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The Newbury Hotel was already decorated for Christmas even though it was less than a week past Halloween, and Noa could hear her boyfriend’s voice in her head complaining about it even before she found him. Rory loved Thanksgiving, and the yearly leapfrog from pumpkins to fir trees always made him a little bit cranky. One year Noa bought him a t-shirt that said “What About the Turkeys?” and now he wore it at least once a week in November.
Not tonight though. The Legal Foundation fundraiser and networking reception was fancy, and Noa smoothed down the flowy skirt of her black dress, relieved that she seemed to be dressed appropriately It was fitted on top, with a halter that tied around her neck and an open back, and she was looking forward to the way her boyfriend’s eyes were going to pop out of his head when he saw her. But first, she had to find him, among the sea of dark suits and cocktail dresses.
More than one head turned as Noa walked through the ballroom, but she barely noticed. Rory was standing alone near the bar. His eyes traveled across the room until they fell on her, and his stiff posture immediately eased as she walked up to him.
She’d expected a chaste kiss on the cheek and maybe a suggestive comment under his breath, but instead he buried his face in her hair and breathed in. “Hi I missed you,” he mumbled, before straightening up and taking her hand. “D’you want a drink?” He held out the nearly full glass he was holding. “Vodka tonic.”
Noa shook her head. “I’ll get one later; you can have it.” Even if he didn’t want to join a law firm, Rory still had to keep up appearances, and that included not having a drunk girlfriend. “Or do you want to get some food?” There were stations all over the ballroom with things like stir fry, sushi, and pasta to order. She even saw a carving station with whole beef tenderloins and a mashed potato bar with a dozen different toppings. But Rory shrugged.
“Not really.” He put the cup on a nearby table. “Let’s sit down.” He tugged on her hand.
Noa frowned. “What’s wrong?” she asked bluntly. “And don’t you dare say ‘nothing’ because I know you came here for the fancy food and free booze as much as the networking.” She waved around the room. “Don’t you have to, I don’t know, talk to people or something?”
“I did already.” Rory grimaced. “With two of the people I came to see, former AUSAs who went into private practice and both of whom told me separately the law firm salary wasn’t worth it.” He gave her a grim smile. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
Noa stopped walking. “You’re sick?” The ballroom was kind of dimly lit so she hadn’t noticed right away, but now that she looked more closely she could tell Rory’s cheeks were flushed. She peered at his face. “Your eyes are all glassy.” She started to cup his cheek and then pulled back, remembering where they were. Rory sighed.
“I’m achy and I keep getting the chills.” He swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. “And I feel kind of gross.”
Noa understood what he meant. “Your stomach?” No wonder he hadn’t wanted to eat. Rory gave a tight nod.
“Yeah but it’s not too bad.” He looked around the room at the small knots of people talking to each other. “I should probably stay a while longer. There’s a few more former agents and AUSAs I wanted to meet up with.”
“Baby,” Noa said with only a touch of fond annoyance, “are you sure?” She knew better than to just tell Rory to leave; the man was stubborn as fuck about this sort of thing. He shivered, and then nodded resolutely.
“I’m sure.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I promise you’ll be the first to know if I start feeling pukey.”
“The second,” she pointed out, smothering a sigh. Rory looked more drained than nauseous right now, although she was probably the only person there who’d recognize he was sick at all. Still, she knew he’d keep denying how he felt as long as he possibly could and she fully intended to get him home before things fell apart. For now she squeezed his hand. “Will it bother you if I eat something?” Now that she knew Rory wasn’t feeling well she wished she’d had food at Drew and Jeremiah’s.
Rory shook his head. “Go ahead, I’m fine.” He waved her in the direction of the buffet. “Maybe get me something light? I’ll go to the bar - glass of wine for you?”
“You don’t need to try so hard, Ror,” Noa said softly. She kissed him on the cheek and then lingered there an extra second before pulling away. He gave her a sheepish smile.
“Fever?” he asked.
“Not too bad,” she lied. If he was going to play that game then she would too. “I’ll take a glass of Prosecco.”
When Noa got back to their table with a plate of food, half the seats were full and Rory was deep in conversation with the woman sitting next to him. He looked engaged and intent and not for the first time Noa was struck with just how good Rory was at being an FBI agent. Not just the dangerous stuff - and Noa tried not to think too hard about that - but the way he had such a knack for getting people to open up to him and tell them their stories - or their confessions. He wasn’t like that outside of work, where he was so careful to protect his privacy, and it always amused Noa to see how chatty he got when trying to get information
Noa slid into the chair on his other side and put her plate down and Rory immediately turned in her direction.
“Oh good, you got steak,” he said, sounding delighted at the sight of Noa’s full plate. “Noa, this is Laine Porter; she used to work at the Bureau. Now she’s a partner at Sutton Garner, in their white collar crime practice.”
“I switched to the other side,” the woman grinned, reaching across the table to shake Noa’s hand. “Trying to talk your boyfriend here out of doing the same thing.”
