his sister.

“Yes, of course,” Sita replied reassuringly. She filled the goblet again.

By the time he got through a second goblet of water, Aasif still had a bad case of hiccups, but they weren’t unbearable. A fair amount of the spice had dissipated too, so he wasn’t feeling fresh heat with each hiccup anymore.

“All right-*HMMK!*-I think th-*HUCK!*-that will-*HUP!*--*hmmk!*-do,” Aasif announced. He threw himself into his desk chair in an exhausted-yet-dramatic pose, tipping his head onto the chair back and resting a weary hand on his stomach as it jerked with his hiccups.

“Are you all right now?” Sita asked.

“Some-*HMMP!*-thing like-*HERK!*-that,” Aasif told her. A hard “*HUCK!*” interrupted his groan.

“Look on the bright side,” Sita pointed out. “I know this turned out worse than you bargained for, but the next time you get them from Tariq’s curse, they won’t be nearly as bad as this.”

Aasif sighed. “*HUP!*--*HERK!* I suppo-*ulk!*-pose,” he agreed. “That’s s-*HUCK!*-something.” He glanced at Sita. “I’d pl-*HMMK!*-planned on-*HMMP!*--*huck!*-walking aroun-*HUP!*-the palace-*HERK!*-so I c-*HMMP!*-could prac-*HUCK!*-tice letting-*HUCK!*--*HUP!*-other p-*HMMK!*-people see-*hup!*-me with them, *HMMP!* but there’s-*HERK!*-no way in-*hmmk!*-in hell-*HUCK!*-I’m doin-*ULK!*-that with th-*HMMP!*-these.”

Sita nodded her understanding. “I think you’ve done more than enough ‘practicing’ for today,” she said. Patting his shoulder, she added, “Try to relax if you can. Is there anything else I can bring you?”

With a shake of his head, Aasif replied, “Thanks, Sita-*HUP!*” He rubbed his chest with his knuckles. “I’m ok-*HUCK!*--HERK!*-okay.”

“All right then.” Sita headed for the day. “I’ll leave you be. I hope you don’t have them long!”

“Me-*hup!*-too!” Aasif called after her.

Once he was alone, Aasif got up, walked across the room, and sprawled his hiccupping self onto his bed. This maybe wasn’t one of his more brilliant ideas, although not even Sita could deny that it was clearly effective.

Once Malcolm was through texting his mum for Andy, they went quiet. Andy turned his attention back to his soup, and Malcolm took out his book. He kept his arm casually round Andy, sometimes running a gentle hand along Andy’s arm. Too much quiet often felt stifling to Andy, but he didn’t mind it tonight. Much else would’ve been overstimulating, he thought.

He wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when his phone buzzed. “It’s my mom,” Malcolm told Andy as he picked it up. “She says, ‘Absolutely, honey. Sleep well, and feel better soon.’”

Andy felt a tired smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Tell her thank you, with a heart emoji,” he requested. “And find a good GIF of somebody sleeping.”

Malcolm showed him one of Anna from Frozen, dribbling on her pillow with her hair a mess. “Oh god…” Andy murmured, cringing. “N-not that o-- one…haaahhhhhhh-ehhhhhh-chiuhhhhhh!”

“No problem,” Malcolm replied. He scrolled a bit, then found one of a cat curled up asleep on a pillow. “How’s that?”

“Yeah, do that one,” Andy said.

After he sent the text, Malcolm asked, “Are you finished?”

Andy frowned. “Huh?” Malcolm nodded to his half-empty bowl. With a sigh, Andy insisted, “It’s really good. I-I’m just not—”

“It’s all right,” Malcolm assured him. “Why don’t I put the rest in the fridge? You can have it tomorrow.”

The thought was somehow comforting and dismaying at the same time—Andy wasn’t sure how his brain managed it. There was the comfort of knowing Mrs. Forrester’s cooking would be waiting for him tomorrow, along with the dismay of realizing he’d still be ill.

“Okay,” Andy mumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Be right back,” Malcolm told him.

Once he’d seen to the soup, Malcolm came back to the bed, putting his arm round Andy again. “Anything else you need?”

Andy sniffled. “I think I want that forehead kiss now.”

Malcolm smiled. “Sounds good.” He bent down and planted a soft kiss on Andy’s forehead.

“Mmm,” Andy murmured, closing his eyes. He was quiet for a minute or two—it sounded like Malcolm had gone back to his book—and then he admitted, “I’m still going to be ill tomorrow, I think.”

“Yeah, that’d be my guess,” Malcolm agreed. “If you’re feeling pretty crappy, we’ll stay home. Better to have you spend a few days in bed getting over your cold instead of being miserable for half our vacation as you drag yourself out of the house.”

He was right, Andy knew that, but it was still bitterly disappointing to think about. “I g-- I guess…aaahhhhhh…hehhhhhh-uhhhhhhh…”

The sneeze wouldn’t come. Andy sat up a little, scrubbing at his nose with his finger. “Is it stuck?” Malcolm asked.

Groaning, Andy nodded. “Try looking at the lamp,” Malcolm suggested.

Andy did as Malcolm said. The light made the tickle in Andy’s nose stronger, fiercer, but he couldn’t get himself all the way to a sneeze, “Eurgh, f-fuhhhh-- fuck!” he grumbled.

“Here, let me try the overhead light,” Malcolm said. He hopped out of bed and flicked the switch on. 

“huhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHH! Ihhhhhh-hehhhhhhh-chioooooo!” Andy sneezed. “Ehhhhhh-hahhhhhhhh…hihhhhhhhhh-shoooooooo!”

As he turned the light back off and climbed into bed again, Malcolm gave Andy a sympathetic wince. “Oof, bless you.”

“Y-- yeah,” Andy said, sniffling wetly. He grabbed a couple tissues to give his nose a proper blow, then curled back up on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Sorry—it’s gross.”

“It’s okay,” Malcolm told him.

Andy sniffled again. “Will you stay in here until I fall back asleep?”

“Sure,” Malcolm replied with a nod. “Are you ready to lie down?”

“No,” Andy said. “Later.”

“All right.”

Stifling a cough into his knuckles, Andy added, “But if I fall asleep against you, move me down onto the pillow, okay? Don’t stay stuck here just because I’m lying on you.”

“Will do,” Malcolm promised.

Andy gave a weary smile, snuggling up so closely you’d have thought he was trying to burrow into Malcolm. When he was tired and stressed and feeling awful, Malcolm was everything he needed.

*           *           *

“aaaahhhhhh-hehhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHHH! ihhhhhhh-ahhhhhhh…huhhhhhhhhhh-SHOOOOOO-ehhhhhhhh!”

Andy murmured a soft groan as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Messy?” Malcolm asked quietly. Andy nodded with a sweet sort of whimper. Malcolm gave him a squeeze. “Do you want me to get you a washcloth?”

With another whimper, Andy said, “I don’t want you to go.”

“Just for a minute,” Malcolm told him, brushing his knuckles along Andy’s flushed cheek. “It’ll help you get cleaned up.” He knew how Andy hated feeling gross when he was sick.

As Andy thought this over, he rubbed his face with his clean hand. “Eurgh, yeah—okay,” he finally decided.

“Okay,” Malcolm echoed. Gently, he eased himself away from Andy, making sure he left his boyfriend in a comfortable position. He walked to the bathroom, where he put a little soap onto a washcloth and ran it under warm water.

Coming back into the bedroom, Malcolm said, “Here you go.” He sat down on Andy’s side of the bed and handed him the washcloth.

“Thank you,” Andy murmured in small, fragile-sounding voice. “I-I…hihhhhhhhhhh…” Malcolm plucked a Kleenex out of the box and gave it to Andy, who hurriedly buried his face in it. “haaahhhhhhhhhhh-SHIUHHHHHHHHH! Unnnhhhhhh…”

Andy blotted at his nose with the Kleenex, then let it fall into the wastebasket beside the bed. He blinked back a few tears as he turned his attention to the washcloth, carefully cleaning his hands and face. 

“Is that any better?” Malcolm asked. Andy nodded. Cupping Andy’s cheek, Malcolm brushed away a stray tear with his thumb. His hand traveled up to Andy’s brow. “Kiss?” Malcolm suggested, stroking Andy’s temple to indicate the spot.

Andy nodded again, and Malcolm softly kissed his temple. Getting back into bed, he let Andy fall into his arms, clinging to Malcolm’s shirt as he rested his head on Malcolm’s shoulder.

Malcolm wished there was more he could do to help, but luckily, Andy’s exhaustion finally seemed to be winning out over his misery. Over the next few minutes, his congested breathing got slower and more restful, and his grip on Malcolm’s shirt loosened.

He’d made Malcolm promise to lie him down after he fell asleep, but Malcolm waited a few extra minutes after Andy started to mumble in between stuffed-up snores. After the terrible day he’d had, the last thing Malcolm wanted was to accidentally wake Andy up right as he was drifting off.

When he was assured that Andy was sleeping soundly enough that Malcolm moving wouldn’t bother him, Malcolm gently shifted his boyfriend down onto the mattress, making sure the pillow was comfortably under his head. Andy murmured a little, sniffling, and Malcolm stroked his cheek.

He wasn’t quite sure how to arrange the blankets—he opted for a middle ground, covering Andy with the sheet and one lighter-weight blanket while pushing the comforter aside, leaving it within easy reach so Andy could pull it up if he needed it.

“hihhhhhhhh-ehhhhhhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHHHH!” Andy sneezed, then coughed, turning his face toward the pillow.

“Bless you,” Malcolm whispered. Softly, he rubbed Andy’s back and brushed his dark hair back from his forehead. “Good night. Sleep well.”

Maritza caught up to Eric just outside the bathroom. “Hey,” she said. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him into an alcove so they wouldn’t have an audience. “You okay?”

Eric ducked his head, rubbing his mouth with his thumb. “Yeah,” he told her. “I j-*hup!*” Grimacing a little, he cleared his throat.

“Let me rephrase that,” Maritza said gently. “You’re not okay.”

For a second, Eric looked like he was going to try to keep his game face on. Then he sighed and leaned against the wall with a shake of his head. “Not really,” he admitted, wincing at a hard “*hmmk!*”

Maritza nodded. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Can I do anything to help?”

“I don’t kn-*hic-ulk!*-know,” Eric replied. With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes

“Getting a headache?” Maritza asked. Eric nodded, and she beckoned for him to stoop so she could kiss his temple.

“Do you want to try your normal cure again?” she wondered. “It might work now that you’re away from…all that.”

Eric sighed again. “*hmmk-mmk!* He grimaced. “I just wa-AN-na get out of here-*hmmp!*” he confessed.

“Okay,” Maritza agreed quietly. “I could go get our server, ask her for our portion of the check. I can bring it back here to you.”

“No,” Eric said, shaking his head. He raked his fingers through his hair. “I c-*hmmk!*-I can pay up-- front. If you could d-*hup!*-do the talking?”

“Of course,” Maritza promised.

“And…*hmmk-mmp!*” Eric rubbed his mouth with his knuckles, looking out in the direction of their table. “I really d-*hulk!*-don’t wanna go ba-*hmmk!*-ck there.”

“No problem,” Maritza assured him. “I’ll ask the server to meet you up front with the check, then grab our stuff.” She squeezed his hand. “I got you, okay?”

Eric nodded, offering her a weak smile. “Tha-AN-nks.”

Maritza stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “See you on the other side,” she teased lightly.

Stepping out of the alcove, Maritza’s first order of business was to flag down their server. “Hi, excuse me,” she said, smiling politely. “Thank you for a lovely night, but Mr. Langdon-Reyes and I need to leave early. Could I ask you to bring him the check for our meals at the front of house? We had the—”

“Yes, I know,” the server replied briskly, nodding. “Right away, miss. Shall I have someone box up your leftovers?”

“That would be great, thank you!” Maritza enthused. From a young age, Mami had drilled into her the importance of not wasting food, and even though Eric could obviously afford it, the thought of any chicken or lobster tail left behind killed Maritza a little.

“Oh,” she added as the server turned to go. “Also, Mr. Langdon-Reyes isn’t feeling very well.” At the woman’s alarmed look, she clarified, “It’s nothing to do with the food, don’t worry! But if you can avoid any pleasantries or asking him about the meal, I know he’d appreciate it. He just wants to get home and doesn’t feel like talking.”

“Of course, miss,” the server said with a nod. “I’ll send someone for those leftovers right now.”

“Thank you so much,” Maritza told her. As the server strode away, Maritza pulled out her phone and texted Eric.

Server coming to you with the check, you won’t have to talk to her. I’ll be there in a minute

She walked back to the table, already beginning to talk as she approached so none of the Camden crew could start in with anything. “Hey, we’ve gotta head out,” Maritza announced as she grabbed her bag and both their coats. “Langdon isn’t feeling well.”

“What?” Danielle exclaimed. “Since when?”

“Is he seriously wussing out on us?” Brody asked.

“Over fucking hiccups?” Jason added, scoffing.

Although Maritza didn’t owe any of these guys an explanation, she saw a server coming out of the kitchen with a pair of to-go boxes, so she couldn’t just walk away yet. “Actually, he’s got a migraine coming on,” she retorted. Not strictly true, but it shut them up.

“Ohhh, really?” Danielle cried. “Is he okay?”

“He will be,” Maritza said as the server reached the table and got to work on the leftovers. . “Just gonna get him back to his apartment so he can lie down.”

“Convenient timing,” Jason observed.

“Is that right, Jason?” Maritza replied. “It’s ‘convenient’ to get a blinding headache that basically knocks you off your feet? I’ll keep that in mind.”

He didn’t get to give his comeback, because at that moment, the server finished boxing up the food. “Thank you for coming, miss,” she said. “I hope Mr. Langdon feels better soon. Would you like me to bring these out to his car for you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Maritza answered, accepting the boxes. “Thank you for your help. Mr. Langdon-Reyes and I both appreciate it.”

Then, tossing the Camden crowd a sweet smile that rivaled the best Danielle could muster, Maritza turned on her heels and walked away.

When she didn’t see Eric up by the front of the restaurant, Maritza checked her phone and saw a text she’d missed:

Thanks. Paid the check, going to wait in the car

No fewer than three staff thanked her for coming on her way out the door—Maritza hoped Eric wasn’t too stressed about having to get through that gauntlet. As she took quick strides across the parking lot, Maritza came to a stop in front of Eric’s car, wincing sympathetically at the sight of him sitting glumly in the driver’s seat.

“Hey,” Maritza said, climbing in on her side. “I come bearing leftovers.”

Eric nodded. “Thanks f-*hmmk!*-for doing that.” With a sigh, he slumped forward and rested his head in his folded arms over the steering wheel. “I-- I’m sorry, that was s-*holp!*-so dumb.”

“It’s fine,” Maritza insisted. She placed a light hand on Eric’s shoulder.

“No, i-*hmmk-mmp!*-it’s stupid to g-*hulk!*-get all flustered by somethi-ING-ng that doesn’t even-*hmmk!*-matter,” Eric told her. He raked both hands through his hair, pressing his forearms against his temples. 

Maritza had seen Eric feeling stressed about things before, but never as bad as this. A testament to how awful he was feeling, or a sign that he felt comfortable enough with her to drop his relaxed, accommodating persona?

Or maybe a little of both?

