#stuffing fic

The circus was rather dimly lit tonight, an attempt on Ca1ne's behalf to mimic a day and night cycle. It sort of worked; it was better than the constant blinding vibrancy that the players had become accustomed to. There lied an impressive pillow fort, situated not far from the large stage. Inside the fort were K1nger and Qu3enie, they had been cuddled up together. The pair lay against a pillow-cushioned corner with their gloved hands intertwined. K1nger's eyes began to droop slightly; it seemed like he was about to fall asleep at any moment. The steady soft breathing of his dear wife next to him always puts him at ease. While they technically didn't need to breathe per se, it felt nice to do so regardless. It brought the comforting yet faraway memory of their previous humanity.

guooarr...

A small gurgle emits from the king chess piece's body, interrupting his wistful thoughts. Qu3enie huffs a gentle laugh as her disembodied hand glides toward his middle, around where a stomach would normally be.

"I suppose it's about time we eat something."

Her hushed voice sounded like smooth honey, something K1nger would often compliment her on. He lets out a half chuckle while bashfully averting his gaze.

"Heh, yeah. You're probably right."

Another growl vibrates through his digital form as if agreeing with him. Qu3enie closes her eyes for a moment, her brows creased in concentration. Like a magic trick, a smorgasbord of snacks popped into existence and littered the floor of their pillow fort. There was quite a selection of pretzels, crackers, chips, and even some chocolates.

"Wow," K1nger whispers, "You're really getting the hang of this whole conjuring thing, huh?"

Qu3enie blushes and waves her hand dismissively. She then reaches for one of the numerous bags of chips, specifically choosing her favorite: honey barbecue flavor. As she brings a chip to her wooden face, it disappears into thin air with a crunch. It's strange eating without a mouth, but somehow it works. Anything is possible in this digital world after all. Noticing Qu3enie's expectant gaze, K1nger picks a snack for himself. He chooses a box of cheese crackers of some sort; the name sounds familiar, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

The two chess pieces continue cuddling, now with the inclusion of brushing crumbs off of each other. An idea comes to Qu3enie as her hand drifts down to grab another chip. She holds up to K1nger's "mouth" instead. He simply eats it from her hand without a second thought. It's a short-lived wholesome moment until he realizes what had just happened; his pale face blushes a light pink. Satisfied with the response, Qu3enie then reaches her hand into K1nger's snack box and fishes out a cracker. She lifts it towards him just like before, and K1nger obliges once more, albeit with a grain of hesitation. This pattern goes on for a while longer; a snack is presented to his nonexistent lips, and he takes it eagerly. He's never been taken care of quite like this. It isn't until Qu3enie's fingertips grasp emptiness before it dawns on them that the box has been eaten completely. They both exhale an awkward laugh as she sets the box aside.

"Are you still hungry, my love?" She looks at him with utterly love-struck eyes. Admittedly, he was feeling a little full, but it was impossible to resist when she looked at him like that.

K1nger rests a hand on his tummy. "I-I suppose I could go for more."

That was all the confirmation she needed before grabbing the bag of pretzels and popping them open. This time, she held out two pieces for him. He readily gobbles them both at once and chews tentatively, savoring the salty taste. He swallows bite after bite as a fuzzy warm feeling wraps around him like a hug.

Guuoarourr~

The sound of K1nger's stomach echoes in the fort again. It sounds pleased with the generous amount of offerings. His tummy was now pleasantly full; the weight felt nice and comfy. Qu3enie, however, continued to feed him, despite his tummy's quiet protest. She was determined to feed him until the bag had been emptied. When such a thing happened, K1nger quickly brought up a closed fist to his face. A muffled rumbling noise escaped from behind his hand. He couldn't just belch outwardly in front of her like that; it's rude. At least that's what he thought.