Rory leaned into Noa’s side. “Don’t worry, I already told Laine she isn’t going to have to try that hard to convince me.” He plucked a dumpling off Noa’s plate and popped it in his mouth.
With Rory leaning up against her, Noa could feel the heat rolling off him. She rested her hand lightly on his waist and bit back the urge to get up and make him leave right then; his stomach was churning.
Rory shook his head a tiny bit in warning and then reached out for another dumpling. Noa playfully slapped his hand away from the plate. “Hey, that’s my dinner, remember?” She may not be able to get her boyfriend to leave yet but at least she could keep him from eating himself even more sick than he already was just to keep up appearances.
He gave a tiny sigh of relief only she could hear. “But I thought you loved me enough to share,” he teased, voice sounding thick. He cleared it and quickly took a big sip of his drink, grimacing at the end. “This is supposed to be a seven and seven but I think . . . ahem . . . one of the numbers is missing.” He pushed it away from him on the table and turned slightly in his chair to face the law firm partner. “I’ll get another one later. You were telling me about your case in front of Judge O’Neil; how’s it . . . going?”
Rory cleared his throat again and Noa was pretty sure she was the only one who heard him gulp down the end of his sentence. It was the sound he made when he was trying to hold in a burp. She sighed to herself and tried to think of a graceful way to get him up from the table. Faking a headache of her own would get him to leave but she didn’t want people to think she was the kind of girlfriend who always had something to complain about.
Fortunately, the woman Rory was talking to decided she needed to get more food and excused herself. The moment she was gone, Noa tugged on Rory’s arm.
“Walk with me,” she said sweetly before someone else at the table pulled them into a conversation. “You haven’t introduced me to those former coworkers you were telling me about.” Without waiting for an answer she stood up and held out her hand.
Rory followed her willingly and as soon as they were a few steps away from the table leaned over as if to kiss her head but instead buried a burp in her hair. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Gross, Ror,” she sighed. “Can we go now? You’ve got to be feeling terrible.”
“Not terrible,” he protested. “I just needed to burp.” He turned away from her and blew out a breath. “I wanna stay a little longer.” At her skeptical look, he gave a deep sigh. “If we leave it will be like admitting I’m sick.” Noa rolled her eyes.
“You are sick, Rory. I’m practically melting standing next to you.” Noa had to restrain herself from taking her boyfriend’s face in her hands and forcing him to agree with her. Instead she touched his cheek until he focused his eyes on her. “What are you trying to prove here?”
“That I’m tougher than these law firm people?” Rory shrugged. “I’m not going to let a little fever and nausea scare me off.” He glanced across the room at a man Noa thought looked vaguely familiar. “That’s Mitch Caffrey; we played on the FBI soccer team together before he left for private practice.” He shivered involuntarily, looking lost for a second, and his lips tightened. “Good thing I already talked to him,” he said, half to himself. “The guy doesn’t miss a thing.” He burped into his fist again.
Noa huffed out a sigh and moved to stand right in front of him. “This is where I tell you you’re being ridiculous, and I want to let the record reflect that I’ve been trying to get you to leave for the last hour.” Honestly, the man was looking worse by the second, although if she was being honest, she knew that most of the people here wouldn’t realize it. Even feverish and queasy, Rory still looked put together and yeah, sexy.
He gave a queasy-sounding chuckle. “Who . . . who sounds like the lawyer now?” He took a deep breath. “Let’s watch some of the presentation; it would be rude to leave right now.” He gave her a beseeching smile. “C’mon, we can sit down for it; I’ll be fine.”
There were beads of sweat dotting Rory’s brow and he was swaying slightly on his feet, but the expression on his face was determined. “Fine,” Noa muttered darkly. “But if this ends badly and you don’t get a job at a big law firm - which I know you don’t want anyway - then I’m going to say ‘I told you so.’” She pointed to a line of chairs towards the back of the room. “Let’s sit there so we’re close in case you need to make a dash to the bathroom.”
“I’m not going to puke, I promise,” Rory said, leading her to the seats she’d pointed out. “I’m mostly just achy.”
Noa kept her mouth shut, but she’d known Rory for a long time, and that meant she knew that his “just achy” was almost always more. “At least take off your jacket,” she suggested, but he shook his head.
“I’m cold,” he explained, falling heavily into a chair. “And I’m fine.”
She didn’t bother disagreeing. At least he was sitting down. A few seconds later the lights in the ballroom lowered as a video about the Boston Legal Foundation began playing on an enormous screen at the front of the room. Most of the other guests had taken seats closer to the front, and Rory’s posture eased once he knew no one could see him.
He took her hand and threaded their fingers together, and Noa did her best to focus on the video and not the soft burps he kept making under his breath or the way he made quiet sounds of discomfort after each one. His shivering was getting worse too, and twice she heard him swallow hard. A few seconds after the second gulp he groaned softly and squeezed her hand.