“You had every reason to get out of there,” Maritza said. She started massaging his shoulder gently. “First of all, ‘wanting to leave’ is a perfectly valid reason on its own, so you didn’t need anything more than that. But your classmates were being obnoxious, you were embarrassed and stressed, and your head hurts. It would’ve been dumb to stay when you’re dealing with all that.”

“*hmmp!*” Slowly, Eric lifted his head and sank back against the driver’s seat. “I didn’t mean t-*huck!*-to ruin our ni-- night.”

“Nothing’s ruined,” Maritza told him.

Eric glanced at Maritza, then looked away. “You did-*hmmp!*-didn’t even get desser-*herk!*-t.”

“Pretty sure there’s ice cream at the apartment,” Maritza pointed out.

“You kn-*hmmp!*-know what I-*hic-ulp!*-mean,” Eric replied. He sighed again.

“So you can make it up to me later this week,” Maritza said. “Eric, I don’t care about the dessert. I just want to get you home so you can start feeling a little less shitty. Okay?”

Nodding, Eric rubbed his knuckles across his mouth. Maritza carefully drew it away and interlaced their fingers. “Is this all right?” she asked.

“Uh h-*hulk!*-uh huh,” Eric said.

“Are you okay to drive?” He nodded again, and Maritza gave his hand a squeeze before letting go.

Luckily, Eric’s place was only about a five-minute drive from the restaurant. In nicer weather, they might have walked there, but it was chilly tonight. Maritza found herself feeling grateful for the cold—she was sure Eric wanted to get back as soon as possible.

They didn’t say anything further on the drive. Eric kept his mouth closed, not tightly enough to fully stifle his hiccups, but enough to muffle them a little. “*hmmks!*” and “*mmk-mmps!*” that made his head snap back. Maritza put on a playlist on low volume, thinking Eric might not want his hiccups to be the only sound breaking up the quiet.

When they got back to the apartment, Maritza said, “Here,” and she motioned for Eric to turn so she could pull him into a long hug.

“Than-*hulk!*-thanks,” Eric replied in a low voice.

While she was holding him, Maritza could feel Eric’s hiccups. They weren’t super hard—he’d definitely had them worse than this before—but there was still some decent force behind them. “Do they hurt?” she asked.

“Wha-*hmmp!* Mmm…” Eric must’ve realized what she meant, because he shook his head. “No. *hic-ulp!* I just wish they-- they’d stop.”

“Yeah,” Maritza murmured in sympathy, scratching his back. “I’ll get you some water, all right?”

Eric rubbed his face with both hands. “Yeah, o-*hmmk!*-okay.”

Maritza went to the kitchen, stuck their to-go boxes in the fridge, and filled up a glass with water. But when she poked her head back out into the hallway, Eric had gone. She tried the living room, and he wasn’t in there either.

Just as Maritza was about to call his name, she heard a “*hic-uck!*” coming from the direction of the bedroom. Following the noise, she found Eric sitting on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his temples. He’d unbuttoned his nice shirt and taken off his shoes.

“Here you go,” Maritza told him. “You want some ibuprofen for your headache?”

“Oh-*hup!*” Eric mumbled as he accepted the glass. “Uh, yea-*hmmk!*-yeah, thanks.”

Maritza kissed the top of his head and stroked his temple. “Back in a sec.”

She crossed the hall to the bathroom and grabbed the ibuprofen out of the medicine cabinet. By the time she got back, Eric was just finishing the water. As he held his breath, Maritza swapped him the pill bottle for the glass. “I’ll get you some more for your ibuprofen,” she explained.

One more trip across the hall. She’d just slipped back into the bedroom when Eric let out a slow exhale. He didn’t get through it without another hiccup, a hard “*hic-ulk!*” Groaning, Eric crossed his arms over his face and fell back onto the bed.

Maritza grimaced. She hated to see him so frustrated and glum. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That sucks. Do you wanna give it another shot?” Eric shook his head, jerking with a “*herk!*” As he’d flopped down onto the bed, the T-shirt underneath his button-down had ridden up a little, and his stomach was exposed as it popped out and back in with his next “*holk!*”

“All right,” Maritza said. She sat down on the bed beside him. “How ‘bout your medicine?”

Hiccupping through another groan, Eric nodded. He uncovered his face and rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on elbows. Maritza gave him the water, and he took sips as he swallowed a couple pills, timing them between hiccups.

“There we go,” Maritza remarked. She set the glass on the nightstand. “Do you want to just lie down? It might help if you’re able to relax a little.”

“Ughh-*huck!*” Eric made a face. “You must th-*hic!*-think I’m so la-- ame right now. *hic-erk!* I don’t blame y-*hmmp!*-you.”

“You’re not lame,” Maritza said. “You’re having a bad night. That’s not your fault.”

For a long moment, Eric was quiet, apart from his hiccups. Finally, he replied. “Yeah. I j-*hmmk!*-just wanna g-*holk!*-go to bed.”

“You got it,” Maritza told him, lightly massaging his neck. “Does it bother you to have me in here? I can sleep in the guest room tonight if you need some alone time.”

But Eric shook his head. “It’s not as b-*hmmk-mmp!*-as bad when you’r-*herk!*-here,” he said.

Maritza offered him a quiet smile. “Okay.”

Soon, they both in bed, lying down together while Eric softly played with Maritza’s hair. His hiccups hadn’t let up, but Maritza thought they might be calming down a bit. It sounded like they were coming further apart, and they weren’t making him jerk as much.

“Hiccups don’t always get you that stressed, do they?” Maritza asked. “I never really thought they bothered you that much.” She hoped Eric didn’t feel that bad whenever he got them. First, because it was clearly awful for him to an overwhelming level, and she didn’t want him to feel like that. And second, because she hated the thought that she might’ve seen him this badly stressed out before and completely missed the signs.

That was the tricky part about dating a skillful social code-switcher—Maritza never wanted to think Eric was fine when he wasn’t.

“No, not li-- like this,” Eric replied. “If I’m by-*huck!*-by myself or it’s just u-*hmmp!*-us, I don’t really mind th-*hulk!*-them. It’s more if I get them some-*hmmk!*-where I really don’t want to ha-AV-e them, especially if I c-*hic-uck!*-can’t get rid of them.”

“And it doesn’t help when Jason’s being a dick,” Maritza ventured.

“Right,” Eric confirmed. “Or-*hmmk!*-or when Danielle’s putti-*hic!*-putting all the attention on m-- me.”

I knew it! Maritza thought. She snuggled a little closer to Eric. “Is this okay?”

“Mmm hmm-*mmp!*” Eric cleared his throat. “And then some-- sometimes, being str-*hulk!*-stressed about it just makes it wor-*herk!*-rse.”

“What do you mean?” Maritza asked. “It makes the hiccups worse?”

“It can,” Eric admitted. “*hic-uck!* But also just the whole th-*hmmk!*-thing. I know it’s d-*hup!*-dumb to freak out over hiccu-- hiccups, so then it’s like I get-*hulk!*-stressed about being stressed and-*hmmp!*” He sighed a little. “I really ha-*hulp!*-hate it.”

“Yeah,” Maritza agreed, leaning in to kiss his temple. “I hate it for you.”

“Mmm,” Eric murmured. “*hmmk-mmp!* Thanks.”

The events of the night must’ve worn him out, because by the time Eric’s hiccups finally went away, he’d half nodded off. Maritza lay beside him, gently massaging the pinched furrow out of his brow while she listened to his slow, even breaths. She wished she could keep him from ever having to feel like that. But since she knew that wasn’t really in her power, she decided to settle for the next best thing: whenever possible, being there for him when he was stressed and down on himself.

Andy felt someone gently shaking him awake. “Mmm…” he mumbled, sniffling and stretching.

“Hey,” Malcolm replied, his voice quiet and gentle. “Sorry to wake you, but my mom brought you some soup.” At Andy’s hesitant look, he added, “She left already—she just knows she’s better at the whole ‘home-cooked meal’ thing than I am.”

“Oh,” Andy said. Coughing into the back of his hand, he sniffled and pushed himself up in bed. “Did you thank her for me?”

Malcolm nodded. He’d left the overhead light off, just switched on the lamp on the bedside table. “And you can text her if you want, obviously. Here.” He held out a steaming bowl.

“W-wait…” Andy said, catching a hard “AAAHHHHH-hihhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhhh!” in his hand. “I want to blow my nose before I eat.”

“Sure,” Malcolm replied. “Do you want me to step out for a minute, or should I just go, or…?”

“No, it’s okay,” Andy told him. He plucked a few tissues from the box and blew his nose, breaking off into coughing. With a wince, he reached for his water and took a sip.

“All right?” Malcolm asked. Andy nodded, rubbing his nose. “Ready for soup?”

“Yeah,” Andy said. Malcolm gave him the bowl, which was warm in Andy’s hands and immediately felt homey and comforting.

“Aww, chicken soup,” he murmured fondly as he looked down into the bowl.

“Can’t go wrong there,” Malcolm remarked.

“No, you can’t,” Andy agreed. He tried his first spoonful of shredded chicken, carrots, and celery in broth. He still couldn’t taste much, but he could tell Mrs. Forrester had added a bit of spice to the soup. A dash of tabasco, maybe, or a little cayenne pepper—Andy thought that was nice of her. 

“Hehhhhhh-ihhhhhhh-shiuhhhhh!” he sneezed, catching it in the crook of his arm. “hahhhhhh…ehhhhhhh-CHOOOO!”

“Bless you,” Malcolm said. “Is it okay?”

“Yeah,” Andy replied. Clearing his throat, he ate another spoonful.

Between Malcolm’s gentle attentiveness, his mum’s homey soup, and Andy’s muddled head, Andy could feel himself tearing up a bit. He sniffled hard and wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist.

“Do you want a hug?” Malcolm asked. Andy nodded, and Malcolm leaned down over the bed to give him a tight squeeze. Andy couldn’t fully hug him back while holding a bowl of soup, but he circled his free arm round his boyfriend’s waist.

“Gehhh-get b-ba-aack…” he urged as his nose started playing up again. Malcolm let go of Andy and took a step back. Andy pressed the strong, wet “huhhhhhhhhh-SHOOOOOO-ehhhhhh!” into the crook of his arm. When he looked up, Malcolm had a tissue ready for him. “Thanks,” he murmured with a sniffle, sinking back against the pillow.

“No problem,” Malcolm told him. “Need more time by yourself?”

Blotting at his nose, Andy shook his head. “Can you stay in here with me?”

“Sure,” Malcolm replied. “You tell me how close or far away you want me to be, and that’s what we’ll do, okay?”

God, Malcolm was just everything Andy needed sometimes. He stifled a cough into the back of his hand, then patted Malcolm’s side of the bed. “Here?”

“You got it,” Malcolm assured him.

As he moved round to sit on the bed, Andy added, “O-oh, but—but I don’t know if I really want to…” he sniffled, “I mean, I don’t want to do much of anything, like chatting o-or…” He grimaced. “I don’t want you to be bored.”

Malcolm nodded, thinking. “Why don’t I go grab my book?” he suggested. “I’ll sit in bed with you and read while you eat.”

“Okay,” Andy said quietly.

As Malcolm slipped out of the room, Andy had a bit more soup. He wasn’t that hungry, although he figured he probably should have been—he’d not eaten very much of his jerk pork at lunch. Still, the soup was much easier on his throat, so it was going down all right.

“ihhhhhhh-hehhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHHH!” He swallowed a groan, but his nose was still itching. “Aahhhhhh…hihhhhhhh…huhhhhhhhh-shoooooooo! Eurgh….” Andy wiped his nose.

Malcolm returned with a book under his arm. “Hey.”

Andy managed a slight smile. “Hey,” he echoed.

As Malcolm sat down on the bed beside Andy, he asked, “Is this all right?”

“Yeah,” Andy replied, sniffling. He sipped his soup, then tucked himself up against the calm, reassuring presence of his boyfriend. “M-Malcolm?” he ventured hesitantly.

“What’s up?” Malcolm replied.

“Do you think you c-could…?” Andy sighed. Shit, why did he have to be so needy?

Malcolm turned to look at him. “What? It’s okay.”

Andy sighed again. He let one hand sink into his hair, mussing it up. “Could you put your arm round me please?”

“Oh, right!” Malcolm exclaimed, and he did just that. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure how much affection you wanted, but I thought asking you about it might stress you out. But no, anything you want or need, just tell me, all right?”

“All right.” Andy coughed a little into his fist. “I just feel tired and rubbish.”

“I know.” Malcolm lightly rubbed a circle on Andy’s shoulder with his thumb. “Were you able to sleep much?”

“Yeah, I-I think so,” Andy replied. “I, hehhhhhhh…” He tensed as he sneezed a hard “ihhhhhhh-SHIUHHHHHHH!” into his head. “I’m sort of, I dunno, fuzzy, and I’m not sure how long I was asleep. But I know I slept some.”

Malcolm nodded. “Do you remember if you were tossing and turning a lot?”

Andy groaned. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“It’s okay,” Malcolm assured him. “Eat your soup.”

“hihhhhhhh…huhhhhhhhhh-CHOOOOO-ehhhhh!” Andy sneezed into the back of his hand. “Mmm hmmm.” He ate another couple spoonfuls. “I need to thank your mum. It was so sweet of her to make this for me.”

“Do you want to text her?” Malcolm suggested.

“Yeah,” Andy decided. As he leaned over to grab his phone off the bedside table, he realized, “Fuck, you already said something about that, didn’t you?” With another groan, he said, “My head’s all mucky tonight.”

“It really is,” Malcolm agreed. “That must suck—I’m sorry.”

“Uh huh.” Andy sniffled and stared down at his phone. “Eurgh, could you do it?” He offered the phone to Malcolm. “I’ll tell you what to say, and you type it?”

“Sure,” Malcolm said. He took the phone and pulled up Andy’s texts. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Andy sipped a little of his broth while he tried to organize his hazy thoughts. “Say, ‘Thank you so much for the soup. It was really thoughtful of you, and just what I needed. A-and…’” He frowned, rubbing his forehead. “How do I want to say, ‘Please don’t hate me for being so horrible today’?”

“I’ll tell you right now, she doesn’t hate you,” Malcolm replied. He considered the question. “How ‘bout, ‘It was a rough day, and I appreciate you bearing with me’?”

“Is that o-oka-aaay…?” Andy wondered, trailing off in a hard “ahhhhhh-hehhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHH!”

“Bless you—I think so,” Malcolm told him.

“All right, let’s do that,” Andy said. That’s why Malcolm was the politician—he fumbled sometimes when he was speaking off-the-cuff, but when he had time to prepare, he knew how to craft words to say exactly what he wanted.

Malcolm nodded. “Anything else?”

“Just emojis,” Andy said. Rubbing his nose, he let his head drop onto Malcolm’s shoulder. “Do, er, do two thank-you hands and a heart-hands.”

“Got it,” Malcolm replied. “Send?”

Andy winced as he cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Malcolm set the phone down, and Andy let himself sink back into the reassuring feel of Malcolm’s arm around him. Andy felt ill, glum, and clingy, and he felt dumb about feeling glum and clingy. But with Malcolm there, he also felt safe, assured that he wasn’t too much bother. And even if that couldn’t just wipe away his nastier feelings, it gave Andy hope that they’d go away sooner or later. For tonight, he hoped that’d be enough.