Qu3enie giggled under her breath. "Sweetheart, you don't need to stifle yourself. We ARE married after all, or did you forget again, sillyhead? Let yourself be comfortable, dear." Her calming tone immediately put him at ease. He lets his shoulders fall and lays back into the pillows. Qu3enie's gaze travels from the rise and fall of his chest to his now happy belly. Impulse takes over as she places a delicate hand on said belly. It gurgles contently under her palm as she roams her fingers across the area. K1nger can't contain the shuddered breath that escapes, flustered by such gentle yet intimate touch. There's a strange overwhelming feeling that makes his digital heart race in a feverish manner. Arousal—it finally clicks in his mind; he's aroused. By what exactly? He's still figuring that out. Nothing in particular occurred for this excitement to arise except...the feeding. Was he turned on by his wife hand-feeding treats to him? No, that couldn't be, could it?

Qu3enie sees the contemplative look in K1nger's eyes and slows her caresses to a stop.

"Is something wrong, dear? You look...pensive. What's in that head of yours?"

He was caught a bit off guard; he hadn't realized that his thoughts had been showing in his expression.

"Ah, um. It's just uhh…" Words failed him. How was he supposed to construct a sentence while his heart pounded so intensely? A deep inhale followed by an even deeper exhale helped to settle the rattling in his brain.

"I-I think I...like this. Um, specifically what we were doing, y'know...the...f-feeding." His voice trailed off at the end into a barely audible mumble. Qu3enie's eyebrows rise for a moment before sliding back to normal. She unconsciously traces tiny circles with her thumb, still resting on his surprisingly soft belly. There's a short period of silence as K1nger is frozen like a deer, awaiting her response to his rather embarrassing confession. He clears his throat to break the tension before it gets to be too suffocating. It seemed to snap Qu3enie out of whatever thoughts had her staring intently at nothing. Realizing that he was still expecting her feedback, she takes the time to look directly into his brilliant ocean-colored eyes. His gaze remains downcast and avoidant. A gentle hand moves to touch the side of his face.

"Look at me, dear." She says tenderly. K1nger swallows thickly before glancing at his wife. Her expression radiates immense compassion that makes it nearly impossible to look away. He can see her saccharine smile, even through her mouthless avatar. The rigid nervousness in his body melts away as his own expression softens.

"I-I'm sorry. If that's, um, too weird, I understand—" A finger quickly comes up to his face, shushing him.

"I didn't say it was."

"Huh?" K1nger flushed a bright pink.

"I don't mind it. A-Actually, if I'm being honest, I... liked it too?" She giggles awkwardly; it was always cute when she did that.

K1nger could only sputter half-baked words while his brain tried to make sense of this unexpected turn of events.

"Y-You wh- you y-you, huh? Wha—What d'you—w-what? I—UM—" Qu3enie leans forward suddenly to clunk her head against his as a makeshift kiss in order to shut him up.

"I'm ok with it, as long as you're ok with it." Her honey-like voice echoes inside K1nger's frazzled mind. There's not a hint of insincerity when observing her golden brown eyes. He leans into her affectionately. Only one question remained: what now? Qu3enie seemed to read his exact thoughts like an open book.

"If you're feeling up to it, maybe we could keep going? Of course, you don't have to if you don't want to. It's up to you, dear."

"Eheheh, yeah. What's a few more? It's not like we can gain weight in here." The very idea tingled in the back of his mind. Qu3enie notices this, of course, and can't help but tease.

"We'll see about that." She pats his tummy appraisingly. "Maybe it's only a matter of time before you start widening out. Maybe you'll even get a cute pudgy belly, all the more for me to love."

K1nger's brain practically short-circuits from the overwhelming adoration. The thought of getting fat because of his dear wife spoiling him was exhilarating. He had to suppress a deep moan. Qu3enie slides her warm hands down K1nger's shoulders and chest, all the way down to his belly, and gives it a playful squeeze. The noise that escapes his throat is utterly sinful. Her touch quickly becomes addictive as delicate fingers knead into his gut. It had gained some softness after eating all those snacks. Without him noticing, Qu3enie gently presses a chip to his "mouth".

"Come on, dear, eat up for me."

"Do you have any questions about the menu?" I asked. I'm supposed to ask this rather than 'what'll you have.' To get the conversation flowing, and to make sure my table feels cared for.

"Oh, a few." The one in the suit said. "What do you recommend for a special occasion?"

"What's the occasion?"