“Okay,” he mumbled, turning his head so he could speak low into her ear. “You win.” He sounded absolutely miserable about having to admit it.
Even though she’d threatened it earlier, Noa refrained from saying that she’d told him so. “You’re ready to leave?” She pulled out her phone to call an Uber. But Rory delicately shook his head.
“I’m nauseous,” he admitted, and even in the dim light she see his throat bob as he swallowed. “Can we maybe . . . uhhlp . . . go find a bathroom?” The gag was quiet but left no doubt how he was feeling. “A private one.”
“Probably not,” she said bluntly, standing up when Rory did and following him out of the back of the ballroom. “It’s a hotel, Rory, The only private bathrooms are going to be in the actual suites.” Even though this was the exact scenario she’d been trying to avoid, she tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. She’d known this was likely coming and could have tried harder to get him to leave earlier. Now they just had to figure out how to deal with the consequences.
Right outside the doors to the reception Rory stopped and leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Let’ssss . . . hic . . .less getta room then.” His breathing hitched as he hiccuped. “I don’ feel good.”
Noa was always a little amused by how quickly Rory could go from putting on a tough act and hiding how sick he felt when he was around other people, and then dissolved into a bit of a needy mess when he was alone with Noa.
Except they weren’t really alone. The wide corridor outside the ballroom wasn’t crowded - most of the attendees were inside watching the video - but it wasn’t empty, and there were people milling around outside the restrooms. Rory hiccuped again, but this one sounded more like a burp at the end, His eyes opened. “I think . . . I need to puke,” he said heavily, gulping down.
“You think?” Noa grabbed her boyfriend’s elbow. “Work with me here, Ror, I can either send you into the bathroom right there or we can try to find another one that’s quieter, but I’m not sure where. And no, we’re not getting a hotel room; they’re like $500 a night and I refuse to pay that much just so you have some place to throw up in private.”
“You’re mean,” Rory muttered without any heat to his words. “Bet you’d pay it if we were going up . . . ugh . . . to have sex.” At the last second he turned his head away to gag into the air.
“Well, we’re clearly not, so no use even thinking about it.” Rory had walked right past the entrance to the men’s room, so apparently Noa was now expected to find him someplace out of the way to get sick. In this big, fancy hotel. Right.
But it was big, and that meant lots of hallways and conference rooms and out of the way corners that led, hopefully, to some sort of private restroom where they could camp out before Rory vomited all over the floor. As they shuffled along, they passed a sign pointing to the elevators for the parking garage and for a minute Noa wondered if taking him there would be the best option.
He belched, louder and wetter now that they were away from the lawyer’s reception, and then stopped in the middle of the corridor, panting. Even though the flush of fever, Noa could see how pale his face was now. His jaw quivered.
“Rory?” she asked cautiously. He held up a finger.
“Gimme . . . gimme a minute,” he gasped finally, and then leaned forward to spit in one of the decorative poinsettias that lined the hallway. He took a couple of slow, deep breaths and then straightened up, his expression queasy and miserable. “I should have listened to you, when you said we should leave,” he said before spitting again. One hand snaked down to rest on his stomach. “I’m an idiot.”
“No, just stubborn,” said Noa with a grin. “And I love you for it anyway. But I saw a sign for the exercise room; do you think you can make it there? It’s got to have a restroom.”
Rory gave a jerky nod. “Lemme just . . . burp first. Air bubble’s sitting in my throat.” He gulped down. The hand on his stomach twitched and then pressed in, and after a tense second, he finally burped.
“Thank fucking god,” he groaned. “Thought I was going to . . . to puke on the floor for a second.”
“So did I,” said Noa dryly. “Now let's find that bathroom before it happens again.”
They couldn’t actually enter the exercise room without a key, but the single bathroom next door was unlocked and empty and spotlessly clean. As soon as they were through the door, Rory shrugged off his suit jacket and collapsed over the toilet, wrapping his arms over the seat and burying his head inside. “Jus’ leave me here,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice echoing out of the bowl. “It’s my fault we aren’t home.” He spit copiously, raising himself up slightly so he could pull off the saliva dangling from his lips.
“Ehh, I didn’t try hard enough to make you leave.” Noa began rubbing up and down Rory’s back. Despite saying he was cold, he’d sweated through his shirt, and his hair clung to his nape in damp waves. Now that they were alone in a bathroom, she was less concerned about getting out of the hotel. Once Rory finally threw up, his stomach would likely be settled enough to get home and into bed, where Noa could take care of him properly. She started patting. “C’mon sweetheart. Puke for me.”
He turned his head and gave a baleful look. “Tryin’, “ he mumbled. “You’re not funny.” His stomach heaved and he quickly turned back over the bowl, but instead of actually vomiting, he just spit up a little more. ‘Fuck, I feel like shit.”
“You’ll think I’m funny again when you’re feeling better,” Noa promised. She patted harder and Rory gagged. He leaned forward to press his belly against the side of the toilet and the gagging turned into a retch. He stayed frozen over the bowl, retching again and then panting heavily until he finally brought up a thin stream of watery puke. Another harsh retch and he vomited a little more.