Meeting Eric’s mom was just about as scary as Martiza had imagined, and like Eric predicted, Maritza didn’t exactly wow Theresa Langdon. She was sort of coldly civil, which Eric told Maritza afterwards to count as a win.

“It’s just how she is,” Eric explained. “Nobody really impresses her.” He kept his voice light as he said it, but Maritza caught the hurt he was hiding behind it, and she drew him into her arms.

It was hard to imagine that Eric’s mom once had a baby with a man her own parents hadn’t approved of, a relationship that hadn’t been settled like a business contract. Had she retreated into chilliness when things hadn’t worked out with Eric’s dad? After stepping out of the expected high-society line, had she clung to their rules even tighter to get back in their good graces? Had she wanted to keep coloring outside the lines but life drummed it out of her?

Maritza didn’t know, and she thought that asking Eric about it might upset him. So she didn’t ask. She just wondered. At any rate, her questions helped keep her from taking Theresa’s aloof attitude too much to heart.

She also couldn’t help but think about Eric’s last name: Langdon-Reyes. Even though Eric’s dad hadn’t been “part of the plan,” as he’d once said, he still had both their names. His mom hadn’t prevented that. Maybe she’d even been the one to ensure it. And Maritza supposed that was something.

Winter break came and went. While Maritza had a fun time back home with her family and friends, she missed Eric too. They texted and video chatted to “an obnoxious degree,” according to Lila—easy for her to say, her new girlfriend lived a 20-minute bus ride away—and when she returned to Camden in January, Maritza found that she didn’t care about seeming lame or thirsty. She was just happy to be with him again.

“Would it be cool if I moved some more of my stuff over here?” she asked as they cuddled on the couch in Eric’s apartment on their first night back, cozied under a blanket.

If Maritza was lame and thirsty, Eric was too, because he gave her a squeeze and murmured, “Mmm, I’d love that.”

It wasn’t that Maritza was entirely wrapped up in Eric, honestly. Honestly. But as her class load got more demanding, she found she had less energy for the Camden elite and their bullshit and veiled microagressions—even if the latter had gotten less frequent and more covert since they found out she was dating Eric, that didn’t mean it had gone away entirely.

So more and more, they were spending their free time cocooned away from the rest of Camden. They’d put on jackets and gloves and go hiking at Evenswood, or they’d hit up the movie theater or indulge in lazy evenings at the apartment. Was it the most level-headed or balanced way to handle things? Maybe not, but Maritza was feeling increasingly over Camden, and she viewed their one-on-one time as coping strategies to get her through until she walked across that graduation stage and never looked back.

Still, they did occasionally have to put in “face time” with Eric’s friends. It was that weird quasi-networking thing where a lot of their parents did business with one another, so you couldn’t snub anybody for the sake of the stock market or something. It was dumb, and the fact that Maritza and Eric both knew it was dumb helped. As often as he could, Eric supplied plausible reasons for why they couldn’t go to this party or that group hang, limiting the time they spent with that crowd.

“You can totally go if you want,” Maritza told Eric one morning as they were walking Trail #2. “I don’t want to keep you from your friends. If I can stick to making the bare minimum of ‘appearances’ myself, I don’t mind you hanging with them on your own.”

“To be honest, I kind of like getting away from all that,” Eric admitted. “Those guys…” He shook his head, and Maritza caught his jaw clenching a little. At his grandpa’s birthday party, Eric’s best friend Olivia had walked Maritza through his “stress tells,” the small hints of “not okay-ness” that could bleed through even when he was putting on a good act.

“Even before we’d started seeing each other, I’d pretty much outgrown them,” he explained. “It’s nice to claim coupledom as a reason not to go to their stuff.” With a soft, self-conscious smile, he added, “And sometimes I get tired, having to be ‘on’ all the time, you know?”

Maritza took his hand, stopping them in the middle of the trail so they could kiss. “You should come around my way this summer,” she suggested. “Spend as much time in the city as you want. My friends are lovable weirdos who aren’t fake, and we’re good at adopting strays.”

She winked, and Eric laughed. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, putting his arm around her as they started up a leisurely stroll.

“Also, you badly need more melanin in your life,” Maritza told him. “People of color beyond just me and folks who work for your family.”

“God, I know,” Eric replied.

“Although, fair warning, my mom will spend the summer saying she has to fatten you up,” Maritza warned.

Eric grinned. “This plan just gets better and better.”

The following week, they had their requisite face time with the Camden crowd—that’s how Maritza had started thinking of them, which felt more accurate than “Eric’s friends.” They all met up for dinner at one of the fancier restaurants in town. Maritza’s Princess Diaries lessons with Eric had paid off well, and she could go to a high-end restaurant without getting confused about silverware, experiencing a gut punch of dread at the priceless menus, or feeling too out of place.

Of course, the Camden crowd could sneak in flasks and be rude to the waitstaff to their heart’s content, but god forbid if Maritza unfolded her napkin wrong.

She couldn’t deny that the food was really good, though. While she’d still take her abuelita’s cooking any day of the week, Maritza liked getting fancy dishes in three courses. Tonight, it was salmon croquettes for an appetizer, chicken in a delicious pomegranate sauce for her main, and she was already looking forward to dessert—she didn’t know what she was gonna get yet, but probably something chocolate.

Okay, so the food helped her get through it too. Easier to listen to Brody Chatsworth brag about his planned getaway to Ibiza for spring break when she was eating like royalty. “Ugh, I’d kill to go to Ibiza!” Hayley Cavendish groaned. “We’re just doing stupid St. Barts.”

“I like St. Barts,” Tina Franklin offered.

“It’s sooooooo boring!” Hayley insisted.

“What about you, Maritza?” Danielle Mercer asked sweetly. “What are you doing for spring break?”

“Go Greyhound,” Jason Hamilton murmured to Lindsey Westbrook, who laughed like she was on the verge of climax.

Maritza was learning that, while Jason and Lindsey were the most overt assholes of the group, Danielle wasn’t one to be counted out. She was good at looking doe-eyed while giving backhanded slaps, and she was always finding excuses to cozy up to Eric in ways she probably wouldn’t dare if he was dating Hayley or Tina.

And the truth was, Maritza had less than an interstate bus trip planned. “Nothing special,” she said, shrugging and pretending she didn’t see the smirks. “Probably just—”

Eric slipped his arm around her waist. “It’s a surprise, actually,” he informed the table.

At those words, the table was split between wordless surprise and tantalized exclamations. “Seriously? Langdon, that’s so generous of you!” Danielle said with an admiring sigh. She was sitting on the other side of him (because of course she was,) and she sort of hugged his free arm.

“Charitable, you might say,” Lindsey remarked.

Count Maritza among the “wordless surprise” contingent. “You, uh…huh?” she managed to stammer out. Was he actually planning on taking her somewhere, or was he just saying it to get everyone off her back?

“I don’t really see it that way,” Eric replied. “I like traveling, and I like spending time with Maritza, so it’s a win-win for me.”

His tone was casual, but he rubbed his thumb across his mouth: stress tell. Maybe Eric was planning a trip, maybe not. Either way, he didn’t like this conversation. Or Danielle hanging off him, for that matter.

“Hey, you’d better step it up,” Lindsey told Jason. “Langdon’s gonna start making you look bad.”

Maritza held back a snort of laughter. Start? For one, Jason didn’t need anybody to help him look bad. For another, Eric had been outclassing him since freshman year, at least.

“Oh yeah?” Jason asked. “‘Cause I was thinking the Virgin Islands.”

Brody laughed, probably because Jason said “virgin.” The whole Camden crowd launched into a debate about the best vacation spots, with lots of arguing between private beaches, ski resorts, and party destinations. Scintillating, they were not.

And hey, Maritza liked travel—or at least, she liked the idea of travel based on watching travel shows. But didn’t these guys ever talk about music or hobbies or interesting video essays they’d stayed up late watching on YouTube?

She started a little as Eric suddenly leaned over and murmured in her ear, asking, “Hey, can I h-- have some of your water-*mmp!*”

It was an odd question to ask in a restaurant filled with waitstaff that was ready to serve Camden kids at the drop of a hat, and Maritza answered, “Uh, sure,” on a kind of autopilot.

Shooting her a look and a grateful nod, Eric reached for her glass. That’s when Maritza noticed his jaw clenching. What was the matter? She glanced down at his plate. Had he swallowed down the wrong pipe or something?

Eric drank Maritza’s water with long, deep drafts, as if he was trying to quench a heavy thirst or put out a five-alarm fire on his tongue. But she couldn’t imagine his lobster tail was unbearably salty or spicy.

Then, setting the glass down, he drew in a breath and held it. Oh, crap.

He was rubbing his mouth again. Maritza rested her hand on Eric’s thigh and gave it a squeeze, hoping he’d welcome a comforting touch. He glanced at her and offered her a flicker of a smile.

When he exhaled, discreetly, Maritza saw Eric’s head jerk back within a couple seconds. “Didn’t work?” she asked in a low voice. He shut his head, running his hand through his hair.

Stress tell number three—the whole trifecta. Eric hiccupped again, keeping it completely silent. But Maritza caught the head jerk.

She couldn’t really blame him for being on edge. Maritza wouldn’t want to have the hiccups in front of these guys, either. Remembering how he’d helped her at his grandpa’s party, she whispered, “Do you want to go to the bathroom? I can come meet you in a minute or two, if you want some help.”

“Yo, Langdon!” This was Jason’s voice, and while it startled Eric, it unfortunately wasn’t enough to scare his hiccups away. He suppressed another.

As he turned toward Jason, Maritza saw Eric wait for his next stifled hiccup before he said, “What?”

Jason laughed. “You asleep over there or just eye-fucking Maritza?”

Eric cleared his throat. “What is it?” he asked, getting the question out between hiccups.

“Aspen or Vail?” Jason prompted.

“Oh.” Eric rubbed his knuckles across his mouth as he muffled another hiccup. “I’m not really that big a-*hup!*-a skier.” Maritza could practically see him willing himself not to cringe.

Most folks at the table didn’t seem to react—maybe they didn’t notice, but then Danielle cooed, “Ohhh, Langdon, do you have the hiccups?”

If blushes showed up on Eric’s complexion, Maritza would’ve bet money that he’d have been beet red. Ducking his head, he ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Um, y-- yeah.” He pressed his knuckles to his mouth and hiccupped again.

Brody laughed and Jason smirked, while Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Oh, poor thing!” Danielle cried. “Here, let me.” She signaled one of the servers. “Excuse me! We need more water over here!”

“No, it-*hmmp!*-it’s fine,” Eric insisted. “I already tri-- tried that.”

“Not like this, you haven’t,” Danielle replied. Adding an exasperated, “Not mine, his!”, she honest-to-god snapped her fingers at the server as she motioned for him to refill Eric’s glass.

Eric sank down a little in his chair. He held in another hiccup, then mumbled, “Thank you,” to the server, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Maritza winced. According to Olivia, when Eric’s stress tells persisted, headaches probably weren’t far behind. “Look, Danielle, just don’t worry about it, okay?” she offered. “It’s not a big deal.”

Normally, that’s probably what Eric would’ve said about getting the hiccups, “not a big deal.” Tonight, though, they very much were. But based on Eric’s reaction, Maritza didn’t doubt that Danielle making a fuss over him was the worst part of it.

“It’s fine, rea--*huck!*” Eric pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. “Uh, really.” He drew his fingers through his hair, at the back of his head this time.

“No, this works every time,” Danielle assured him. 

“Come on, Langdon,” Jason needled, in a tone that suggested he wanted to settle in with some popcorn and watch the show.

“It works every time,” Lindsey echoed, amused.

Eric’s head jerked back with a silent hiccup as he rubbed the spot between his eyes. “What do I h-- have to do?” he asked in a low voice.

“Here,” Danielle said, handing him the water. “Try and drink it from the wrong side of the glass.”

Jaw clench. “That doesn’t wor-*herk!*-k on me,” Eric explained.

“Just try it!” Danielle urged.

“Yeah—it can’t hurt,” Hayley pointed out.

Eric’s sigh was interrupted by a “*hic-ulp!*”, and he snapped his mouth shut. “Whatever,” he muttered. He pushed his chair back a little and leaned forward, putting his mouth on the far rim of the glass.

Jason’s eyes shone as he argued, “Hey, man, not like that!” Eric paused and, muffling a hiccup, turned to him with a puzzled frown. “You have to do it properly. Stand up.”

Eric swiped his hand across his mouth. “I’m not doing tha-- at.”

“It is a lot easier to do it standing up,” Danielle noted.

With a self-conscious glance at all the people dining around them, Eric replied flatly, “I’ll ma-AN-age.”

Before anyone else could say something, he bent forward again and started to drink. It was a little awkward—the Camden crew, naturally, thought the whole thing was funny—but Eric managed to down the glass with minimal spilling.

“There,” Eric said, straightening back up and setting the glass on the table. He rose from his chair. “Be right back.”

“Aww, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Langdon?” Brody joked.

“It worked, right?” Danielle asked.

Eric didn’t reply, just headed off in the direction of the bathroom, but Maritza saw him pressing his fist to his mouth. She got up and followed him without a word to any of the assholes.

On the drive, Andy put his seat back, curling up as best he could and closing his eyes. Malcolm put some music on low, enough that Andy’s coughs and sniffles weren’t disrupting silence, but not so loud as to aggravate his headache. There Malcolm went again—thoughtful.

When they got back to Malcolm’s, Andy walked directly to the bedroom and threw himself face down onto the pillow. After a few moments, he heard Malcolm’s voice in the doorway: “Do you want to put your pajamas on?”

“No,” Andy replied.

“How ‘bout your shoes?” Malcolm asked. “Can I get those off for you?”

Andy considered this—he sighed. “Y-yea-ahhhh…hihhhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHH! Haaaahhhhhhh-ehhhhhhhh-shoooooooo!”

“Bless you.” He heard Malcolm moving over to the bed and sitting down, and then Malcolm was carefully taking one of his feet and untying his shoe. “And what about your hoodie?”

Andy turned his head so his voice wouldn’t be muffled in the pillow. “I feel cold,” he admitted, sniffling.

“I get that,” Malcolm said. “But it might be better to just use the covers instead. Easier to pull them up or down depending on how cold or warm you are.”

A tickle rose in Andy’s throat, and he coughed into the back of his hand. “Okay.”

“All right, cool.” Once Malcolm finished with Andy’s shoes, he helped Andy tug the hoodie off and get under the blankets.

“Can I feel your forehead?” Malcolm asked. Andy nodded, and Malcolm placed his cool palm against Andy’s brow. “You’re a little flushed,” he noted. “I’m going to get you some water and some aspirin, okay?”

“Uh-- uh huh…” Andy mumbled as his breath started to hitch again. “Ahhhhhhhh-hehhhhhhhhh-chuhhhhhhhhh!”

Giving his shoulder a squeeze, Malcolm got up and left the bedroom, returning a minute later with a glass and the medicine. “Here you go,” he said softly. Andy propped himself on his elbow and accepted the water. He swallowed a pair of tablets with a wince.

Malcolm took the glass back and set it on the bedside table. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Groaning, Andy rubbed his face. “That sounds so horrible,” he sighed. “You’ve been sweet and understanding all day, and I’ve just been an ungrateful, cranky nightmare.”