"It's my big Five-Oh." The one in the dress' eyes darted from me to across the table, going even pinker. "We thought we'd celebrate."

"Wow, happy birthday! You look great." The lighting in here is flattering to all, but she didn't look a day over thirty-five. A joke seemed to flash between them.

"Thank you," The one in the dress said, "This place has amazing reviews, so we're pretty excited we could snag a reservation."

"You definitely came to the right place. Any other plans tonight?" No reason to stuff them with carbs and cream sauce if they're taking in a show next — they could doze off in the dark.

"Just this." The one in the suit replied, but her smile across the table promised far more. "So, what do you think? We want the best."

I leaned over to trace my path down the menu of the one in the suit. "Sounds like you're aware that our menu changes often, since it's seasonal. I'll tell you now that you want the tarte tatin — it's like a crown of apple slices submerged in their juice, caramelizing all the way through your meal. So we have to let the kitchen know you want it when I put in your order."

"It's a la mode, bunny. Do you want a scoop of ice cream to finish?" The one in the suit grinned across the table, showing the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in a tease. So not a first date, then. I moved my finger back to the top of the menu.

"The radishes and smoked cod's roe is worth your bravery — salty, creamy, smoky, with the crisp zing of the radish. But if you want to start off in familiar territory, the panisse is exactly what fritte should be, with a crunchy exterior and a silky middle." I could feel the eyes of the one in the suit following my nail's scrape along the page. I moved to second.

"You really can't go wrong for the second course. The trout gravlax is fresh trout cured with salt, sugar, juniper and pink peppercorn. It's compressed while it cures, then we slice it thin so it dissolves in your mouth in a silken sheet. If you want something more substantial, I'm obsessed with what the kitchen can do with tagliatelle, wild mushrooms, and parsley. Savory, tender mushrooms clinging to fresh pasta and brightness from the parsley. It may be simple but it's done right.

"For your third course, I enjoy the duck. It plays with so many aspects of flavor — the richness of the duck, the sweet and sour of the honeynut squash and pomegranate, the mild bitterness of the trevise greens. It's a dish that develops and echoes back on itself as you combine the elements, like Thanksgiving. I also recommend the pork belly. It's rolled and stuffed with fennel seeds, lemon zest, and marinated spinach. The green herb sauce makes every bite soar."

The one in the suit set her menu on the table and said, "Well, bunny? What sounds good?"

The one in the dress propped her chin in her hand. "It all sounds good to me, vix."

"I agree. We'll take it all, please. Ah, and a glass of…" The one in the suit scanned over the wine list but settled on the cocktail list with an amused noise in the back of her throat, "…the Strega Nona would be perfect. Thank you."

It's pretty old school for one person to order for the table, so as I wrote down my selections on the ticket, I found myself angling toward the one in the dress. "Is there anything else?" I asked.

"We'll see." Bunny replied, "Thank you."

When I returned with the Strega Nona, Vix claimed it. It was the last thing I set in front of her for the night, other than the check.

🍽 🍽 🍽

I didn't understand at first. When I brought out the first course plates, I set them in the center of the table. I told them to enjoy and retreated. From a distance I watched Vix lean over and pluck one of the panisse from their stack and, with a fluid tilt of her wrist, offer its tip to Bunny's parted lips.

I've eaten the food here enough times to almost consider it mundane, because it's always accessible and convenient to me. Like hot food at the bodega. I've had the panisse more times than I can count — our menu changes, but there are staples that are made from ingredients that are pretty much always sourceable. But I watched Bunny's tongue touch the stinging spot where a chunk of kosher salt dissolved on her lip and felt like something different was happening. As servers we're meant to return to the table to check in, but there's a balance to it. We don't want our table to feel like they're being rushed or scrutinized. But I found my legs carrying me to their table sooner than I'd normally wait.

"How is everything?" I asked. Bunny was nibbling down her third stick of panisse and Vix had sat back in her chair, rolling the stem of her cocktail glass in her fingers. The two of them looked up at me.

