#xmaxx

"Hey, what're you doin' up?" he yawned, covering his mouth.

"Makin' you breakfast," she said with a cheeky smile. Despite having gotten up at such an ungodly hour, she seemed plenty awake; Max supposed she must've already had her coffee. He was a little jealous of his partners; he'd have loved a little dose of caffeine in the morning, but it made him far too jittery.

"You're crazy," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and sleepily resting his chin on her head. "What time'd you get up?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," she teased, and he gave her a playful squeeze. "You're startin' this week off with a full belly, Stringbean."

Marsha didn't have to be on top of Max to know he often neglected to eat breakfast. To his credit, he rarely had much of an appetite in the morning, but that's as far as his credit went. Where he went wrong was failing to make up for the skipped meal. He'd often miss lunch, too wrapped up in the day's tasks and bound up in a bundle of nerves anyway to eat much even if he wasn't busy, and it wasn't unusual for him to come home in the afternoon with nothing more than a granola bar and a bag of veggie straws in his belly. Today, he'd have a head start to balance out the veggie straws: a nice breakfast of mushroom and cheese omelette, bacon, and fruit salad.

"You didn't have to do all this," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

"I don't have to move a worm off the sidewalk either, but it's still nice to do sometimes," said Marsha, and Max laughed.

"Wow, what a sweet comparison." She grinned up at him and slid the omelette onto a plate.

"I was starting to think I'd never get out," said Max with a weak chuckle. His stomach growled, and he considered going into the kitchen, but collapsed across the couch instead with a heavy sigh.

"Alfie made dinner," said Marsha. "There should be plenty left, unless he went ahead and ate the whole pan."

"Oh, ha-ha," said Alfie, bumping her with his hip as he came through the kitchen doorway. "There's a ton left, and it's still warm. Don't move, I'll get you some."

"You're an angel," Max called after him. He didn't think he'd be able to peel himself off the couch again if his life depended on it. Marsha plopped down on the couch beside Max and ruffled up his hair, and he sat up just enough to kiss her on the cheek before flopping back down again. Alfie returned from the kitchen with a well-filled plate and perched it on Max's chest, then lifted his long legs out of the way and sat on his other side.

"Hey, are you sure this isn't your plate?" Max sat upright, holding the dish carefully.

"Eat your dinner, Princess," Alfie retorted, and Max leaned down to kiss him on the cheek too. He didn't need to be told twice; he gladly dug in, thankful to finally appease his rumbling belly. Alfie had made a hearty dinner of chicken, mashed potatoes, and grilled vegetables, and there was about a double serving on the plate, more than Max typically ate in a day, but he wasn't complaining. He was ravenous.

"Have I ever told you you're a great cook?"

"Right now, I'm not sure that means a whole lot," Alfie chuckled. "You look like you'd eat the siding if I wasn't feeding you."

"Oh, please," said Max, rolling his eyes. Alfie wasn't wrong--he was hungry enough to be happy with just about anything--but he meant it. The food was delicious, and it was exactly the warm, comforting, filling meal he needed after such a long day.

Once the starved feeling began to wear off, Max slowed himself, and the trio chatted about their days. Marsha had met a positively delightful one-eyed, three-legged cat in a sweater named Milton and the oldest Yorkie she'd ever seen, and Alfie had gotten the thrill of working on a beautiful old car belonging to one of their neighbors. Max's day had been the least exciting, and he was glad to hear about his partners' highlights. It always lifted his spirits after a tiring day of his own.

As the trio talked, Max became almost too absorbed in the conversation to notice how much he'd eaten. That, and the fact that his brain was fried from exhaustion, and the fact that he'd barely eaten a thing since breakfast, and the fact that the food was too good to stop picking at it. It was a very large portion, but by the time Max realized how full he was beginning to feel, he'd put away two thirds of it.

"Hey, don't they let you eat at work? Since when do you have such an appetite?" Marsha looked at the half-demolished plate, amused, then at Max's tummy, pushing out gently against his shirt. He smiled sheepishly.

"It's been a long day," he said. "Your sister's killin' me with all those posters. I think I spent half an hour pullin' Sticky Tack off 'em."