“Hey, remember how hard it is for me to feel comfortable with someone taking care of me?” Malcolm said. “I know what it’s like when having somebody around is hurting rather than helping. If you need to be on your own right now, that’s completely fine.”

“hihhhhhhhh-ehhhhhhhh-SHIOOOOOOO!” Andy sneezed into his cupped hands. “Y-yeah,” he confessed. “I think I do.” Hastily, he added, “Thank you.”

“It’s fine,” Malcolm assured him. “Now, so I don’t overcorrect, how does this sound? I’ll plan on leaving you alone until supper time, when I’ll check on you and bring you something to eat. But if you need something or decide you feel like having me around, just text me and I’ll be right over.”

Andy managed a small smile that didn’t get all the way to happy, but it was definitely relieved. “Oh god, thank you!” he breathed.

“Of course,” Malcolm replied, stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to write you a note so you remember that part?”

Eurgh, Andy’s head always went to shit when he was ill. “Yeah,” he murmured. He shook with a few hard coughs, and Malcolm offered him the water again, digging through the drawer for a notepad.

Soon, a note was propped up for Andy on the bedside table. Text Malcolm if you want him to come into the bedroom, otherwise he won’t bother you until supper. He’d drawn a little heart as well.

Hugging the pillow as he looked up at Malcolm, Andy’s smile got a bit closer to happy this time. “Love you,” he said in a quiet, scratchy voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be—it’s okay,” Malcolm replied. “Love you too. Do you need anything else before I leave?” Andy shook his head. “What do you think about a forehead kiss?”

Andy’s apprehension must’ve been evident on his face, because Malcolm said, “How ‘bout we skip that for now?”

Andy let out a sigh. “Y-yeah…haaahhhhhh…ehhhhhhh…” Malcolm held out the tissue box, and he took one. “hihhhhhhh-uhhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHHHH!”

“Bless you,” Malcolm said as Andy groaned, sniffling into the tissue. “Try to get some rest. I’ll see you later, all right?”

“All right,” Andy echoed. “Sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” Malcolm instructed kindly.

Andy made a face. “I’ll try.”

Malcolm gave a soft chuckle. “It’s a start,” he replied.

He switched off the light, quietly pulling the door shut behind him. Andy snuggled down under the blankets. His head felt muddled and aching, and his stuffed-up nose was making him uncomfortable, but he tried to relax himself as much as he could. Closing his eyes, he waited for sleep to pull him away from this stressful, dysregulating day.

*           *           *

Malcolm spent a couple hours working on some campaign stuff, then checked out Sideshow to see what new sixth-scale action figures they had. He checked (twice) to confirm that his phone wasn’t on silent, but he didn’t hear from Andy at all. Malcolm hoped that meant he’d been able to fall asleep.

He was on the couch with a book when his mom came by, a little after 6. “Hey,” Malcolm said quietly, meeting her at the door.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she replied. She stepped inside, a tupperware container in her hands and a plastic bag hanging from her arm. “How is he?”

“Not feeling too good, but he’s resting,” Malcolm told her. “Thanks for understanding about it.”

“Ooh, he must’ve just been feeling awful,” his mom said with a sigh. “I felt so bad for him.” She set the container on the kitchen counter. “Chicken soup, and I picked up a few things from Walgreens.”

Malcolm said. “Thanks so much.”

While he got out a bowl and a spoon, his mom busily unloaded the contents of her bag: extra tissues, more hand sanitizer, and a few different over-the-counter meds. Malcolm knew Andy didn’t like cold medicine—too hard to swallow when his throat was sore—but he didn’t say anything about it. He could always give it away to somebody on his campaign staff.

“And for you,” Malcolm’s mom added. She turned and handed him a package of vitamin C.

“Mom, I’m good,” he pointed out.

“Right now,” his mom retorted. “But you were flying recently, and it’s so easy to pick those bugs on a plane or in the airport. And now with Andy sick and you looking after him? Gotta make sure you’re looking after yourself too.”

“Okay,” Malcolm conceded. “Thanks, Mom.”

She gave him an expectant look, and he said, “What, now?”

“No time like the present,” she told him.

Malcolm chuckled a little. “Gotcha.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, then got himself a glass of water and swallowed one of the vitamin C pills. With a slight self-conscious smile, he opened his mouth to prove he’d taken it.

“Good boy,” Malcolm’s mom said. “Well, I won’t stay—I know Andy needs peace and quiet. I just hope he feels better soon. Keep in touch, and let us know when he’s feeling up to getting back together.”

“Will do,” Malcolm promised. “Thanks for stopping by. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she replied. “Get enough sleep. Drink plenty of fluids.”

“He will,” Malcolm told her, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“I meant you,” she tutted.

“Oh, right.” Malcolm ducked his head a little. “Yeah, I will.”

“And make sure you eat actual meals,” she added, her tone just a bit scolding.

“Yep,” Malcolm said.

“Use the hand sanitizer I got you.”

“Mom, I’ve got it,” Malcolm assured her. “Thanks for everything. You and Dad have a good night. Hopefully we’ll be seeing you soon.”

He saw her to the door, then checked his watch. About 6:15—that was reasonable for supper, and anyway, the soup would be best when it was hot. Malcolm returned to the kitchen to get Andy's soup ready for him.

Bänk of Däve is a British movie about a man who wants to set up a community bank for the benefit of his working-class neighbors. The gatekeepers of the British banking system fight him at every turn, and Dave takes them on with the help of Hugh, a shy London lawyer he hires to help him navigate the system.

Hugh - A thoughtful and pragmatic lawyer. He's awkward and anxious but relaxes into an absolute sweetheart when he feels comfortable (exhibit A, very important.)

Alexandria - Dave's niece, a local doctor. Hugh likes her, and despite having made a bad first impression on her, she's beginning to think she judged him too quickly.

Dave - A self-made man of the people. He's boisterous and outgoing, basically the polar opposite of Hugh's energy.

Nicola - Dave's wife. She's mellower and more grounded than he is, but they fit really well together.

This fic takes place the morning after an important victory in court against the big banks. They haven't yet won the war, but they're still in the fight. Everybody was celebrating at the pub last night, and Dave invited Hugh and Alexandria to spend the night at his house. (All of that does happen in the movie--I'm just expanding on the existing morning-after scene and adding hiccups!)

All right, here goes!

There was static in Hugh’s head as he woke, lying in a spacious guest room bed under a fluffy duvet. Trying an experimental blink, he found himself feeling the effects of last night’s celebration at the pub: a drilling sort of pain boring into his temple, a parched throat, a general sort of clumsiness and disorientation.

He stretched his limbs in every direction like a starfish, and his head jerked back with a quiet hiccup as he fumbled his way to a sitting position. Hugh looked hazily down at his watch. Another “*huck!*” hit him—apprehensively, he waited for a few moments, and soon enough, “*hmmp!*”

“Mmm,” Hugh murmured, rubbing his face. “Bollo-*hmmk!*-cks.”

It would be today, wouldn’t it? When he’d stayed over at Dave’s house, when he’d be seeing Alexandria this morning? Hugh let out a sigh, then thought he’d better at least try to hold his breath. He had no confidence that it would work—it never did on occasions like this—but there was always the off chance, he supposed. He’d feel foolish if he hiccupped all through breakfast, only to discover he might’ve been able to cure them all along.

No such luck, of course. Not four seconds after he let his breath back out, Hugh burst with another “*hup!*” Unable to think of a valid excuse to put off starting the day any longer, he grabbed his socks and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“*hmmp!* God…” Hugh mumbled as bending over to put on his socks made his head spin. He managed one and decided to get the other standing up, which it turned out wasn’t much better. A strong “*huck!*” unbalanced him a little while he stood on one foot, and he gave a short hop, only getting his sock about halfway on. With his half-sock flopping like a slap shoe, Hugh trudged to the door, hiccupping again.

He used the door frame for balance as he pulled his second sock all the way up. It’d have been smarter to do that from the beginning, but then Hugh supposed bright ideas were a bit slower to come when he was hungover.

With a muffled “*hmmk!*”, Hugh stepped out into the hallway, rubbing his forehead and squinting at the bright morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. As he made to turn off into the loo, the door swung open and out came Alexandria—Hugh pulled up short so he didn’t collide with her.

“Oh, hello-*hmmp!*” Hugh said, ducking his head a bit.

Alexandria was fresh out of the shower—she had a towel wrapped round her, and her long straight hair was still wet. Folding her arms round herself, she gave Hugh a slight awkward-looking smile and said, “Morning.”

“Hi,” Hugh replied, even though he’d already said hello.

“Er, I think Dave’s doing breakfast,” Alexandria pointed out. She glanced away toward the stairs—she’d stayed last night on the floor above.

“Okay--” Hugh told her, muffling a silent hiccup into his knuckles. “I’ll be down in-*hup!*-in a minute.” He cleared his throat, and the corner of his mouth crooked up sheepishly. “Excuse m-*hmmp!*-me.”

“Okay,” Alexandria said. Arms still folded, she turned to go, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. “Nurse friend of mine swears by plugging your ears and swallowing.”

Hugh frowned. “Er…*hrrk*!”

“For your hiccups,” Alexandria explained.

“Oh,” Hugh mumbled. He looked down again, brushing his knuckles across his mouth. “Oh, r-*hmmp!*-right. Thanks.”

As she headed upstairs, Alexandria called over her shoulder, “See you down there.”

“Yeah, s-*hmmk!*-see you,” Hugh replied.

In the loo, Hugh spared a wary glance at himself in the mirror. All told, it could’ve been worse. He looked tired and sort of rumpled, and he thought the hiccups made him look a bit silly, but he knew from experience that he could’ve looked much rougher after a night out.

Some toiletries had been set out for him and Alexandria. Hugh washed his face, rinsed out his mouth, and cleaned his teeth as best he could without his toothbrush. “*hok!*” he hiccupped, open-mouthed, as he rubbed toothpaste on with his finger. “*HUCK-kk!*”

Once he was dressed and reasonably presentable, given the circumstances, Hugh headed to the kitchen, where his headache was greeted by an array of noises: fat sizzling in a skillet, the rhythmic thump of a knife against a cutting board, and of course, Dave Fishwíck himself.

Within five minutes of meeting Dave, one thing Hugh had known for sure was that his voice carried. It could be a bit overwhelming at times, trying to get a word in edgewise amid Dave’s booming cascade of chat. And this morning, it left Hugh rubbing the bridge of his nose as he stifled a quiet hiccup.

“Hey, there he is!” Dave called from the stove, as bright and chipper as ever. “Doctor, he’s alive!” Hugh managed what he hoped was more of a smile than a wince.

Now that he wasn’t in pajamas and she wasn’t in a towel, Alexandria seemed more self-assured. She was helping Dave with breakfast, and she looked up to flash Hugh a casual but friendly smile.

“Here, get some of this down you,” Dave instructed, gesturing with his turner. “Bloody ages since I’ve done a proper fry-up!”

“Yeah, sounds g-*hmmp!*-good,” Hugh told him. “If I could ju-*hup!*” He rubbed his mouth. “Eh-excuse me,” he murmured self-consciously. “*hmmk!* Just get some water fir-*hrrk!*-first?”

“Coming right up, love,” Nicola assured Hugh, crossing to the fridge.

As Hugh joined Dave and Alexandria by the kitchen island, Dave remarked jovially, “For the hangover or the hiccups?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Hugh admitted, “Erm, sort o-*hmmp!*-sort of both?”

“You didn’t plug your ears, did you?” Alexandria chided.

Hugh felt his face start to flush. He never really liked being the center of attention, and he didn’t relish his hiccups being a topic of conversation. “It wouldn-*hmmk!*-n’t have helped any-*hup!*-anyway,” he insisted in a low tone.

“Ye of little faith,” Alexandria said. In his embarrassment, Hugh only met her eyes for a moment, but he thought her expression looked playful.

Nicola sidled up beside Hugh, gently touching his arm. “There we are,” she told him, and she pressed a tall glass of water into his hand.

“Than-*huck!*” Hugh tried to say. He cleared his throat. “*hmmp!* Thank you.”

As he tipped his head back and drank the full glass, Hugh could feel everyone’s eyes on him. A “*hup!*” escaped him before he’d even set the empty glass down on the counter.

“Mmm, no joy,” Dave noted. “Sugar’s over there if you want to give that a go.”

“No, th-*hmmk!*-that’s all right,” Hugh replied. “*hmmp!* I didn’t expec-*huck!*-ct them to go aw-- away.”

He patted his hair, one of his nervous habits. “I just, sometimes I-*hup!*-I get hiccups the next mor-*hrrk!*-morning after I’ve been dr-*hkk!*-inking,” Hugh went on. “When that happe-- happens, I can never g-*hmmk!*-get the hiccups to stop unt-*huck!*” He bit back a grimace. “U-until I’ve seen to th-*hmmp!*-the hangover.”

Glancing at Alexandria, he added, “No di-- disrespect to y-*hmmp!*-your friend. *hmmk!* I’m sure it’s a g-*hkk!*-a good cure. It j-*hup!*” He ducked his head again. “It just won’t wor-*hrrk!*-rk for me right-*hmmp!*-now.”

“In that case, you’re on the right track with the water,” Alexandria told him. “Keep it up.”

“Hear, hear!” Dave exclaimed, and Hugh noticed Alexandria’s wince. “Nicola, love, you wanna get Hugh a refill?”

With a smile, Nicola suggested, “How ‘bout I just bring a pitcher—for Hugh and anyone else who needs it?” She squeezed Alexandria’s shoulder.

“See, that’s what makes us such a perfect pair,” Dave informed Hugh. “I come up with ideas, she improves upon them. She comes up with ideas, I finesse them. Give and take.”

Although his head snapped back with a muffled “*hmmk!*”, a warm smile tugged at the corner of Hugh’s mouth. Anyone who met Dave and Nicola could immediately see that he doted on her, and she found all his noise and bluster endearing. Hugh wasn’t much like Dave or Nicola, but he hoped one day he’d find the sort of thing they had together.

“Oh, Rick Purdy rang,” Dave announced. “His son’s band is playing in Burnley tonight.” He nodded to Hugh. “Eh? That’ll help the hangover.”

“I thought you were staying in with me tonight, darling,” Nicola pointed out, giving him a gentle cuddle.

“Yes, I know,” he replied, and while his tone said long-suffering, his face said I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“That soun-*hmmp!*-nds like the perfect hango-*holk!*-over cure, actually,” Hugh said. Jerking with a “*hmmk!*”, he risked a shy glance at Alexandria. “I’m in.”

Alexandria glanced back. “Yeah,” she decided. “Yeah, me too.”

“Though, I-- I will have the h-*hmmk!*-hiccups sorted before then,” Hugh noted.

She smiled, chuckling softly. “That’s good. You wouldn’t want to be dealing with those all day.”

“I won-*hkk!*-won’t,” Hugh assured her.

“Right,” Dave proclaimed, flipping his turner in the air and catching it. “I declare Cafe Dave open!”

As Hugh rubbed his temple, he caught another wince from Alexandria. Grabbing his plate, he exchanged a knowing look and a slight smile with her.

In general, the thought of having breakfast at someone else’s house (seated next to a woman he liked) with a stubborn case of hiccups made Hugh want to sink into the floor. But this wasn’t so bad. 