"It's exactly what you promised." Bunny answered, then finished the panisse in three wolfed bites. "Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside. Like if a frenchy fry and hummus lived in harmony." She selected her next piece and bit down. I was a little surprised by her tenacity. The frothy rosiness of her hid quite the appetite, as focused as Vix's eyes under luxuriating lids. Vix, who did not reach for either of the final two pieces of panisse and twirled her cocktail.

I asked if they needed anything and left the table again. As I waited my other tables I saw Bunny finish the plate alone, feeding the final bite into her mouth with a lifted pinkie. I saw her suck the salt from her fingertips. Then I saw Vix push the plate of radishes and smoked cod's roe closer to Bunny.

Bunny dragged a slice of orchid-bright radish through the cod's roe and laid it on her tongue. Her eyebrows went up. The guy at the table I stood in front of said, "Can I get the salade verte without any dressing?"

My pen skidded across my pad. I blinked. "That's just a plate of lettuce. Is that okay?"

He huffed. Like I said, it's my job to make my table feel cared for, and I wasn't succeeding. My hands took down orders, my mouth shaped around 'how are you doing tonight' and 'that's our hangar steak from last week's menu,' and my eyes kept returning to the table where Bunny finished the first course. I didn't understand. Was she a food critic who needed to know how everything tasted personally to describe her experience? It's hard to tell, but I've had one or two at my table before. Someone who gets first bite of each dish like droit de signeur. But Bunny ate everything.

When I set the trout gravlax and tagliatelle plates down, I put them on Bunny's side of the table. Vix smiled up at me with teeth that flashed like sparks. "Thank you," she said, and for a moment I was a part of whatever it was, and whatever it was was delicious. My toes clenched to keep me from shifting my weight.

"Enjoy," I said. It was my role.

🍽 🍽 🍽

Being a waiter is being a voyeur. And even so, unless we stand there and let you talk to us, we only get part of the joke that makes everyone break into laughter. Sometimes I just get the laughter. It's not a problem — a lot of the things that happen at a table in New York are not interesting to me. But leaving Bunny and Vix's table behind, knowing that what was happening there interested me, was hard. It meant I would only get snapshots from afar.

The horseradish cream dripping from Bunny's fork, caught with a scoop of that tongue. How I knew that tongue felt the slick of oil, the mouth salivated to meet the grate of salt and sugar, how the juniper bloomed up through her nose. The first bite of the tagliatelle, wrapped demurely around the fork. The last bite of the tagliatelle, speared pasta dangling wild over the tines. How I knew what Bunny was tasting, and Vix didn't. How I'd picked those plates to contrast each other, because I thought they would share. Instead my choices made sure, far past the point where Bunny must have felt full, that there would be something new to freshen her appetite. That was me. And Vix toyed with her cocktail and watched, understanding it all. Understanding me.

When I brought the third course, Bunny's face was shining. Given the choice of duck and pork belly, her fork drifted over both uncertainly. In the beginning she was leaned forward to reach the table with her fluffy skirt and the belly beneath it. Now her back rested against the banquette and she breathed shallowly. The quick, light breaths of a bunny. Vix slid her cocktail to the side and said in a low voice, "Go on. It's all good, right?"

Bunny nodded without looking up from the weave of her fork. Vix's body had bent forward as Bunny relaxed, as if that connection between them was pulled taut. Now she rested her hands on the table, gripping furrows into the tablecloth. Her eyes devoured the motion of Bunny's hand.

"Don't you want it?" Vix said, "You can have everything you want, Bunny, and more."

I should've moved on, but the spotlight of Vix's gaze, the urgency in her voice, kept me in my place. Bunny raked her lip with her teeth. "It's so much." She admitted slowly, as if it took effort to speak, "I want it but it's so much."

Vix shifted in her seat. "Do you want my help?" She asked.

"…No, not yet. I feel good." Bunny drew a purposeful breath, preparing herself.

"Go for the duck." The two of them looked up at me, as surprised to find me there as I was to have said anything. My throat clicked. "The pork belly should be last — the herb sauce and lemon zest will refresh the — unless you want to sweet notes from the duck to segue into your dessert. But apple pairs well with pork."

Vix raised her brows and looked to Bunny. She said, "Well, you heard the expert. Go for the duck."