“Oh god,” he groaned, spitting into the soiled water. The next heave was more violent - his entire body jerked - and he finally threw up a proper amount of whatever he’d eaten earlier that day. He spit again and then burped emptily before retching up a little bit more. After another few seconds of spitting he shakily reached up to flush and then sat backwards against Noa’s chest, breathing hard.
She wiped his mouth with a wad of toilet paper and brushed his hair away from his forehead. He was still burning up; vomiting hadn’t done anything for his fever, and he trembled in her lap.
“Better?” she asked after his panting finally slowed down.
Rory leaned forward to spit one more time. “Yeah,” he said tiredly “Not so queasy anymore.” He slowly hauled himself to his feet and leaned over the sink to rinse his mouth and splash water on his face. “Can we go home now?”
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Once again, I switch to present tense when the main action starts. It wasn't even a conscious decision this time, but when I went back and reread, I realized what I'd done. I think it works.
TW: None, really, unless you are bothered by descriptions of airplane turbulence. And there's vomiting, of course. @monthofsick. Alternate prompt: motion sickness
The Wifi on the plane cost $25, and Jeremiah grumbled to himself before typing in his credit card information. He wasn’t quite finished with the research for an article he was writing for a medical journal, and the five hour flight gave him a lot of uninterrupted time to get it done.
He’d been researching and typing for over two hours when a text message popped up in the corner of his screen. He’d been ignoring most of them so far, but this one was from someone he'd been waiting for.
D: Hi love, how’s the flight?
J: It’s been fine so far; I’ve been working on my paper for the AMA journal. How’s work?
D: It’s been one emergency after another so far but things seem to be calming down. I’m sorry I can’t pick you up tonight. Noa still coming?
J: Yep; we’re going to have a late dinner together since Rory’s off on some big, secret assignment.
D: Something dangerous? I always picture him in a dark alley, meeting up with shady characters.
J: Hah, he’d like us to think that, wouldn’t he? I don’t really . . . ooh, hold on - pilot’s making an announcement . . . told the flight attendants to sit down because we’re about to hit a patch of ‘rough air’. Guess that means I’m not getting my third coke and fourth bag of pretzels.
D: Rough air? Is that what they used to call turbulence?
J: I think so; apparently some marketing person decided it’s less likely to induce panic to make it sound like we’re just flying through a bit of a breeze or something. Although, not sure how well it’s working. Plane just dipped and a couple of people screamed. It’s going to be a long hour if things don’t smooth out.
D: I’m looking at the weather and unfortunately, I think you may be in for more hysterical passengers. Looks like storms rolling through the entire area.
J: Too bad I didn’t bring sedatives to pass out; I could be really popular with my fellow passengers. Luckily I don’t have anyone sitting next to me. Oof, just dropped again. I can see why it might be scary for people who don’t fly a lot.
D: I just got a notification that your flight’s going to be delayed; I’m guessing you may have to circle for a while. Now landing in about 90 minutes. Are you able to text Noa and let her know or should it?
J: I can do it. And then I’ll . . . actually, I think I’m going to put my phone away for a bit after that. Things are getting pretty bouncy up here.
D: Are you okay? Good thing you don’t get airsick.
J: Yeah, I think so. Just kind of hard to read and type right now. I’ll text Noa and then let you know when we land. Love you.
D: Love you too; hang in there.
It was true; Jeremiah didn’t get motion sick. He could read in the car, go boating on the choppiest of water, sit backwards on the train, no problem. Drew’s stomach tended to be a little more twitchy and Jeremiah had gotten in the habit of carrying prescription anti-nausea medicine with him whenever the two of them traveled together. But today, Drew wasn’t with him, and so Jeremiah didn’t have the little pack of Zofran in his carry-on. And for the first time in his life, he kind of wished he’d brought it along; there's a heavy fullness in his stomach that made him feel like he needed to burp. He quickly sent Noa a text about his new arrival time and then shut down his computer and put away his phone before leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.
The so-called “rough air” wasn’t causing the plane to shake as much as dip up and down, and after about ten minutes of uneven rising and falling, it began making Jeremiah feel even more uncomfortable beyond just being full. Maybe it was all the soda and coffee he’d drunk, sloshing around in his belly. Maybe it was the hours he’d spent peering at screens. Maybe it was the fact that the plane kind of felt like a roller coaster right now, and roller coasters were the one moving activity that tended to upset Jeremiah’s stomach. He swallowed and sighed. While he didn’t think it would get bad enough to make him vomit, the queasiness was definitely unpleasant. Feeling thankful there was no one next to him, he gulped down some air and forced up a soft burp, and then another. Neither were completely relieving, but they helped a bit. After another nauseating dip made his belly flip, he also checked the back of his seat pocket and then the one for the empty seat and confirmed they both had air sickness bags available.