After a couple jokes from Dave about it, Nicola entreated, “Come on now, leave him be,” and for the most part, people stopped mentioning Hugh’s hiccups after that. He kept drinking water—he was on his fourth glass now—and although he didn’t speak all that much, he only felt moderately self-conscious. Rather, he was content to sit, eat, and listen to the others talk, only occasionally chipping in with a brief agreement.

By the time he’d finished eating, Hugh still had the hiccups, but he was feeling a bit closer to human. His throat wasn’t quite as dry, and the pain in his head had settled into a dull ache behind his eyes. He didn’t feel so bleary.

“Right then, taxi service?” Dave suggested. “Can I offer the young folks a lift back to your cars?”

“Yeah, cheers, Dave,” Andrea said. “It’s gonna be another busy week, so if I’m going out this evening, I wanna get my washing-up done today.”

Hugh nodded. “Tha-*hmmk!*-nks,” he added. He didn’t have anything urgent to get back to at his hotel—probably just a nap, if he was being honest—but in social situations, he always had this low-level fear of outstaying his welcome. It was a relief when his host offered an exit. “Just, erm, *hup!* if I could use th-*hmmp!*-the loo first?” His mouth flickered with a self-conscious smile. “Wa-*holk!*-water.”

“Right, go on then,” Dave told him with a laugh.

When Hugh came out of the loo, he found the others in the foyer. “Lovely seeing you, Alexandria,” Nicola said as they collected their coats and bags. “And Hugh, you were marvelous yesterday. We can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for Dave.”

Hugh glanced down, stuffing his hands in my pockets. “J-just do-*hmmp!*-doing my job--” he pointed out.

Smiling, Nicola pulled him into a gentle hug. “Well, you ‘just doing your job’ saved our bacon,” she replied. “However everything shakes out with the Bank of Dave, don’t be a stranger, all right? You’re welcome in Burnley anytime.”

With a small nod, Hugh raised his head to meet her eyes. “I appreci-*hrrk!*-appreciate it.”

“Steady on, Nicola!” Dave laughed. “We’re not rushing him back off to London just yet.” He clapped Hugh on the back, and Hugh grimaced a little, raising a hand to his temple. “Right then, let’s get you two sorted.”

Hugh and Alexandria followed Dave out to the car, and Dave kept up a lively stream of chat as he drove them back to the pub. Between that and the blaring car stereo, tuned to a classic rock station, it wasn’t doing Hugh’s headache any favors. He rested his forehead against the window, closing his eyes as he listened to Dave and Alexandria talk.

Despite the noise, the cool window glass must’ve been lulling him, because Hugh started a bit when he felt Alexandria’s touch on his shoulder. “Hmm-*hmmp!*” he murmured. He sat up straighter as his eyes flew open.

He thought Alexandria’s expression looked amused. “All right?” she asked.

“Mmm, y-*huck!*-yeah,” Hugh replied. Sheepishly, he swiped his hand across his mouth.

“Are you feeling sick at all?” Alexandria wondered.

Hugh frowned. “Sorr-*hrrk!*-sorry?”

“I’ve never had hiccups while I was hungover,” she said. “Seems like they’d make a rocky stomach worse.”

“Oh.” There was an anxious energy in Hugh’s hands, and as another silent hiccup hit him, he clasped them together so they wouldn’t fidget. “No, my stoma-*hkk!*-ch’s all right. It’s a headac-- headache more than anythin-*hmmk!*”

“Good,” Alexandria remarked. “That’d have been really uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” Hugh agreed, stifling a strong “*hmmp!*

Soon, they arrived, and Dave was sending them on their way. “Right—thanks, Dave,” Alexandria called. “See you later.”

“Yeah, th-*mmk!*-thanks,” Hugh said. He bent down toward Dave’s car window. “As soon-*hup!*” He cleared his throat. “Excuse m-- me. As soon as I hear-*hrrk!*-any updates on m-*hkk!*-meeting with the FRB, *hmmk!* I’ll let you kn-*hmmp!*-know straightaway.”

“Good man!” Dave replied, giving him a wave. “Speak soon.” With a grin to both of them, he said, “You two have fun tonight! Although, Hugh, you might wanna try for a little less fun!”

“Mmm-*hmmp!*” Hugh mumbled bashfully, looking down at his feet.

As Dave pulled away, Alexandria said, “Take it easy. Look after that hangover, all right?”

“Yeah, I will,” Hugh promised. A “*huck!*” slipped out of him, and he glanced away, fiddling with his keys. “Erm, you t-- too.”

Alexandria’s laugh drew Hugh’s eyes back to her. “Too right,” she agreed. “Not as obvious as yours, I s’pose, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t got one.”

“Yeah, I s-*hkk!*-I saw,” Hugh noted quietly. “So-*hmmp!*-so, er, rest, wa-*hup!*-water, all that.”

“Oi, which one of us is the doctor?” Alexandria asked. Was that teasing? Was she teasing him? Hugh wasn’t sure, but he thought she might’ve been.

“I-I just m-*mmk!*-meant…” he fumbled.

But Alexandria smiled at him. “I know,” she said. “Don’t worry, will do. See you tonight—without hiccups.”

“Mmm, righ-- right,” Hugh replied with a nod. “See you.”

They separated, both walking to their own cars. When Hugh glanced back over his shoulder, she gave him a wave. He waved back, only feeling slightly awkward. For him, “slightly awkward” wasn’t bad at all.

Malcolm’s mom looked on in dismay as Andy tore out of the room. “I’m sorry, sweetheart!” she told Malcolm. “I didn’t mean to upset him like that. I know you said—but I thought, if he was feeling that sick…”

“What the heck is going on with him?” Malcolm’s dad asked. ”He’s usually so upbeat.”

“Exactly,” Eva countered. “Think how crappy he must be feeling to get Andy in a mood like that.”

Malcolm bit back a sigh. “It’s not your fault, Mom,” he said. “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just—” He shook his head. “Let me deal with it, okay?”

He took off after Andy and found his boyfriend sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his head in his hands. “Hey,” Malcolm said softly. He crouched down beside Andy but didn’t try to touch him.

“...I’m sorry.” Andy’s voice came out strained. He gave a wet sniffle.

“It’s all right,” Malcolm assured him.

“No,” Andy moaned. He sputtered with a few coughs into the back of his hand. “Don’t be nice to be when I don’t deserve it.”

Realizing that this conversation might be longer than what he’d be comfortable crouching for, Malcolm sat down on the floor, resting his back against the wall. “Why don’t you deserve it?” he asked in a steady voice.

“‘Cause I’m being such an arsehole!” Andy cried. “I-I, ehhhhhhh…” He steepled his hands over his face. “hihhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHH! Ihhhhhh-huhhhhhh-chioooooooo! Eurgh….” He made a face, rubbing his nose. “I swore in front of your family. I snapped at your mum.” He groaned. “God, I sneezed on you! I’m so fucking disgusting.”

“It was an accident,” Malcolm pointed out.

Andy coughed into his hands. “I-I just, I’ve fucked up the whole day,” he lamented, letting out a shaky sigh. “It’s not even a big deal, b-but I--” He coughed again. “God, I just feel crazy! I’m being an absolute baby, and for no fucking reason!”

“You have a reason,” Malcolm offered.

“Not like an actual one,” Andy insisted. “Aaahhhhhhh…hehhhhhhh…ihhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhh!” He groaned.

“Yes, you do,” Malcolm replied. Gently, he said, “Are you kidding me? Emotional dysregulation is so valid! The chemicals in your brain are literally messing with you right now, and they’re making you feel upset and irritated. You feel it just as strongly as you would in an upsetting or irritating situation, with the added ‘bonus’ of you beating yourself up because you don’t think you have a right to feel that way.”

Slowly, Andy raised his head to look up at Malcolm. He looked pale and drained, and he chewed on his lower lip, sniffling. “It’s so awful,” he admitted.

“I know,” Malcolm said. “And I think trying to power through it and act like it isn’t awful might be making you feel even worse.”

With a small, miserable laugh, Andy nodded. “I think y-- you might b-be ri-iiigh…hehhhhhhh-ahhhhhhh-SHOOOOOOO!”

“So how about we stop trying to fight it?” Malcolm suggested. “My folks just want you to do what you need to do to start feeling better, so why don’t we go back to my place and let you get some rest?”

Andy sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Malcolm echoed. Andy nodded. “All right.” Malcolm got up from the floor, stretching. “I can tell my parents if you want to go right out to the car.”

“W-wait,” Andy mumbled. “Let me go to the toilet first.” He sniffled. “I need to blow my nose.”

“Sure,” Malcolm told him. “You go do that. I’ll let them know we’re heading out.”

Andy rose to his feet, coughing into the crook of his arm. “Can you please apologize to your mum for me?” he asked. “If I try to do it right now, I think I’ll fall all the way apart, a-and…” he sniffled again, “and I don’t want to cry in front of your family.”

Malcolm nodded. “Of course I can.”

“Eva too,” Andy added. “Tell her I like the film, and I want to see the rest of it, but—”

“But it’ll be easier for you to enjoy it when you’re not feeling so crappy,” Malcolm supplied.

With another sigh, Andy admitted, “Yeah.”

“Will do,” Malcolm promised. A bit hesitantly, he asked, “Do you want a hug?”

“Yeah,” Andy said again, rubbing his nose.

“Okay.” 

Smiling softly, Malcolm drew his boyfriend into his arms. Andy hung on tight, burying his face in Malcolm’s shoulder. He murmured a muffled, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Malcolm told him. He kissed Andy’s forehead and gave him a tight squeeze. As they parted, Malcolm stroked Andy’s cheek. “Go blow your nose. Then we’ll go home and get you to bed.”

“Uh huh,” Andy replied with a wet sniffle. He turned and headed to the bathroom, already pulling a tissue out of his hoodie pocket.

Malcolm kept the explanation short. He simply said, “Listen, we’re gonna head out. Andy’s just really tired and feeling fried right now. He didn’t mean to get upset like that, and he feels terrible about it.”

“Oh, the poor man!” Malcolm’s mom crooned. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Thanks,” Malcolm told him, “but more than anything, I think he just needs sleep.”

“Yes, of course,” his mom agreed. She glanced back toward the hallway. “Would it be okay if I stop by later tonight and drop off some soup?”

Malcolm smiled at her. “That sounds perfect,” he said. “Andy might not be feeling up for seeing anybody, but I know how much he’d appreciate that.” As she nodded, Malcolm could tell she was already mentally flipping through recipe options.

He turned to Eva. “Rain check on the movie,” he said. “Andy wanted you to know he likes it and wants to watch the rest on another day.”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” his sister replied. “We’ll come back to it when he’s feeling a little better.”

Malcolm nodded. “Thanks.”

At that moment, Andy came out from the bathroom. Malcolm briefly made eye contact, then motioned toward the door. “All right,” he told his family. “Have a good rest of your day. We’ll be seeing you.”

“Take care, you two,” his mom called, which Malcolm thought showed some pretty nice restraint on her part.

Outside, Malcolm looked at Andy, standing with his shoulders hunched, one hand in his pocket and the other scrubbing at his nose. “ehhhhhhh-hihhhhhhhh…uhhhhhhhhh-SHIUHHHHHHHH!” he sneezed, then groaned.

Whether they've read/watched them or not, a lot of people are probably familiar with Agätha Chrístie's Hércule Poírot mysteries. This is still an unhinged fanfic choice, though, because Poírot himself isn't the main character of this fic. Instead, I'm writing about Inspector Crome, a one-off character that my actor played in an audio drama adaptation of a Poírot mystery called The ABC Mürders. In that story, Crome has the classic "Officer Who's Annoyed about Having to Work with the Famous Detective" role, but while he has a definite chip on his shoulder and argues a lot with Poírot about how to conduct the case, he comes around to a grudging respect for Poírot by the end and says he wants to work together again. So my fic imagines that they've been investigating cases together for several months now. Crome has mellowed further toward Poírot but can still be cranky/defensive about things.

Here are the characters (only Poírot has an image since, again, this was for an audio drama):

Inspector Crome - The youngest inspector at Scotland Yard. Intelligent and hardworking, but he can be set in his ways and has to be coaxed to think outside the box. He has a more working-class background than most men at the Yard, and he regularly deals with classist insinuations that maybe he didn't deserve his promotion. So while his pride can be in the way of his work, it's largely because he always feels like he has to prove himself.

Hércule Poírot - Famous Belgian detective. He's ostensibly retired now, but he can't give up investigating entirely, and he sometimes consults with the Yard on their cases. In my fic, Crome is now his preferred inspector to work with--even though there can still be friction between them, Crome knows Poírot better than most inspectors at the Yard, so Poírot feels comfortable with him.

Superintendent Stone - The head of Scotland Yard. Contributes a lot to Crome's need to prove himself, especially when he unfavorably compares Crome to Poírot.

And with that, here's the fic!

Eight days into the investigation, they had yet to catch Mary Ryland’s killer. Inspector Crome had favored the boyfriend at first, but that hadn’t panned out. Now, he and Poírot both suspected Arthur Bridges, the poor girl’s piano instructor. However, they’d not yet found the proof they needed to bring him in for good. Either the music teacher was more cunning than Crome had anticipated, or this was leading to another dead end and they’d have to start again.

Given what an important family the Rylands were, Superintendent Stone was getting impatient. He’d called Crome and Poírot into Scotland Yard to bring him up to speed on the facts of the case. “In other words,” Poírot had remarked drolly, “to poke at our progress and ask why we’ve not solved it yet.”

“Yeah, just about,” Crome had replied, forcing a smile as his stomach had clenched with a brief fit of nerves. Stone was a good man and a fine superintendent, but he had a way of making Crome constantly feel like he was back in school doing exams—like he was always on the verge of washing out and one misstep would send him tumbling down.

And if that happened? Crome could just imagine the chatter, all the snatches of conversations that would fade out as he walked by.

Good of the superintendent to give him a go—not his fault some people just aren’t cut out for it.

I always knew the Mabel Homer case was a fluke.

Glad to see him back in his proper place. Oh, he’s capable, maybe, but he’s just not “our sort.”

Of course, these days, it was comments about how Crome was riding Poírot’s coattails, scraping by on the famous detective’s talent and not his own. Let them talk—Crome didn’t care. (Well, he tried not to care.) Anyone at the Yard would be wise to listen to Poírot’s insights, and working with him was making Crome a better inspector: sharpening his reasoning, honing the sort of questions that yielded results, cooling his urge to hold tight to his first suspect when the evidence wasn’t bearing out.

He reminded himself that all those things mattered more than the comments, and some days, he even got to the point where they didn’t bother him.

But this morning, it was all about Mary Ryland. “What about that Palmer chap?” Superintendent Stone was asking. “I thought they’d been seen quarreling the day before the murder.”

“They had,” Crome explained, “but—”

“And he has no alibi,” the super added.

“Right—” Crome conceded.

“Nathaniel Palmer could not have killed Mary Ryland,” Poírot broke in smoothly, “not in this way. The medical examiner’s report shows that Miss Ryland was struck by someone much taller than Mr. Palmer.”

“He’s got asthma as well,” Crome put in. “It’s not likely he could’ve worked up the exertion you’d need for an attack like that.”

“Hmmm,” Stone murmured. “I don’t have to tell you about the tongue-lashing we’re getting in the press over all this.”

“No, sir,” Crome said, holding back a slight grimace.