"And you're a sweetheart for that," said Marsha, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "You know she loves her decor."

"She sure does. The kids love it too. That's how an art room oughtta look. Fun, colorful."

"Just like her," Marsha chuckled.

"Hey, you got it too, with those little Frenchie shoes."

"Well, I've gotta dress for the job, don't I?"

"I don't know, they don't look like they'd protect you from gettin' peed on," said Alfie, and Max laughed. "What you really need is some Frenchie-themed rainboots."

"Yeah, sure, Alfie, why don't you go find me some?"

The three went on talking, and Max, impressively, went on eating, though not for long. He finished with less than a quarter of the big meal left on the plate and a very full tummy. It didn't ache; he had the sense to stop before he started feeling bad, but it felt very snug, almost uncomfortably so but not quite, and stuck out past his belt. He set the plate down on the coffee table and leaned back with a sigh.

"Hey, look at you," said Alfie, giving Max's full belly a pat. Ordinarily, with his small appetite, he might've eaten about half the food on the plate, if that much. An Alfie-sized serving was hardly equal to a Max-sized serving.

"Ain't it nice to see him eating good?" Marsha slipped an arm around Max's waist and rested her head against his shoulder.

"I'll tell you, Marsha, it is nice to see him eating good," Alfie declared, and Max rolled his eyes.

Struggling to ignore the longing ache in his stomach, Max glanced back at the catering table. It was neatly lined with shiny metal trays of steaming hot gluten. He sighed. There was a tray of what looked like grilled chicken, but he wasn't sure what was on it, and he knew better than to test his luck. He almost stood up for a little plate of salad, but, catching a glimpse of one of the teachers dipping a single serving spoon into no less than three dishes, he glumly stayed put.

Max rested his chin in his hand, feeling miserable. He hadn't expected to find anything to eat at the meeting, but he'd skipped lunch to deal with a long string of problems, and the thought of a hot plate of pasta sounded unbelievably comforting. For a split second he almost considered throwing his health to the wind and indulging just for one afternoon--how bad could it be? He knocked that thought straight out of his head. Plenty bad, he reminded himself sternly, and it's the last thing I need when I'm stuck at work. He rubbed his face wearily, and his belly rumbled.

"Was that your stomach?" Keonda, sitting next to him, gave him an amused glance.

"Yeah," he sighed, still gazing blankly forward at nothing.

"Sheesh, Kestler, why don't you get something to eat? There's plenty of…" She trailed off, realization dawning on her. "Oh." He gave her a tired smile. "Shoot, Kestler, I'm sorry."

"I'll eat when I get home," he assured her. Home seemed months away right now. The meeting hadn't even started yet, and the thought of sitting through the whole thing, starving and taunted by a room full of food he couldn't eat, made him want to cry. It wasn't a mandatory meeting for most staff, but as an administrator, he had no choice but to stay, so, as he was very used to doing, he tried his best to ignore his body and fulfill his duties.

The meeting droned on for what felt like hours, although it really only lasted one. Ordinarily, his growling stomach would have been met with amusement from Keonda, but right now she just felt sorry for him, and she was almost as anxious for it to end as he was. He held a hand against his belly as he listened, the other holding up his head, too tired to care if he looked outwardly bored. The clock seemed frozen in place, and he was beginning to wonder whether his stomach might digest itself before he was finally set free.

At long last, he heard the familiar phrases of a meeting about to close, followed by the bustle and chatter of a room about to clear, and finally he was on his way. He felt like he'd been sitting in that uncomfortable chair for thirty years, and his back cracked as he stood up and stretched. He felt dizzy for a moment upon rising, but it passed. The headache, however, did not, and he was fishing around in the glove compartment for a Tylenol the moment he got into the car. Still, despite the various aches and pains that currently gripped him, the discomfort was almost overshadowed by the relief he felt at finally heading home.

When Max walked through the door, he was met with the warm smell of food cooking and the sound of Marsha and Alfie bickering playfully in the kitchen. He fell back against the door as it shut with a sigh, leaning his head back against it, and remained there for a moment, utterly exhausted and utterly relieved. His belly rumbled loudly.