The plane swayed again and Jeremiah heard the sound of a retch somewhere further back. Shakily, he reached into his computer bag and grabbed his airpods, setting them on noise cancellation mode. He heard and saw people vomit enough at the hospital and normally it wouldn’t bother him at all, but normally he wasn’t listening to someone throw up while fighting the urge to do so himself. The next time the plane dipped Jeremiah thought about the air sickness bags again and then pressed two fingers to the inside of his opposite wrist at the accupressure point for nausea. He took slow, deep breaths, focusing on counting the seconds, in and out, anything to help distract him from the discomfort. Maybe a combination of breathing and pressure and burping would be enough to keep the churning in his gut at bay long enough for the flight to be over.
It worked for a little while. The plane continued to rock and Jeremiah’s stomach continued to slosh, but neither the turbulence nor his queasiness got any worse, even though it also didn’t get any better. When he felt the plane begin its initial descent, Jeremiah made himself burp again, hoping that this was the worst it was going to get and they’d be on the ground soon.
He could vaguely hear another announcement over the intercom system but didn’t want to take out his earbuds to figure out what it said. His stomach was still uneasy enough to make him squirm in his seat, feeling prickly and trapped and unable to escape the discomfort. He really wished the flight would be over soon. Instead, the plane banked sharply and began to rise and Jeremiah swore under his breath. Apparently the message he'd missed was that instead of landing, the plane was now in a holding pattern, circling the airport and storm below. Belatedly, he wished he’d listened to the pilot’s message so that he’d at least have some idea how much longer he was going to have to endure his nausea.
He suddenly felt awful. The plane was still going up and down, but now it was turning too, banking sharply every few minutes and mixing up the contents of his stomach even more. If he hadn’t been so nauseated, he would have texted Drew again, just for the comfort his boyfriend’s words would provide. But the thought of trying to focus on the screen of his phone made him feel even dizzier.
Across the aisle, a young woman began vomiting into an air sickness bag while the man she was with rubbed her back, looking barely any better than she did. Jeremiah gulped down the urge to gag and carefully took the two air sickness bags from the seat pockets and stowed them in his computer bag. He still hoped he wouldn’t need them, but at this point he was less and less certain how much longer he’d be able to keep down the lunch he’d eaten before getting on the plane. And the soda wasn’t helping; a moment later he belched into his fist, and spit up cola-flavored saliva into his mouth. He automatically swallowed it back down and groaned under his breath. The saliva built up in his mouth again, but as much as Jeremiah wanted to spit it out, he forced it back down, not willing to tempt his stomach with the suggestion of seeing an open air sickness bag.
The plane banked again and finally began to descend once more. Jeremiah put his head in his hands and began counting his breaths, willing himself not to need to vomit. The pressure in his throat was unbearable and he forced out a cough to clear it, no longer caring if the people around him could hear. Across the aisle, the woman seemed to have nothing left to bring up; she was now dry heaving into her air sickness bag and her boyfriend had started puking instead. Jeremiah didn’t dare look anywhere else.
Around the time the plane finally broke through the clouds and Jeremiah could at least see the ground - still too far below for comfort - his jaw began getting heavy and the uncomfortable prickliness of needing to be sick was erupting across his skin. His stomach rolled and this time he couldn’t hold back a gag, but then he immediately forced himself to take an unnaturally deep breath. He managed to bring up a burp, and then another, willing his stomach to stay in place just a little bit longer. The lights below were getting closer; he just had to hang on a few more minutes . . .
And he did make it, somehow, the force of the plane finally touching the tarmac forcing up a retch, but thankfully, nothing else. Everyone getting off the plane was shaky and pale; even the flight attendants seemed unsteady on their feet. One of them held a big garbage bag near the door, and more than one passenger deposited an air sickness bag inside as they got off.
Jeremiah walked shakily off the airplane and up the ramp into the airport itself. It was crowded with delayed and cranky passengers who had no idea how lucky they were not to be in the air. He took another deep breath. The nausea was still present, but now that he was off the plane it should get better, he reasoned. And by the time he got outside and found Noa he’d be more than fine, ready for dinner even. At least that’s what he told himself. His stomach sloshed as he walked but he resolutely ignored the discomfort, certain it would resolve soon. He was a doctor; of course he could read his symptoms and recognize that his air sickness was certainly not getting worse anymore.
Halfway down the concourse, Jeremiah changed his mind and ducked into a bathroom to burp fruitlessly over a toilet for a couple of minutes. Even though nothing came up beyond some soda-tinged saliva, his last belch was deep enough to finally offer relief. Jeremiah spit one more time and straightened up with a sigh. He couldn’t say he was exactly hungry, but at least he wasn’t so nauseated anymore. He’d just get something light at dinner.
Only when he got outside did Jeremiah realize just how bad the weather was. Rain was coming down in sheets, and he was nearly blown sideways by gusts of wind that seemed to come from all directions. He ran over to Noa’s SUV and dumped his bags in the back seat; even rushing he was still half soaked by the time he jumped in next to her and slammed the door.