“Mary Ryland was 19,” the superintendent went on. “Well-connected family, bright girl. She had her whole future ahead of her.”

“We know,” Crome admitted. As he shifted in his chair, he hiccupped, a quiet “*hllp!*” in the back of his throat. He cleared his throat self-consciously, but neither the super nor Poírot seemed to take any notice.

“I know Walter Ryland,” Stone said. “We’ve gone to the same club for years.”

With a quiet nod, Crome hiccupped again. He felt his head and shoulders give a small jerk, but it was completely silent this time.

“I didn’t know Mary well, of course, but it’s a terrible blow to the family…”

“*hmmph!*” Oh, hell—not now. This was the last thing Crome needed. Trying to be discreet, he crossed his arms and rubbed his mouth like he was in thought. Hopefully, it would keep Superintendent Stone from noticing that he was holding his breath.

The super was still speaking. “What I’m saying is that this is personal,” Stone told Crome and Poírot. “As both of you well know, the full resources of Scotland Yard are behind this case. I expect results on this.”

“Of course, superintendent,” Poírot replied. “I promise, we will not fail you.”

“Is that right?” Stone asked, giving Crome a stern look.

Nothing for it—Crome let his breath out. “Yes, sir-*rrk!*”

Dammit! He muffled the hiccup as well as he could behind his hand.

Crome’s only small spot of luck was that Stone seemed too preoccupied to notice. “Right then, this music teacher,” the superintendent urged. “Tell me everything you’ve got so far.”

Oh, god. Crome swallowed another silent hiccup. “Er, right,” he mumbled.

On the one hand, he knew it was an accomplishment to be the youngest inspector at Scotland Yard, and Crome was rightly proud of that. But in situations like this when he was summoned by the superintendent, the other inspectors ribbed him like he’d been called to the head teacher’s office. If word got out that he’d laid out the case while hiccupping like a bloody schoolboy, he’d never live it down.

And the super? What would he make of it? Probably read it as proof that Crome wasn’t taking the case seriously—maybe even that he was making light of it—even though the hiccups were something Crome very clearly couldn’t control.

But as Crome prepared to embarrass himself, letting out a slow exhale through his nose and muffling a “*hmmph!*” behind his tightly-closed mouth, Poírot said, “Yes, superintendent. Let us begin with what we know so far of Arthur Bridges’s movements on the day of the murder.”

With a flood of relief, Crome sank back into his chair. Finally, Poírot’s love for the sound of his own voice was working in his favor. While the detective described the timeline they’d been piecing together, Crome crossed his arms, as if he could keep the hiccups inside by holding on tight to them. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

All told, he made a decent job of it. Crome managed to keep most of the hiccups silent, and any audible ones that escaped were limited to a muffled “*hllk!*” or “*mmph!*”, as well as the occasional hitch that sounded more than anything like an odd inhalation through his nose. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t hide the way they were making his body jerk, but fortunately, Stone was listening closely enough to Poírot that he didn’t seem to be paying any mind to Crome’s predicament. It helped that the detective had gotten out of his chair and was pacing round the room as he talked, occasionally stopping to pick up an object on the superintendent’s desk or examine one of the photographs on the wall.

All the while, he kept talking. As much as Crome had come to respect the aging sleuth, he did think Poírot could be quite the old showboat, but today, it was music to his ears. “*llp!*” he hiccupped, the quiet noise easily hidden beneath Poírot’s detailed observations.

The detective paused, turning to Stone’s secretary sitting in the corner of the room. As Poírot murmured something to her, Edith nodded briskly. She rose to her feet and slipped out of the room.

Edith was equal parts efficient and inconspicuous—she always was—and in the quiet of this brief interlude, a “*hmmph!*” worked its way out of Crome. He bit back a cringe as the superintendent looked his way. “Something to add, inspector?”

“No, sir,” Crome replied quickly, then clamped his mouth shut again. Once he’d quieted the next hiccup that made his head snap back, he hastily added, “I know not to interrupt Poiro-- when he’s on a roll.”

Crome could feel a flush spreading up his neck, and he forced himself not to grimace. Although that last hiccup was entirely silent, it had put a slight hitch in his speech.

“I’m afraid the inspector is quite correct,” Poírot remarked with easy good humor. “I do love a good…eh, what is the word for it in English? When an actor is onstage, making a speech to the audience?”

“Soliloquy?” the super offered.

“Ah, precisely,” Poírot said. “Inspector Crome is kind enough to let me go on. So with that, I shall resume my soliloquy. Now that we have examined Mr. Bridges’s whereabouts on the fourth of September, let us turn to motive. What could have driven him to kill a promising pupil like Mary Ryland…?”

As Poírot continued, Crome let himself relax the tiniest bit. He still felt self-conscious and tense, but at least he could take solace in the detective drawing all the attention in the room. Crome muffled an “*rrk!*” behind his knuckles, wishing he could just get the damn hiccups to stop already. Not even Poírot could talk forever, and anyway, it wouldn’t look good if he sat there twiddling his thumbs while Poírot explained everything—it really would look like Crome was just riding his coattails then.

Edith ducked quietly back into the room, and Crome felt a pang of envy as she handed Poírot a tall glass of water.” “Merci, mademoiselle,” Poírot said with a polite nod of his head. “I understand this theory may seem implausible to you, Superintendent Stone. After all, Mr. Bridges is quite respected for his skill as a teacher! How could he have been showing an inappropriate level of attention to one of his students? However, what we have found may surprise you…”

Crome winced as a hard silent hiccup stuck in his throat. Water—that’s what he really needed. Poírot wasn’t even drinking his, just idly holding the glass while he talked. Crome glanced at Edith, who’d settled back into her chair by the corner. He wouldn’t want to risk asking aloud for her to fetch another glass. Maybe he could slip her a note? But Crome was on the wrong side of the room for that. He’d have to get up and step round Poírot to get over to her, and he didn’t want to do anything that would draw Stone’s eye back to him. Miserably, he held in another “*mmph!*”

“Furthermore, I am most intrigued by the small gift box that was swept away with the rubbish from the drawing room after the party that evening,” Poírot continued. As he spoke, he wandered in Crome’s direction. “No one in the household knew of any such gift, or what the box had contained. This was the same room where Miss Ryland had her music lesson with Mr. Bridges, only a few hours before the party. Could it have been a gift to her from him?”

Poírot was standing in front of Crome now, between him and Superintendent Stone. Without so much as a glance at Crome, the detective suddenly pressed the glass of water into his hand. Startled, Crome looked at Poírot in surprise, and he only just remembered to clench his mouth shut against the strong “*hpp!*” that slipped out of him.

“I confess, I find it most curious,” Poírot admitted. “What was the gift, and why does there seem to be no trace of it? What became of it? I believe these discoveries could prove an enormous help in our investigation.”

Crome looked down at the water. Poírot knew. Of course he did—he’d probably spotted straightaway that Crome had gotten the hiccups and was in a fix. Crome felt a rush of embarrassment at having been caught out, but it was outweighed by his gratefulness for the water.

So as Poírot meandered to the opposite end of the room, drawing the super’s attention along with him, Crome got straight to work. He waited for his next muffled “*hllk!*” to pass, then began to take small sips of water without stopping. By the time he reached the bottom of the glass, he was bursting for breath, but Crome made himself exhale slowly, warily keeping his lips pressed together while he waited.

So far, so good. Crome drew a slow breath in and out through his nose, then another—no hiccups. It looked like the bloody things were finally gone.

“This is everything we know,” Poírot explained to Stone. “As you can see, superintendent, there is much we’ve already determined, but there are crucial pieces of the puzzle still missing.” He raised his eyebrows to Crome in a silent question, his gaze flitting for a moment to the empty glass. Crome gave a sheepish nod.

“Inspector, would you care to go over our unanswered questions?” Poírot suggested casually. “I know you’ve been keeping an account of them.”

So that was it. Poírot’s showboating hadn’t merely worked out in Crome’s favor this time. It had been on his behalf, the old detective taking the reins to hold Stone’s attention and save Crome from having to speak until he’d had a chance to deal with the hiccups.

Crome stifled a sigh—every time he thought he’d given the sleuth sufficient credit, Poírot had to go and up the stakes once more. It could be infuriating at times, but it was damn impressive too, and in this instance, Crome was hardly in a position to complain.

“Right, yeah,” he said, nodding again. A bit awkwardly, he set down the glass, then flipped his notepad open to his running list of questions. “Erm, Poírot already mentioned the empty gift box in the drawing room. That’s top of our list. It was just the right size for jewelry, and if we’re right that it came from Arthur Bridges, that would be, er, quite an intimate gift for a young woman from her piano teacher…”

The hiccups had really rattled Crome, but now that they were gone, his earlier worries about being called before the super felt much more manageable. Consulting his case notes, he found it was easy enough to take Stone through the gaps that he and Poírot still needed to fill in the investigation: the gift box, that span of nearly an hour where Bridges’s whereabouts were unaccounted for, the figure one of the servants had heard going out the back door a little after 9:00 pm, and so on.

Before he knew it, the superintendent was shaking both of their hands, saying, “Keep up the good work. I want the devil brought to justice.”

Feeling more confident now, Crome looked Stone in the eye as he nodded. “We’ll see it done, sir.” 

“Now if you’ll excuse us, superintendent, we have a busy day ahead of us,” Poírot added. “We’ll be sure to keep you informed of any breaks in the case.”

“Call anytime, day or night,” the super replied, walking with them to the door. “I want to know the moment you get our man.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Crome promised.

When he and Poírot stepped into the hall, Crome let out a deep breath, as if he was exhaling the last of his nerves from his body. “Thanks for the hand, Poírot,” he conceded in a low voice. “With, er, with the water—and everything.”

“Ah, think nothing of it,” Poírot said with an indifferent wave of his hand. “They are an odd little affliction: more inconvenient than harmful, but if they appear at the wrong time? They can be most troublesome.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Crome mumbled. He slipped his notepad back into his trouser pocket and smoothed down his suit, ready to put the awkward business behind him. “I was thinking. You know how we were wanting to meet some of Bridges’s other students, feel out if he’d tried anything funny with someone else? Well, didn’t Mrs. Ryland say they were gonna be doing a recital in Mary’s honor?”

“Yes, tomorrow evening,” Poírot noted. “A fine idea, inspector. We’ll have an opportunity to observe how the other young ladies behave in his presence, identify those who might have useful information for us.”

Right,” Crome replied. He frowned in thought. “Would they talk to us, though? About something, you know, delicate?” Even under normal circumstances, interviews weren’t his strongest suit, and while Poírot had a way of charming information out of people, Crome wasn’t so sure of the sleuth’s ability to handle this one.

And Poírot, it seemed, agreed. “Mmm, a fair point,” he murmured. “Perhaps we could invite your friend Constable Lewis to accompany us? After all, she is a young lady herself, and if any of the students have something discreet to reveal about Arthur Bridges, they may feel more comfortable opening up to her.”

As usual, Crome had come up with an idea and Poírot had topped it. Sometimes that could needle at him, but he couldn’t argue about it today. Not when Poírot had saved Crome’s backside with the super and then did him the courtesy of not harping on it. Not when they needed to solve this case and any good idea was a welcome one.

“But come,” Poírot urged. “That is tomorrow evening, and there is much to do before then. We have work to do, inspector. On y va!”

Malcolm wasn’t exactly sure what happened, but Andy hit a wall sometime during lunch and didn’t rebound from it. It was obvious that he was feeling testy and in a low mood, although he bristled if anybody hinted that he wasn’t acting like himself. Malcolm did his best to deflect his parents and siblings, trying to get them to just leave Andy be, but that seemed to bother him too.

Andy definitely wasn’t feeling well, which he also didn’t seem to want anyone mentioning or acknowledging. Before they got back in the van, Malcolm had to pull his mom aside. “Please, just don’t say anything more about Andy being sick,” he said quietly. “Don’t ask him how he is, don’t…don’t coo over him, just give him some space, okay?”

“Malcolm, I just feel for him, sweetheart,” his mom protested. “He seems to be having such a hard day.”

Malcolm stifled a sigh. “I know,” he said. “And I know you’re just looking out for him and want him to know you care, but—” He paused, considering his words and mindful of how much of Andy’s private business he wanted to get into. “His head’s all discombobulated right now, and hearing people go on about it is kind of stressing him out.”

He offered his mom a faint smile. “So please, try not to mention it?”

Clucking her tongue, she gave Malcolm’s cheek a soft pat. “I’ll do my best.”

Malcolm nodded. “Thanks.”

Andy was sullen on the drive, looking out the window as he rubbed his nose and sipped at what was left of his tea. “Hihhhhhh-ehhhhhhh-kkkrrnnnhhhhh!” he sneezed, a hard-sounding stifle.

Malcolm had screwed up. He’d seen Andy sick before and thought he’d perfected the right methods for taking care of him. He’d thought he could predict what Andy would need and want, but this wasn’t like last time and the methods Malcolm had come up with then weren’t helping now. So he felt wrongfooted, scrambling to catch up and reassess.

He did that sometimes, extrapolated patterns before he had enough data points to justify them, which could send him down the wrong path and blindside him when he realized he wasn’t as prepared as he’d thought.

When they returned to the house, Johnny headed out to meet up with Mystery Woman—Malcolm knew from Instagram that her name was Renee, but Eva was playing chicken with their little brother, exclusively calling her Mystery Woman until Johnny decided to be less tightlipped about her.

That left Malcolm and Andy, his parents, and Eva. “Would Andy rather just go back to your place?” Malcolm’s mom murmured to him in the kitchen. “He sounds like he could use some rest.”

Malcolm grimaced. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. He was reluctant to ask Andy, not wanting to make him feel worse.

His mom patted his arm. “Leave it to me,” she said. Before Malcolm had a chance to reply, she announced, “Since Johnny’s not around, why don’t we just go lowkey for the rest of the day? Any of you kids wanna hang out here, watch movies or something, feel free. But if you’d rather head out, that’s fine—come back later or just call it a day, we’re not pressed either way.”

Okay, not bad. It was gentle, open-ended, and didn’t call Andy out specifically. Malcolm turned to Andy, who’d sat down on the couch, hugging one of his knees to his chest. “What do you feel like doing?” Malcolm asked.

Andy shrugged. Malcolm reached over to squeeze his shoulder, and his boyfriend flinched away. Crap, maybe Malcolm shouldn’t have said “feel”—that might be too close to referring to Andy’s cold.

The silence was thick and awkward, then Eva said, “Well, if we’re gonna watch something, how ‘bout Love and Basketball? We’ve gotta continue Andy’s education in Black American movies, and you know Malcolm only shows him the nerdy or political stuff.”

Malcolm exchanged a glance with his mom. “Oh,” he said. “Um…”

But Andy said, “Yeah, okay,” in a low voice. Rubbing his nose, he sniffled wetly.

Malcolm looked at his mom once more. After a beat, she put on a bright smile and said, “Good choice! Nice cozy movie day, sounds good to me.”

While Eva looked through their parents’ DVD collection, Malcolm joined Andy on the couch. As his breath started to hitch, Andy bent forward, catching a strong “hehhhhh-ihhhhhhhh-shiuhhhhhhhh!” in his hands. Malcolm held his tongue, not acknowledging the sneeze, and his mom didn’t either. He knew that probably wasn’t easy for her—he appreciated the effort.