With a sigh of release, Bunny gathered her first bite of the duck. I was far away for the second course. Now I was there on the sidelines as the light shone like gold dust on Bunny's cheeks, as she exhaled through her nose so deeply a sound ruffled in her throat, as her chewing slowed to a deliberate grind, and her eyes went velvet soft. No wonder it was all Vix needed to be satiated, to watch Bunny eat.

My throat clicked again. "Enjoy," I said automatically. Again. As if I didn't already know.

Vix lifted her hand to stop me from leaving their table. She propped her chin on her other hand. "What next, do you think?" She asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"You said the duck builds like Thanksgiving. What should she have next?" Vix's lips curled at Bunny, once again hovering her fork over the plate.

"Oh," I said. Then I said, "The squash, then the potatoes, then the greens, then back to the duck. Savory and sour to sweet to crispy to bitter and earthy, to savory again. That's the perfect bite. But —" Vix looked up at my pause. " — it's the kind of balance where the order doesn't matter. She can —" I turned back to Bunny. "— you can eat it in any order. So long as you're combining it all together, bit by bit."

Bunny nodded and, after a glance at Vix, skimmed her fork through the other elements of the plate until her next bite was a bacchanalia of flavors. It was a big bite to fit everything, and even though Bunny ducked her head to catch it, the tower of squash, potato, greens, and duck toppled into her mouth. The pomegranate aril that had glistened in the light like a ruby burst as her teeth came down. Maybe that tart punch made her breath a gasp rather than a sigh, but still that indulgent lingering took over as Bunny chewed. All the while, her head slowly tipped back until she looked up at me with those plush eyes and pomegranate lips. I watched her stretched throat pulse when she swallowed.

I clenched my fists only to feel the edge of the table bite my palms. I didn't know I'd touched their table in the first place. From a distance, it would've looked like Bunny and I were about to kiss. I let go and straightened up so abruptly the silverware shifted on the table. "Oh, pardon me." I said.

Vix hummed that amused noise she'd made at the Strega Nona. "It's no trouble. I think you were right." She said to me, "It's such a treat to have someone who knows their work. Thank you."

"Of course," I answered, checking that my pen hadn't slipped free from its pocket in my half apron. My fingers found it and shoved it down until I felt its blunt end dig into my thigh. "I'll check where the kitchen is with the tarte tatin. Anything else I can do for you right now?"

Bunny shook her head, already onto her next bites. Vix's triumphant grin was all for me. "We'll let you know." She said.

🍽 🍽 🍽

The melting warmth of the tarte tatin stayed in my hands after I set it on the table. Bunny's drooping, fuzzy eyes widened at the size of it — enough for four people. Her hand paused over the remnants of the pork belly like a deer captivated by headlights. She made to move the pork belly to the side to make space for the tarte tatin, but stopped, blinking, when Vix's hand shot forward.

Vix lifted Bunny's fork from her fingers and collected the last of the pork belly with it. She offered it to Bunny's lips with smouldering eyes.

"Our waiter says pork pairs well with apple." She coaxed. Compelled, Bunny's mouth closed over the fork to savor to the sweet end.

As Bunny's mouth must've filled with the succulent pork, the attention of the table returned to the tarte tatin. I won't act like it's an unremarkable dish, the way I felt about the panisse after my time at the restaurant. The tarte tatin is inarguably a showstopper: a 10-inch round of flaky, bubbled pastry acting as pedestal to the promised crown of apple slices, whose perfect, soft flesh lay glossy beneath a thick caramelized syrup of their own juices, so plentiful that they seeped onto the plate beneath. Three scoops of vanilla ice cream nestled together and puddled exquisitely in the center, slow to melt due to their creamy content.

"What do you think, Bunny? Do you want it?" Vix asked.

Bunny nodded and tried to draw a deeper breath in preparation. She picked up the spoon I brought for dessert and sank it into the tarte tatin like the first step on the moon. I felt myself take the deep breath her stuffed stomach had forbidden her. Her movements were even slower, methodical and exhausted.

Vix said again, forcing my eyes away from Bunny, "Do you want my help?"