“Crap that sucked,” he said by way of greeting, leaning across the center console to give her a careful kiss hello while trying not to get water everywhere. “I really appreciate you picking me up. I’m so late; you really didn’t have to go out in this weather.”
“Of course I’m going to pick you up, an Uber in this mess would be a nightmare.” Noa flicked on her turn signal and eased out of the arrivals lane into the traffic leaving the airport. It was a sea of brake lights ahead and she had to jerk to a stop as another car pulled suddenly out in front of them.
“Sorry; people are jerks when the weather’s bad.”
“It’s . . . hic . . . okay,” said Jeremiah, swallowing down the hiccup, which seemed to be a remnant of his earlier nausea. He cleared his throat. “Rory would have said something like he was only picking me up because he didn’t have anything better to do.”
“Or my brother,” said Noa with a grin. Her smile grew a little sly. “What would Drew say? Are you guys still in that cute ‘of course I want to pick you up at the airport, babe’ part of your relationship?”
Jeremiah smirked. “Yep. Which means you probably don’t want to know exactly what he’d say.” He fumbled at the back seat and grabbed his computer bag, where he’d stowed his phone when the flight had gotten bad. “Actually, I need to let him know I landed safely and found you.” Normally Jeremiah would have texted Drew the moment the plane touched down but he’d been too queasy to do so at the time. He knew his boyfriend had been tracking his flight but he still wanted the comfort of seeing his words on the screen, even if he couldn’t hear his voice.
There were four texts from Drew waiting for him, the first three rather concerned and talking about the weather and Jeremiah’s flight delay. The fourth was relieved and contained some of those comments Jeremiah wasn’t going to share with Noa. He grinned to himself and began responding, writing a couple of cute messages and then searching his phone for Gifs and memes to describe the hell of the flight and his need for a hug - and more - from his boyfriend as soon as possible. Next to him, Noa suddenly swore and braked hard again.
“I’m so sorry, I swear I know how to drive.”
Jeremiah swallowed. “I know,” he said. The moving images on his phone were still flashing and popping, waiting for him to select one to add to his current text. He took a deep breath and picked one at random and hit send before quickly closing his phone and shoving it back in his bag. Noa was peering through the rainy windshield at the mass of cars ahead of them.
“Can you look at Google Maps and see how long this traffic lasts? Maybe there’s an accident we just need to get past.” She gave him a quick glance. “Are you totally starving?”
The last thing Jeremiah wanted to do at the moment was think about eating. Actually, that was the second-to-last thing. The very last was opening up his phone again to look at the traffic report. He didn’t say any of this though; there was really nothing to be done. He reached down for his phone again, hoping Noa was too focused on driving to see his face twist with discomfort when the position squeezed his uneasy stomach.
“I . . . I’m fine,” he said carefully. “I uhh, had pretzels and soda on the plane.” He felt a burp rise in his throat and swallowed it back down. “You must be hungry though.” He took another deep breath and steeled himself to open up his phone.
“I’m okay,” said Noa. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t about to pass out from hunger or anything.”
It was very typically Noa to downplay her own needs, but right now Jeremiah was rather relieved she wasn’t talking more about food. “Definitely not,” he said firmly. He tried to joke. “I’m a doctor, remember? I know how to avoid environments that are likely to cause fainting.” He didn’t mention that vomiting was another story altogether. Like on the plane, he wasn’t absolutely sure he felt nauseous enough to throw up, but there was no denying that he clearly wasn’t as recovered from his recent air sickness as he’d thought.
The car was continuing to inch forward through the traffic and rain, moving a couple of feet, stopping, and then moving again. It was the kind of driving that wouldn’t have made Jeremiah think twice in a normal situation. Now, however, it was torture, especially combined with the dizziness that came from scrolling through his phone. The pressure rose in his chest again and this time he had to let himself burp softly under his breath, although he tried to muffle it by shifting in his seat as if he needed to stretch. He peered down at the screen.
“Looks like bumper to bumper until our exit,” he said, trying not to groan. That was eleven miles away, and there was really nowhere to get off the highway before that without ending up really out of the way. He closed his eyes for a brief second and then opened them again. He could do this.
The car shook momentarily when a huge gust of wind hit it and Noa blew out a breath. “You’re really lucky your plane made it in,” she said. “I bet they’re canceling flights now. Was it really bumpy when you landed?” She braked again.
“Yeah,” said Jeremiah. He grasped for something else to say. “It was . . . not fun.”
Noa huffed. “I bet. I have to admit, I’m glad I wasn’t up there; I get so air sick, I’d have been puking for sure.”
“Yeah,” said Jeremiah again. The last thing he wanted to think about was air sickness, or, as it seemed to be morphing into, car sickness. A space opened up in front of them and Noa was actually able to make several hundred feet of progress before a car in the next lane over suddenly swerved into their lane, obviously thinking it was moving faster. Noa had to brake quickly again.