But when Andy sat back up, he curled up against Malcolm, gloomily resting his head on Malcolm’s shoulder. Malcolm was grateful for any sign of something that Andy wanted from him, anything that made matters better for him instead of worse. Tentatively, he put his arm around Andy, and his boyfriend sank a little more deeply into the comforting touch.

“Found it!” Eva said, holding up a DVD case.

Malcolm let himself smile a little. “Right, Love and Basketball,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Eva popped the DVD in and started the movie, and Malcolm brushed his fingers lightly over Andy’s shoulder as he coughed into his fist.

*           *           *

Watching a film wasn’t so bad. Andy knew Eva had a whole list of movies she wanted him to see, and she wasn’t wrong that the Black films and shows Malcolm shared with him were mainly nerdy or political (or gay.) And she’d made it clear that, while the Spider-Verse films, Breaking, and Interview with the Vampire were a good start, they weren’t enough.

“huhhhhhh-ihhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHH!” he sneezed into his hand, turning his head away from Malcolm. Sniffling, he took a tissue out of his pocket and wiped his nose. It was running and could use a blow, but he didn’t want to make that much noise while the film was on.

He cleared his throat and cuddled a bit closer to Malcolm. Nice film—he liked an athletic heroine with wholehearted emotions. As for the male lead? “Quincy’s a bit of a—er, a jerk, isn’t he?” Andy asked, holding himself back from saying “a bit of a dick” in front of Malcolm’s parents.

“You know it,” Eva replied. “The man needs to get his head on straight.”

“Yeah,” Andy agreed. He coughed a little, sniffling again.

The only problem with watching a film was that it got Andy feeling a bit too relaxed. He could feel his eyelids beginning to droop, but he had to stay awake. Speaking of dicks and/or jerks, it’d be a dick move to nod off while Eva was showing him a film that was important to her. Not to mention, he really didn’t want to fall asleep in front of Malcolm’s family while he was ill—he hated the thought of his runny nose getting messy in his sleep, or of dribbling on Malcolm’s shoulder or something.

His head had that sleepy swimming feeling, though. Andy blinked hard, trying to keep himself alert. He shifted his position on the sofa a little, hoping the movement would rouse him.

As he was doing that, a fierce tickle flared in Andy’s nose. And with his foggy head, his mind froze. He didn’t reach for a tissue or turn his head away, and before he knew it, it was too late and he was burying his face in Malcolm’s chest. “Hehhhhh-ahhhhhhhh-chhnnfffhhhhhh!”

At least he managed to half-muffle it, but Andy couldn’t believe he’d done something so horrid. “Oh fuck, Malcolm!” he cried, hastily wiping his nose as he pulled away. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to—” Shit, and now he was swearing as well.

Eva looked over at them, frowning, “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Stumbling hastily to his feet, Andy cupped his hands over his mouth and coughed. “It’s okay,” Malcolm assured him, but how could it be?

“Mmm mmmm,” Andy insisted, shaking his head. His throat felt tight, like he might be about to cry. He pressed the back of his hand to his nose. “N-no, I—” He what? He didn’t even fucking know. He was disgusting.

“It’s all right, Andy,” Mrs. Forrester said softly. She got up from her chair and walked over to him. “No harm done, everything’s fine.”

Sniffling hard, Andy covered his face with both hands. “I’m sorry I swore,” he mumbled.

“Let’s not worry about that, honey,” she assured him. “Here, let me just…”

Andy pulled back as Malcolm’s mum reached for his forehead. “Oi, don’t!” he exclaimed.

“Leave it,” Malcolm quietly told his mum.

“Mom, you can’t go around feeling grown men’s foreheads,” Eva pointed out.

“It’s not just some man,” Mrs. Forrester retorted. “It’s Andy.”

“I’m just saying, he’s not your son-in-law yet,” Eva replied.

“Really?” Malcolm retorted. “You thought now would be a good time to bring that up?”

“Andy, I know you’re sensitive about not feeling well,” Malcolm’s mum went on, “but I really think you ought to—”

She broke off as Andy burst with a strong “haaaaahhhhh-ehhhhhhh-SHOOOOOOO!” Feeling her fingers on his shoulder, he jerked away. “Just get off!” he cried. With a groan, he wiped his nose and looked up.

Oh god, every person in the room was staring at him. Malcolm’s dad and Eva looked confused, his mum looked hurt, and Malcolm looked at a loss. And why wouldn’t they? Andy was acting mental.

“I only wanted to…” Mrs. Forrester murmured in a small voice.

Shit, shit, shit! “I-I’m sorry,” Andy stammered. “I didn’t—I…”

His head was pounding, his throat was aching, and his nose was still fucking running. Andy couldn’t think. As his words dried up, he just shook his head and hurried out of the living room, retreating down the hall.

In some ways, the kiss in the lift erased the awkward where-to-begin phase. By the time they got to Daniel’s hotel room, Estella was more than ready to keep going. Hastily shucking her coat and kicking her shoes off, she headed straight for the bed.

For his part, Daniel leaned against the door, looking at her with a sexy crooked smile. “So it’s like that, is it?”

“Damn right it is,” Estella replied. She beckoned him. “Get over here.”

Still smiling, Daniel took his time getting his own coat and shoes off, keeping his eyes on her all the while. “I’m sorry, did you need a bit of incentive?” Estella asked. She teased at her top button.

“I do respond well to positive reinforcement,” Daniel remarked.

“Okay,” Estella told him. “Give us a step this way, and you can have a button.”

Setting his shoes neatly by the door, Daniel straightened up and eased himself forward with a playful air. Estella kept up her end of the bargain and undid the button for him. “There we are,” she said approvingly. “And another?”

Another step, another button. “I do also like undoing the buttons myself,” Daniel pointed out, “if that sounds good to you.”

Estella held her hand poised over her third button. “You’d best hurry then,” she warned.

Daniel closed the distance between them in two long strides, grinning as he vaulted onto the bed. With one hand planted on the mattress on either side of her, he greeted Estella with a long, full kiss. “Hey,” he said. He nuzzled her lightly with his nose.

“Hey,” Estella echoed. “You gonna sort out this button situation or what?”

He leaned in to kiss her neck. “With pleasure.”

With nimble fingers, Daniel got to work unbuttoning Estella’s shirt. “Do you like doing the bra as well?” she asked.

Daniel gave a sheepish laugh. “Honestly, it’s not where I do my best work,” he admitted. “If that’s how you like it, I can get the job done, but—”

Estella stroked his cheek, and he smiled at her. “Naw, that’s okay,” she replied. “I’ve got it.”

Why did the thought of a rock star who had trouble unhooking bras drive her wild?

When Daniel was finished with the buttons, he slid Estella’s shirt off one shoulder, then the other, kissing them each in turn. He pulled it off altogether, and Estella reached behind her back for the band of her bra. “Ah-ah-ah,” she said, nodding towards Daniel. “It’s your go first.”

Sitting back, Daniel pulled his hoodie off over his head. He had a T-shirt on underneath, and he slipped his hand beneath it, slowly lifting it to reveal his abdomen. No chiseled six-pack, but he was in nice shape. Lifting the T-shirt a couple more centimeters, he eyed Estella with a hopeful look.

She laughed. “Go on then.” While Estella undid the bra, Daniel pulled off the T-shirt, slipping it off over his head right as Estella was tossing her bra off the side of the bed.

“Mmm, fuck,” he murmured, and Estella could feel him drinking her in. “Look at you.”

Daniel leaned back in, settling his hands at her waist. “All right?” he asked as they began to slide up her torso.

Oh, Estella could’ve fucking purred at his touch. “G-good, yeah,” she managed to say.

One of Daniel’s hands reached her breast, and he softly stroked round Estella’s nipple with his thumb. She draped her arms over his shoulders, kissing along the nape of his neck. “Mmm,” she breathed between kisses, a quiet vocalization of her pleasure. Daniel drew it out of her slowly, like honey.

Maybe bras weren’t his strong suit, but besides that, Daniel’s hands knew exactly what to do. His mouth proved just as capable, turning his head to nibble Estella’s ear lobe.

They were both so wrapped up that neither of them paid any notice to the first “*hok!*” that slipped out of Estella. It wasn’t until a second, stronger “*hic-ulk!*” made her stomach jump that they stopped, startled, and looked at each other.

“*hic-ulp!*” Estella’s hand flew to her chest as she hiccupped again. “Oh, fuck,” she said, cheeks burning. “Oh-- oh god, I’m so sorr-*hrrk!*”

And Daniel burst out laughing.

Mortified, Estella drew her arms round herself, tight across her chest. Without her shirt or bra on, her breasts were really bouncing with every hiccup, and she tried to hold them still.

Meanwhile, Daniel was struggling to get a handle on himself. “N-no,” he sputtered helplessly amid his laughter. “I-I’m not—not laughing a-at you.”

Well, it sure as hell felt like he was. Estella muffled a hard “*HMMK-mmp!*” that she felt in her chest.

“R-really,” Daniel insisted. “It’s j-just, it’s the fuh—the fucking s-situation.” Though the amusement was still shining in his eyes, he managed to rein in the laughter, pressing a kiss into Estella’s forehead. “Hold on, let me get you some water.”

He hopped up and walked to the loo. Estella sat, shirtless, on the bed, arms wrapped round her chest. Suddenly, her daydream-come-to-life had shifted, not into a full-on nightmare, but certainly into a bad dream.

Trying to hold the hiccups in completely was starting to hurt, so Estella had to part her lips a little. “*hmulk!*” she hiccupped, wincing as she glanced toward the loo. “*hic-erk!*”

Daniel came out of the loo with a cup of water in either hand. “They’re small,” he explained. Rejoining Estella on the bed, he offered her one of the cups and remarked, “I just—what are the fucking chances? I don’t actually get hiccups that often, do you?”

“N-*holp!*-no,” Estella agreed, managing a tiny headshake. Slowly, she began drinking the water.

“But here we are,” Daniel went on, “three times we’ve seen each other, three times one of us has gotten hiccups. It’s like a jinx or something.” Still drinking, Estella made an I know, it’s weird face. “Like someone’s got voodoo dolls of us, and whenever we hang out, they stick pins in our diaphragms.”

Estella couldn’t help laughing at that, and she sputtered and coughed as some water went down the wrong pipe. “*HIC-ulp!**HRRK!*”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” Daniel gently rubbed Estella’s bare back, a quiet soothing motion as she took a careful sip of water to get the coughing under control. “You okay?”

Nodding a little, Estella said, “Y-*hulk!*-yeah,” in a soft voice. She finished off the last of the water. “*HIC-erk!* Can I try th-*hmulk!*-the other cup?”

“Of course,” Daniel replied, handing it over. He settled in with his legs stretched out in front of him and put an arm round Estella’s shoulder that felt protective. “I’ll keep my mouth shut this time, I promise.”

Jerking with a hard “*hok!*”, Estella began on the second cup of water. She took her time, drinking as slowly and deliberately as she could. When it was empty, she held a hand to her chest and waited.

“Are they gone?” Daniel asked.

“I-I think so,” Estella told him.

He leaned in to kiss her neck. “Good. All right?” Estella shrugged, and Daniel gathered her up in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I swear I wasn’t laughing at you, and I didn’t mean to make you laugh while you were trying to drink, either. Everything laughter-related was my mistake.”

Daniel kissed Estella’s temple and said, “Did you want to keep going? Only if you’d like to.”

In her embarrassment, Estella had been avoiding meeting his eyes, but now she turned to look at him. “I’ve not killed the mood?” she asked.

“Over hiccups?” Daniel countered. “Not for me. One, it literally wasn’t your fault, and two, you see how sexy you are, right? It’d take more than hiccups to put me off.” He entwined his fingers with Estella’s and raised her hand to his lips, kissing it. “It’s not every day you get a chance with Lois Lane.”

He drew a small smile out of Estella with that one. “Does that make you Superman or Clark Kent?” she wondered.

Chuckling, Daniel replied, “Oh no, I’m both.” He brushed his knuckles against Estella’s shoulder. “What do you think?”

Estella only needed a moment or two to consider it. Regaining a bit of her confidence with her dignity, she answered suggestively, “Now where were we?”

Daniel smiled at her. “I hoped you’d say that.”

A bit of an awkward where-to-begin phase now—while Estella hadn’t killed the mood, she had killed the momentum—but over the next few minutes, they got it back on track. 

It was strange. By all rights, Estella’s head ought to have been exploding over this whole turn of events, but she wasn’t. How did Daniel make her feel like it all made sense? There was something in his sensual touch that felt so safe.

So when Daniel’s hands slid down her hips and he murmured in her ear, “Can I go down on you?”, Estella nodded. She fell back onto the pillow and felt him unbutton her jeans. He eased them down, along with her pants, and he held her calf as he pulled them off. Then his head ducked between her legs.

“Ohhhh,” Estella breathed, sinking back against the pillow. On balance, Daniel didn’t need to be good at undoing bras, because he got top marks in everything else. The feel of his tongue stroking her sent a thrill of pleasure up her spine.

“Mmm-mmmm—god, yeah,” she said as her breathing grew heavier. “Up a-a bit, to your—your ri-iiight…mmm, shit!”

Sparks of electric ecstasy igniting her, Estella felt herself opening to Daniel. Her breaths felt like they were shivering through her—goddamn, he was good at this. “Oh—fuck—c-condom?” she asked, suddenly remembering that they’d met by chance on the street, they were in a hotel, and neither of them had planned for this. Was Daniel the sort who traveled with condoms? He might be. As a rock star, he probably had opportunities round every corner.

Daniel lifted his head. “You’re in luck,” he told her. Pressing a soft kiss onto her stomach, he pushed himself up and walked over to his suitcase. Estella laughed in surprise as he pulled out one of those large packs of condoms all strung together.

“Aren’t you prepared?” she remarked. “Just how much sex did you plan on having at this wedding?”

Chuckling, Daniel replied, “They’re from Josh’s stag night. His best man brought a bunch of these and made us all wear them round our necks like scarfs.”

Another laugh burst out of Estella. She couldn’t help it. “Why?” she asked, idly playing with her afro while Daniel tore one of the condoms off the pack at its perforated line.

“Because he’s a prick,” Daniel said. There was something oddly tantalizing about the thought of Daniel Westman out on a stag night, at the mercy of the demands of a tedious best man.

As Daniel undid his jeans with one hand, Estella propped herself up and beckoned him over. “You helped to undress me,” she pointed out. “May I?”

He grinned. “You may.”

Returning to the bed, Daniel got on his knees, straddling Estella. When she leaned forward and pulled down his jeans, the outline of his hard-on was visible through his pants. She tucked her thumbs into the waistband on either side and looked up at him. “Ready?” He nodded, and Estella tugged his pants lower, exposing his erect cock.

Daniel tore open the wrapper and slipped the condom on. “How ‘bout you?” he asked, eyes flicking down to her crotch. “You ready, or you need another warmup?”

“Two ticks,” Estella told him. She slid her hand between her legs and teased gently at her clit. As she began to breathe more rapidly again, she nodded.