Bunny nodded again and produced, after a moment, a throaty: "Yes, please."

Vix gave a satisfied purr as Bunny laid the spoon, handle facing Vix, on the tarte tatin plate. Vix met my eyes and asked, "Will you need the table? This might take some time."

Maybe I did. But I didn't care. "No, take all the time you need. It's a special night." I replied, "Would you like your check?"

"Yes, thank you." Vix dismissed me, her attention fixed on delivering a bite to Bunny's open, waiting mouth.

Eating a dinner for two and a dessert for four was impossible. Bunny had only so much space inside of her. It became clear over the next half hour that Vix's goal was to pursue the quaking edge of that boundary. Piece by golden piece, the tarte tatin went — warm, sweet, crisp, tender, dripping cool ice cream — into Bunny, until she shook her head and raised a languid hand for mercy.

The last time I went to their table, Vix had abandoned her place to sit at Bunny's side. One of her arms crossed Bunny's shoulders, giving a bolster for her lolling head. The other arm disappeared under the tablecloth. Vix turned her face to me.

"You were as exceptional as the food, thank you." She said, "You said the menu changes seasonally?"

Bunny's eyes opened and fell on mine, deep in a content dream. I said, "It changes weekly, actually. Some appetizers and desserts stay for a few weeks, and some dishes are spins on previous offerings, but there's always something new to try. And any dish you want from this week you'd need to catch while you can — it's not guaranteed in the future."

Vix's voice thrummed. "We'll need to come back again pretty soon, then, to try it all. A big undertaking, but worth it, I think." She paused to look at Bunny and, stroking her shoulder, asked, "Can we request one of your tables when we come back?"

It began with a packet of Donettes. 

Six miniature donuts caked in powdered sugar—he thought that sounded indulgent enough to scratch the itch in his brain desperate for comfort. It was like what his father told him when he was small and covered in mosquito bites after an August afternoon on the lake: if you’ve got to scratch something, don’t scratch the itch. Scratch near it. Trick your brain. 

Frank thought he was very good at tricking his brain. 

Abby had made the world’s nicest breakfast that morning—indulging his sweet tooth with pancakes and whipped cream, then making sure he had more than enough real energy for his shift with bacon, eggs, and avocado—which sat heavily in his belly hours after he finished. A new box of protein bars was tucked in his bag, since he no longer had anything that was his in his locker, and he came into work as energized for his first day back as he possibly could have felt.

And yet, when he was banished to Triage Island, something panicky and cruel gnawed at him.

Remember me? It’s your sense of failure. Missed you, pal.

He inwardly sighed about a half-dozen curse words and stole away to the one quiet hallway in the E.R. It wasn’t empty, no; it was just out of the way. A few medical assistants hustled through, not seeing him. He had maybe two minutes, maybe a hundred and fifty seconds, but he wasn’t sure if that was enough to get the heavy, invisible weight off his chest. Slow breaths felt like dragging a dumbbell through wet sand. He rubbed, hard, the heel of his hand against his sternum. 

A few happy beeps and a chime caught his attention. He slowly came to a stop, head slightly turned, and listened while something crinkled and popped. A nurse rounded the corner with a tiny bag of vending machine popcorn in her hand.

She didn’t look at him.

Frank blinked.

That, then, was how he followed the unseen trail to a vending machine he—honestly—had no idea was there, hidden in the depths of not-quite-Triage with about two dozen options of colorful, processed snacks. It was tucked into an alcove that he absolutely would have overlooked ten months ago: chipped tile on the floor, tacky paint on the walls, dust and who-knew-what-else (did they ever find all of those rats last year?) behind it. The buttons themselves were a little sticky and, remarkably, not very faded; instead, they flashed in an enticing blue the moment the sensor noticed someone standing in front of it, staring at it like it was the rosetta stone.

He couldn’t and didn’t want to know what came over him in that moment, and so he didn’t give himself room to think twice before he was tapping $2.99 onto his credit card in exchange for six powdered sugar donuts.