“Sorry,” she said. “Good thing you don’t get carsick.” After a beat of silence she turned her head. “Jer?”
Jeremiah hadn’t answered because he was too busy holding his fist to his mouth and trying not to gag. The wave of nausea finally passed and he sighed. “Apparently today I do.” There was no reason to hide the fact he was feeling lousy; Noa was going to figure it out eventually. His stomach rolled and he let himself burp up the air that had been building up in his chest.
“I’m so sorry; I’ll try to drive more carefully,” said Noa. She sounded incredibly guilty. “It’s just this traffic that’s so bad.” Even as she finished speaking she had to tap on the brakes again. “Sorry,” she squeaked.
Jeremiah breathed out. “Not . . . ulp . . . not your fault,” he managed through a gag. “I got nauseated on the plane. Half the passengers were vomiting.”
Noa made a sympathetic sound. “Did you? That totally sucks.”
“No,” he said tightly. “I felt better in the airport, but apparently not as better as I thought.” He burped again, and swallowed down acid. “Normally stop and go traffic wouldn’t bother me.” He thought of something. “Any chance you have your Zofran on you?” he asked hopefully. “I could really use one about now.” Drew wasn’t the only one of their friends that Jeremiah wrote the anti-nausea prescription for; Noa got motion sick even more easily than his boyfriend did. But she shook her head.
“I didn’t bring my big purse,” she said apologetically. “I don’t need the meds when I’m driving.”
“It’s . . . it’s okay,” said Jeremiah. “I’m just going to close my eyes if you don’t mind.” He swallowed hard. "And probably burp a lot."
“Go ahead,” said Noa. “I wish I could pull over but it’s so dark and rainy I’m afraid someone would hit us.” She paused for a moment. “Would it help you to drive?”
Jeremiah gingerly shook his head. He was already too nauseated to think about driving, even if they’d have been able to switch seats in the middle of the highway. And anyway, that would have likely made Noa sick as well.
“Just . . . keep driving,” he said, with a small belch, leaning back in the seat. “I’ll be okay.”
And he really did try to be okay, breathing slowly, in and out, and letting himself burp whenever he needed. But even with his eyes closed, his upset stomach was too aware of the movement of the car. Noa was a good driver, but even she was fairly helpless to make the ride smooth. The short bursts of speed and then the jerking stops kept ratcheting up Jeremiah’s nausea, and his next belch was deep and wet and tasted like the soup he'd had for lunch. Without opening his eyes he fumbled at the computer bag at his feet.
“I think I have a grocery bag in the back seat,” said Noa gently. Her hand rested on his thigh for a moment, squeezed, and then retreated.
“No . . . no need,” said Jeremiah thickly. He held up one of the air sickness bags. “I come prepared.” He swallowed down the urge to gag. “Still hope I won’t have to use it.”
“Me too,” said Noa. “But please don’t hold back on my account. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen Rory and Gabriel puke?” She clicked her tongue. “At least you aren’t drunk.”
“That might be preferable,” Jeremiah groaned. He tried to swallow again and quickly realized that was a bad idea when his stomach rolled and sent the saliva right back up his throat. “Ughh.” He spit into the bag. “S-sorry,” he slurred. “I’m really not feeling well right now.”
“Stop apologizing,” said Noa firmly. “I know there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. And go ahead and let yourself throw up if you think it will make you feel better. It really doesn’t bother me.”
“Good thing,” Jeremiah ground out. “Because I’m not sure I’m going to have a choice.” Still, he continued to fight the nausea, breathing in and out as evenly as he could, forcing up burps, trying to ignore the way his stomach lurched every time the car did. They still had quite a way to go until their exit and the less time he had to sit with a full air sickness bag in his lap, the better.
“Would it help if I talked to you?” Noa asked after the second time Jeremiah belched and then gagged over his lap. “Or do you want me to just be quiet? You don’t have to participate.”
“Sure,” Jeremiah mumbled. “Tell me things.” He swallowed hard. “Jus’ not anything too mushy ‘bout you and Rory.” He gulped past another wave of nausea. “I’m already feeling sick enough.”
Noa chuckled and launched into a story about the condo she and Rory had just put a bid on and how she couldn’t wait to have everyone over for a bar-b-que on the rooftop deck.
Even though talking made his queasiness worse, Jeremiah at least tried to grunt when appropriate so Noa knew he was still with her. But the traffic didn’t ease up, and no matter how he breathed and burped and spit, his nausea kept growing. He’d been fighting the upset in his stomach for too long, and now it was rapidly approaching the point of no return.
Still, he feels he owes Noa some warning, so when there’s a lull in her story he pushes out a cough and holds up his hand. Still, he’s barely able to get the words out.
“Just . . . just so you know. I’m . . . hic . . . hic . . . “ He has to stop for a moment, and turns his head towards the window to gag into his hand. “I’m going to have to throw up soon,” he finally manages to gasp. He squeezes the bag in his hand, as if accepting the inevitable might delay it.
