#spring♛

Well-manicured  fingers  reach slowly to first  allow  him  to  sniff,  then behind his ears to give him a scratch. “You’re  such  a  handsome  boy.   I’d take  you  home  if  I  could,   sweetie,” she coos. Sebastian  would likely scare a cat right out of the house. And while the image of a  600-pound  werebeast  chasing  a  cat brings  a  smile  to  her face, she doubts the  small  feline before her would enjoy the experience. (Plus, Seb might lose an eye.)

     Blue eyes regard Seb with a mixture of amusement      and disdain. At least to her eyes, Sebastian has      never been particularly subtle about his checking      out of her, particular of her (admittedly great) ass.           "Sebastian, we have been married for two months.      You can officially stop trying to be subtle about it."      She waltzes over, making a point to swing her hips as      she does. It's rare for them to both have a night off like      this.           The TV hums with some stupid reality show, rich home-      owners tired of their multi-million dollar mansions in the      big city looking for a multi-million dollar home in some      quote-unquote 'island paradise.'           A single finger tilts his jaw up, a slow smile spreading      across her face. "You were never good at it, anyway."

     There's the sound of retching from the bathroom.           "Why-" gag. "-did we-" she spits. "-want to do this-"      Water splashes. Myra coughs. Spits out the remnants      of her dinner: canned ravioli with pickles. She's long      stopped questioning her cravings, and set out on      satisfying them instead of wondering why she thought      chocolate mushroom stew was a good idea. "-again?"           She prays Sabine will be there soon with a cup of water,      to hold her hair, to rub her back until the spinning and      nausea stop.           "Why couldn't we be like every other goddamn      queer couple?" Retch. Gag. "We could have- have      adopted some Sudanese kid. Maybe Kazakhstan.      But no," she spits again, thinks she sees a shred of      undigested pasta shell.           "We had to be different."

     Sometime in the middle of lunch, with Sebastian      conveniently "out" on a coffee run for the whole      department, Myra slams her hands down on      Joseph's desk.           "What is my husband planning?" she asks, her      tone not out of place in a multi-hour interrogation.      "I know our anniversary is coming up, I know      he's planning something, and I know he tells      you everything."      She leans close, crouching like a tigress about to      devour him whole. "Spill, Oda."

     "It's a cold, Seb. You're not going to die."          She gives him the same unamused, narrow-eyed look she      always does, and pops the thermometer out of his mouth.     "See? 102. You're hardly sick." Well-maintained fingers      brush hair out of his eyes, feeling the overheated and sweat-     damp skin against her own. What's it that her girlfriends had     always called this? A man cold? Whatever it is, it had been      going around the station, and one of them catching it was     practically inevitable.           She tucks him under another layer of blankets, planting a      kiss on his forehead as she does.          "Want me to put Judge Judy on for you? So you can yell     at the idiots on TV for a bit?"