Once it was in his hand, he laughed to himself. He used to beg his mother for these exact ones every time they went to the grocery store when he was a kid. She never relented. When he opened the packet and placed one of the donuts in his mouth, then, it felt like sweet, sweet defiance and comfort—because, hell, no one could tell him “no” anymore. 

In between actually treating the boy who’d shoved beads up his nose and charting about it, Frank tried to place why he felt as bothered as he did. He carefully determined that the twisting feeling in him wasn’t a craving—he’d had those, and they tended to present anywhere from a dull, persistent ache to a loud, echoing tunnel that made it impossible to think otherwise—but something unsettled and searching, writhing to be defined.

The words on the screen in front of him began to blur together. He breathed in, held for four, then breathed out, and held for four again. He angled himself to hide sending a text message, and sent Abby the ferris wheel emoji.

She’d said to text her so she knew he was okay.

A second later, she sent back the carousel horse.

This is random. I’m thinking of you.

I hear you. I’m reflecting it back.

He blinked hard.

“Donnie?” He swiveled left, then right, then found the nurse practitioner about three feet away from him, looking at him like he’d just flipped over a full bedpan for fun. “You want to take a couple notes? It’s good practice.”

Donnie gave him a look. “You just don’t want to take your own notes.”

Smiling, yet feeling like his skin was going to vibrate off his body, he edged around Donnie with a pat to his shoulders. “Right. It’s practice for dealing with insufferable doctors and our inflated egos.”

“You are so full of—”

Frank was already speed-walking around the corner, and his pace picked up into something bouncing once he was out of sight. His legs took him back to the secluded vending machine, and it wasn’t until he stood underneath its cheery artificial light did he sigh. 

He placed a hand on the glass and tried to take inventory of his feelings. He’d practiced that—noticing sensations—and yet what he felt most pressingly was a fuzzy, slightly electrified sensation, as if he were in the middle of a ball of dryer lint. Grimacing, he decided that something to settle his stomach was in order. 

$5 later, he had a bottle of ginger ale under one arm and a bag of pretzels in one hand. Of course, said bag really only filled his palm.

“Yeah, right,” he dryly laughed to himself, before buying a second bag. 

He slid down to the floor beside the alcove, mentally promising himself there was nothing to see here, nothing to worry about, nothing weird about a doctor crashing out in the hallway at all.

He wasn’t wrong. That was an upsetting thought for another day.

He started with drawing his thoughts in half the ginger ale. It was only half-cold, maybe just slightly above room temperature, and its sweetness coated the back of his tongue and throat in a sickly way. It should have turned his stomach.

It didn’t.

He simply muffled a returning bubble of carbonation by coughing into his fist. But that was why he bought the pretzels, too, wasn’t it? Ginger to settle his stomach. Dry carbs to absorb the sugar and bubbles. Right. Yes. Of course.

He popped open the pretzels and started with one, then sighed and ate half a fistful. He didn’t really have time for this, he rationalized to himself. His absence, even if for all of three minutes, was probably already raising questions, and god help him if Donnie called attention to the way he sprinted out of there. He ate another fistful, and heat crawled up his neck while his mouthful of heavy, bready carbs and salt inched down his throat. 

Tipping his head back, he rested one arm across his bent-upward knees. The ginger ale bottle dangled, its neck pinched between his fingers, and the two bags of pretzels sat on his pelvis while he finished the first one. 

And the second. And the soda. He felt better, he had to admit, by the time he stood up with his collection of trash; his stomach was soothed, apart from the very faint press of a snack eaten too quickly, but he’d been in worse places before.

Rooby was ignoring him, Santos was being antagonistic, and he deserved every second of it. A part of him—a cruel part that had only recently begun to redirect itself inward rather than at others—delighted in it.

Yes! Flagellate me!

He texted Abby to ask if Penny’s daycare or Tanner’s kindergarten ever sent her pictures of the kids. He got back a photo of Tanner fingerpainting and another of Penny napping. He then had to take thirty seconds to bury his face in his hands, because he didn’t deserve such adorable children, nor such a ridiculously patient wife.

That was when the afternoon started to spin off its axis.