Pulling Estella into an embrace, Daniel lowered them both down onto the bed and slipped inside her. Estella’s body was ready and waiting—she groaned at his thrust. She clung to him, he was kissing her neck. “God, yes,” she murmured. “Mmmm…”

She gave herself over to Daniel’s rhythm, which gradually increased to match tempo with her own breathing. Estella had been pretty aroused to start with, and it wasn’t long before she felt herself nearing climax. “Yeah—oh, god—Daniel—fuck!—aaahhh-hehhhh—mmm, yeah-*HOLP!*”

The hiccup startled both of them. Estella’s eyes widened, and Daniel paused. “Oh shit, this really isn’t your night,” he said sympathetically, kissing her as she jerked with a “*HIC-ulk!*” He brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “Do you want me to stop?”

The first time, Estella had been so embarrassed, and it had felt like hiccups were the furthest thing in the world from sex. But now, as Daniel said, Do you want me to stop?, it implied the existence of its opposite. Do you want me to keep going?

So Estella shook her head. “Don’t st-*HULK!*-stop,” she told him. “I-*HIC-ulp!*-I’m close.”

“You sure?” Daniel asked, studying her face as though he was looking for signs of reluctance.

Estella grabbed his face and kissed him full on the mouth, hiccups and all. “I’m ok-*HIC-erk!*-kay,” she promised. “Come o-*HOK!*-on, Super-*HIC-ulp!*-man.”

Daniel responded with a playful smile. “Up, up, and away?” he suggested.

A peal of laughter brought on a rapid run of “*HULK!**HIIC!*--*HIC-erk!*” Panting and hiccupping, Estella exclaimed, “How does th-*HOLP!*-the world not kn-*HOK!*-know how big of-*HMULK!*-of a nerd you ar-*HIC-ulk!*-are?”

“That’s my real secret identity,” Daniel said as he resumed his thrust, drawing a hiccuppy moan out of Estella.

The roll of his hips, the rhythm of his pace—Estella’s body was happy to keep up, and tickles of pleasure lit up her synapses with increasing urgency. When her orgasm washed over her like a wave, she barely noticed her hiccups.

Daniel wasn’t far behind, and soon, he was flopping back onto the mattress beside Estella. “All right?” he asked.

Estella nodded, holding a hand to her chest as it bounced with a strong “*HIC-ulk!*” Offering him a sheepish smile, she said, “Yeah, okay-*hulk!*”

With a soft tsk, Daniel planted a few kisses on Estella’s temple. “Do you want some more water?”

“Eurgh, I’m-*hmulk!*-giving up,” Estella replied. “*HIC-ulp!* You might been righ-*hok!*-about that ji-*hiic!*-jinx.”

“Yeah, it’s weird, isn’t it?” Daniel observed. He traced an unseen design on Estella’s bare shoulder with his thumb. “If we keep this up—the hiccups, I mean—it’ll make dating interesting.”

“I wouldn’t be-*HIC-erk!*-able to see you befo-*hok!*-fore a gig,” Estella mused, “or else y-*holp!*-you might get them-*HIC-ulk!*-onstage.” 

“God, yeah,” Daniel agreed, laughing a little. He drew Estella into his arms, and she lay comfortably on his chest. They both jerked with her next “*HIC-ulp!*”

“Has that ever-*hrrk!*-happened to you?” Estella wondered. “H-*hiic!*-iccups during a g-*HIC-ulk!*-a gig?”

“Naw.” Daniel shook his head. “Happened to Cassie once, but I don’t get them that often, remember?” Giving her a warm squeeze, he added, “Pre-jinx anyway. It’s all up in the air now.”

Estella giggled. “*HIC-ulp!*--*holp!* You m-- might come to regre-*HIC-erk!*-regret this.”

“Oh, definitely worth it from where I’m standing,” Daniel assured her. “Hiccups don’t scare me.” He smiled as Estella kissed him behind his ear. “What about you? Any regrets?”

His tone was playful, but his eyes were earnest. Estella considered what had changed in one fell swoop. No more writing about Erratic Status. The thought did make her a little sad, but she was at the point that she didn’t need Erratic Status to secure her assignments in rock genres. And although there weren’t many, Estella wasn’t the only Black writer at Soundbites—Greg could get Roderick or Abi to cover the band. He could even hire more Black writers, wonder of wonders.

The idea that she was now seeing a rock star felt a bit overwhelming, so Estella didn’t focus on that aspect of it. Yes, she was seeing Daniel Westman, but that also meant she was seeing Daniel. Just Daniel, who needed kite time when he felt drained and made Superman jokes and held her when she had the hiccups.

“N-*hok!*-no regrets,” Estella said. “I’m good-*HIC-ulk!*-right where I-- I am.”

They lay in bed together, talking, teasing, and enjoying each other’s company. Estella’s hiccups began to come more slowly, not as hard, as if they’d tired themselves out and would soon stop on their own.

With a kiss to Daniel, Estella told him, “Back in-*hmmp!*-in a minute.” Naked, she got out of bed and walked to the loo.

Estella had a quick wee, then looked at herself in the mirror as she washed up. Her afro was a bit sweaty and squashed down from sex—she used her hands to reshape it. Something about her reflection made her feel sexy, and even her soft hiccups just seemed to add to the charm. She blew a kiss into the mirror and winked at herself.

When she came back to bed, Daniel’s eyes were closed, but he smiled as he heard her coming. “Hey,” he murmured.

“H-*hulk!*-hey,” Estella echoed, settling back into his arms. “Tired?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Daniel admitted. He stifled a small yawn. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

Biting her lip, Estella noted, “You went thr-*hic-ulp!*-through that trouble to get me a r-*hmmk-mmp!*-room. Is it awful i-*hiic!*-if I don’t use it?”

“We could call down to reception,” Daniel suggested. “Say you don’t need it after all. What with the snowstorm and the trains being canceled, you just might make someone’s night.”

“Mmm-*hmmk!*” Estella murmured. “Yeah, we could do that. *hic-ulk!* Would that mea-- mean getting dressed and going down th-*hulk!*-there to give the key card-*hmmk-mmp!*-back?”

“I could go,” Daniel offered. “I’m the one who made the fuss over the room.” He kissed her. “And anyway, you’ve got hiccups.”

“But you’re-*hrrk!*-tired,” Estella pointed out.

“I’ll rally,” Daniel assured her.

She smiled. “Then than-*hulk!*-nk you. I’d love that.”

Gently, Daniel eased Estella off him and onto the pillow. He sat up and grabbed the phone. Listening to him, Estella was impressed at how reasonable and nonchalant he made the whole thing sound. She’d have been excessively self-conscious to make a call like that.

Soon, Daniel was getting up and pulling his T-shirt back on. “Key card?” he asked.

“Trouser pocke-- pocket,” Estella told him.

He found it, then put on his jeans. Bending down, Daniel kissed her. “Back soon.”

There was something so comfortable about lying in Daniel’s hotel bed when he was out of the room. Something cozy, something easy. Estella had lain there for a few minutes, burrowed under the blankets, when she noticed that her hiccups had gone.

When she heard the sound of the door unlocking again, Estella lifted her head to watch Daniel coming back in. “All good,” Daniel said. “It’s still coming down out there.”

“Mmm,” Estella murmured. “Cheers.”

Daniel removed his trousers again, untying his hair so his locs fell down. Estella could see now that there was some variation in their lengths—the shortest ones fell just past his ears, while the longest ones didn’t quite brush his shoulders. He climbed into bed in his T-shirt and pants. “Comfortable?” he asked, getting in close to spoon her.

“Very,” Estella replied. “And no more hiccups.”

“That’s good,” Daniel remarked. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to manage to sleep.”

“No worries now,” Estella said.

“Exactly.” Daniel kissed the back of her neck.

Malcolm’s dad met them at a nice-looking Jamaican restaurant. When he joined them in line, the first thing Malcolm’s mum said after greeting him was, “Andy isn’t feeling well. He has a cold, poor thing.”

Malcolm offered Andy a small, bemused smile. “Sorry about that,” he murmured, leaning down to speak in Andy’s ear. “She means well.”

Andy made his best effort to smile back. “Y-yeah…” he agreed. “hahhhhh-ehhhhhhh-shoooooooo!” He caught the sneeze in the crook of his arm, trying not to cringe as Mrs. Forrester tutted and fussed.

He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. He didn’t usually mind people making a fuss over him when he was ill. It just meant they cared, and anyway, he liked the attention. So why did it make him feel self-conscious and cross today?

As he took out a tissue and dabbed at his nose, Andy noticed Malcolm fiddling with his watchband. “What’s up?” he asked softly.

Malcolm turned, giving Andy an apprehensive look. “I don’t know what I like here,” he admitted in a low voice.

“Mmm.” Andy nodded—no further explanation needed. Malcolm’s tastes were very particular. While he could be adventurous in the kitchen when Andy made foods inspired by one of his favorite films or books, he otherwise liked to keep things simple, familiar, predictable. Eating at new restaurants could be a minefield for him.

Andy threaded an encouraging arm through Malcolm’s, stifling a cough into his opposite shoulder. He tried to conjure up a list of Malcolm’s fandoms, searching for anything Jamaican or Jamaican-adjacent. But his brain didn’t want to cooperate. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he attempted to gather up his scattered thoughts.

Fuck, it was no good. Andy’s mind was all over the place, and his headache made it harder to concentrate. He set aside fictional cuisine and looked over the menu. “There—curry veggies,” he told Malcolm. “Mild coconut curry, so the flavors won’t be overwhelming. And you can choose the first sauce on the list: ‘no heat,’ ihh-it…says…” He turned away, clapping his hand over his mouth. “hihhhhhhh-uhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHH! Aaahhhhhh…hehhhhhhhhh-shuhhhhhhhh!”

Mrs. Forrester tsked sympathetically. “God bless you, Andy,” she said. “Maybe we ought to get the food to go, if you’re not—”

“I’m fine,” Andy insisted, sniffling as he rubbed his nose. “It’s fine.” He buried his face in Malcolm’s shoulder, and his boyfriend drew an arm round him.

“Thanks,” Malcolm said. “Curry veggies, I’ll try that one.”

Lifting his head back up, Andy smiled a little. “Anytime,” he promised. He didn’t want Malcolm to feel anxious about the food, but in a weird way, it was a relief that Andy could help him—that it wasn’t just Malcolm doing all the work to see to what Andy needed.

Andy had been so focused on Malcolm’s order that he made it to the front of the line before he realized he hadn’t decided what he wanted. “Er, yeah, hiya,” he began, flustered, “let me get the, er, I’ll do the jerk pork.”

The man at the register nodded as he tapped it in—his nametag read ‘Roger.’ “Sauce?”

“I no I want a jerk,” Andy told him. “I feel like I could handle the hot, but--” he winced, clearing his throat, “--but I’ll defer to your expertise if you think I’d better go with the medium.” His mouth flickered with a smile. “I’m sure I’m not the first white guy to say, ‘Give me the hot one, I can take it!’”

Roger laughed. “Just for that humility, I’ll give you one of each,” he replied. “You can try the hot if you’re feeling brave, and if it’s too much for you, you’ll have the medium to fall back on.”

“Thanks,” Andy said, nodding. “If it makes a difference, I’ve got a cold, so I can’t taste as much.”

“In that case, you might wanna stick with the medium,” Roger advised. “Maybe you can do the hot, maybe not, but what’s the point if you’re just getting the heat and not the flavor?”

Andy sighed. “Fair point,” he conceded. “All right, let’s do the medium.”

“Don’t you worry, it still has a good kick,” Roger said. “We’ll see if it can’t clear your sinuses, huh?”

Ducking his head a little, Andy said, “Er, right.”

He slipped off to the toilet while they were waiting for their food, blowing his nose as well as he could. Andy looked himself over in the mirror and made a face—he was a bit peaky-looking, and there were circles under his eyes, eurgh.

“Haaahhhhhh-ihhhhhh-chioooooo!” he sneezed, sputtering with a few coughs.

Andy sighed. Nothing for it.

Back out front, the Forresters had gotten the food and settled in at a table. There was a chair for Andy on the end. Malcolm had probably arranged it that way—he must’ve known Andy would have to get up from the table or need space to turn away from the others.

It was a thoughtful gesture, in both the “considerate” and “thinking ahead” sense, and Andy hated that it made him feel more inadequate than grateful. Malcolm was always prepared for things, while Andy forgot and overlooked and didn’t think. You’d have thought Malcolm would get tired of having to manage things for the both of them.

“Cheers,” Andy mumbled to Malcolm as he sat down.

Malcolm leaned over and kissed his temple. “Of course.”

Andy resolved to stop being so mopey and enjoy himself. His thoughtful boyfriend was looking out for him, he had the good company of Malcolm’s family, and the food looked delicious. There was no need to be pouting over a stuffed-up nose or a sore throat—he was just being difficult for the sake of it.

So he asked, “What’re we talking about?”, sniffling a bit as he rubbed his nose.

“Johnny’s new girlfriend,” Malcolm replied with a soft smile.

His brother groaned. “I never said ‘girlfriend!’” Johnny insisted.

“Oh, come on!” Eva wheedled. “You two been ‘hanging out’ for two months? Seeing each other every weekend?” She added to Andy, “That’s how Mystery Woman came up—he’s ditching us after this because he can’t bear to be apart from her.”

“But none of us have met her, and he won’t tell us a thing about her,” Malcolm said.

“Meanwhile, his Instagram is wall-to-wall pictures of her,” Eva pointed out. “Face it, Johnny. You’ve got it bad but won’t admit it.”

“Did it occur to you that you haven’t met her ‘cause I know you’ll do this?” Johnny countered.

There was something sweet about the playful sibling bickering, and Andy didn’t really mind the next “huhhhhh-ehhhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHH!” that he buried in his serviette. Eva was the master at teasing Johnny, but Malcolm got in a few sly jabs as well. It was nice to watch Mr. and Mrs. Forrester’s faces as they listened to their children.

Andy stifled a cough into his knuckles, then took a few careful sips of water. He turned his attention to his food: slow-roasted jerk pork that was practically falling apart on his fork, with coconut rice and fried plantains. Absolutely to die for.

Getting himself a good forkful, Andy took a bite…and found he could hardly taste anything. He added some more of the jerk sauce and tried again, but while he could feel the heat of the spice on his tongue, he was scarcely getting any flavor at all.

Andy winced as he swallowed his second bite. Suddenly, his plate seemed like a heap of tasteless textures that was hardly worth the trouble of dealing with his sore throat. All he saw was more he had to swallow. As he was struck with a heavy pang of disappointment, it actually made him feel a bit queasy.

His nose began to itch, and Andy dropped his fork, turning away as he cupped his hands over his mouth. “hihhhhhhh-uhhhhhhhh-CHIUHHHHHHH!” he sneezed. “Aaahhhhhh-hehhhhhh…ihhhhhhh-shoooooo!” He pulled a tissue from his pocket and held back a groan.

“Bless you,” Malcolm said, giving Andy’s thigh a gentle squeeze. “This is all right.”

“Huh?” Andy replied as he wiped his nose.

“Curry veggies,” Malcolm explained. “It’s—I can eat it okay. Not too overwhelming, like you said.”

“Mmm,” Andy mumbled. “Right, yeah. Good for you.” He rubbed the spot between his eyes, which was pulsing with headache.

Malcolm softly rubbed his back. “Is yours okay?”

“Brilliant,” Andy answered dully. “Probably. Whatever.”

Frowning, Malcolm tried, “Andy—”

But Andy just looked back down at his plate, resting his head against his fist as he grimaced through another painful, tasteless swallow.