He was back in the main E.R., and the cyberattack had sent everything to the dark ages. He wouldn’t have called it “going to shit,” if only because the more chaos there was, the more distracted he felt, and the more distracted he felt, the quieter his internal spiral got. He missed being the one people ran to, missed being the senior resident who had the privilege of guiding and instructing, imparting knowledge like he was god—but he found his step, being a worker among workers again.

And then, he spoke to Cassie.

Or, Cassie spoke to him, and he sat there feeling like his world had been flipped upside down and shaken until a few parts fell out.

That may or may not have led to him crashing out in the staff room. 

He grabbed two of his protein bars from his locker, a cup of coffee from the stale pot on the counter, and stopped at the staff room vending machine to buy a protein shake before he groaned and bought a chocolate chip muffin to go with it. He also grabbed a fistful of dark chocolate from a bag of Hershey’s mix on the table, which someone brought in for some reason he’d been too trapped-in-Triage to know. 

Surely that counted as lunch. Kind of. What time was it, even?

He dumped the protein shake into his coffee and drank half of that in one go. It went down with languid ease, so smooth and thick that it felt less like a coating—like the ginger ale—and more like a blanket. It warmed his belly yet cooled his fingers and cheeks, soothing his body in a way that gently nudged the vibrating parts of himself back to center. 

Next came the muffin, eaten in pieces broken off one by one; he tried to notice individual flavors—the chocolate, the egg, the vanilla—but they swiftly began to blur into a sweet cotton candy cloud in his head. The warm bliss of it coiled around him, and he imagined hands running through his hair, over his throat, and down his chest. Present-but-not, he unwrapped one of the chocolates, then a second one, and their richer, creamier sweetness lulled him to sink down in his chair, elbow on the table, and rest his head in his hand.

He sipped the rest of his coffee more slowly, alternating the creamy caffeine with broken-up squares of his protein bars and pieces of chocolate. Slowly, surely, his belly filled, unnoticeable to anyone but himself: he who could feel the effect of what was undeniably a sugar binge in the middle of his workday. All those carbs—simple and sweet, suspended in the one-good-thing of vanilla protein—settled above his hips, pressing forward toward his navel. It was pleasant and soft, quiet and—for the first time that day—calm. 

Feeling curious, he adjusted his hips to see how the fullness would settle. It firmly pushed against the waist of his scrubs, which made nerves squeeze in his chest. Fuck, what had he done, eating so much? He could have stopped. He should have stopped. Before, he’d have inhaled a protein bar and been done with it.

Now?

“It hurts in a way that's…?” Lucky prompts her, eyes crinkling with a grin that Maria absolutely does not need right now.

“In a way that's… mmh…” She breathes out, and lets go of trying to find the perfect words for this. “It feels so goddamn good.”

Lucky loves hearing that, she can tell, but still wants more. “What feels so goddamn good, baby?” She presses gently. Maria wonders if she calls everyone baby like that, and then Lucky's hands find her waist, her thumbs right on either side of her overstuffed stomach, and Maria stops wondering for now.

“It feels so… so goddamn good to be this full of what you made for me,” she whispers.

“I'll bet it does.” Gently, Lucky rubs right at the edges of where it aches. Maria lets out a shaky sigh that turns into a low, quiet belch. Maria stumbles over an attempt to excuse herself, but Lucky just laughs and pats her belly before holding out her hands to help her up. “C'mon, let's get you to bed.”

“No sex,” Maria groans. “Please. I'm too full to be bouncing around or getting anything shoved-”

Lucky laughs again. “You really think I'm that kinda fuckboy, huh? I didn't say anything about sex. Just thought you'd be more comfortable lying down. Yeah?”

Maria shuts her mouth, flushing. Had she imagined the way Lucky had been looking at her? Had she been imagining the way her fingers dug into her sides? And why, if she was too full for sex (she was, she definitely was) was she a little disappointed by that answer?

“But,” Lucky continues, and this time, Maria knows she isn't imagining that look. “If you DID want sex… you know, you wouldn't have to bounce around or get anything shoved anywhere. You could just lie back and let me make you feel good.”

Maria finds herself needing to shut her mouth again. “Um. I. I'm married.”