“I know,” says Noa calmly. “Whatever it takes to feel better.”
Jeremiah isn’t sure that vomiting is going to help as long as he’s still in the car. An uncomfortable prickliness coats his skin and even as he tries to fight it another minute he knows he’s already lost the battle, and shakily raises the bag to his mouth. He’d feel more embarrassed, but he’s too nauseated to care at the moment. Besides, it’s Noa, who truly doesn’t care and is only worried about how bad he feels. If Jeremiah has to get loudly and comprehensively sick in front of someone who’s not Drew, Noa would be his second choice. Finally giving in to the nausea, he groans and burps into the bag, and then he can’t stop, belching wetly over and over and forcing up gurgles of air from the depths of his stomach. The third burp brings up thick saliva too, and he’s barely spit it out when the car gives another slow jerk and his stomach absolutely flips.
“Fuck,” he manages before he gags, and when the nausea swells moments later he retches up a mouthful of liquid. It hits the bottom of the air sickness bag with a splat and Jeremiah’s vaguely aware of Noa saying something in a comforting voice, but he’s too busy burping again and bringing up more of his stomach contents.
Once he starts, it’s hard for him to stop vomiting; his stomach seems determined to purge not only the soda and plane snacks, but his hours-ago lunch and mid-morning coffee. He finally gets a break and pants heavily, trying to catch his breath while he shakily seals up the bag and stows it on the floor. Noa is asking if he’s done but Jeremiah can’t answer beyond a sick shake of his head as he reaches back into his computer case, grateful he’d grabbed a second air sickness bag.
The reprieve from vomiting is short-lived. His stomach turns again and he burps up stomach acid and what seems to be remnants of the breakfast he’d eaten at sunrise.
He’s heaving emptily over his lap, still feeling queasy despite emptying his stomach, when he feels the car curve to the right. He raises his head and realizes they’re finally getting off the highway.
“Only a couple minutes more,” she says bracingly. “I’m going to assume you don’t want dinner?”
Jeremiah spit into the bag. “God, no,” he said heavily. “I just want to lie down and sleep for a year.” He also wanted his boyfriend, but there was no way he was going to be able to text Drew and ask him to come over after his shift ended. He’d half to wait until his stomach settled a lot more before he could face his phone again.
“Sorry,” he mumbled belatedly. “Rain check?”
“How about no more rain, but yes,” laughed Noa. “Hey, isn’t that Drew?” The car slowed, and Jeremiah realized they were finally at his apartment and indeed, his boyfriend was dashing out from the overhang at the front door and opening the SUV.
“I voice texted him while we were stopped on the highway and you were puking,” explained Noa. “I figured you’d rather have him over me to take care of you.”
“You did okay,” mumbled Jeremiah, but he didn’t disagree. Drew briskly got his suitcase unloaded from the car, and took the two used air sickness bags to dump in the trashcan on the sidewalk.
“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart. Thanks Noa; I’ve got him.”
“Love you both,” she said. “Let me know tomorrow how you’re feeling, okay?”
Jeremiah gave a bleary nod and leaned heavily into his boyfriend. “Love you too,” he said in the direction of the SUV, before letting Drew lead him slowly inside.
For at least the fifth time in the past hour, Gabriel burped up the taste of bar-b-que. Like the other four times before, he blew his breath out, sat for a moment to appreciate the relief, and then lowered his head back down to focus on his computer and the documents he was supposed to be reviewing. It was slow work. Even if his stomach hadn’t been feeling unsettled, the long weeks of being the most junior member on one of the largest deals at the firm would have been enough to sap much of his focus and energy. It was going to be a huge career boost when the deal finally closed, but right now the weeks of too much work for stressed out partners and too little time away from the office were weighing on him like a . . . well, like a weight. He just wanted to crawl in bed and sleep for a week, but he still had work to get through. And because it was a Friday evening before a long weekend, nearly everyone else in the office had found one reason or another to get the hell out.
Only the most junior member on the biggest deal was still here. Just Gabe. And his stomach ache.
He burped yet again, this time tasting acid at the back of his throat along with the bar-b-que sauce, and he swore. The team had brought in food for a late working lunch and Gabriel, who loved pulled pork and burnt ends of brisket and all the sides that came with them, had eaten with pleasure while he and the partners discussed financing plans, timelines and legal filings. It had been a good meeting; Gabe was feeling like a useful and valued - albeit junior - member of the team, and he’d even joked with one of the senior partners about negotiating for the last serving of banana pudding. Gabe had won, and he’d finished the bowl at his desk while he worked.
Except now it didn’t feel so much like winning. Something he’d eaten, or maybe several somethings, was definitely not agreeing with him.
He took a deep breath. There was still work to be done and he was not going to let a little upset stomach keep him from finishing his to-do list. He’d been drinking water, and then a Sprite in the hopes of settling his stomach, but they both just made him feel overly full, and now he wandered out of his office in search of something that might relieve his indigestion better. The floor was quiet; even his hardworking administrative assistant had already left for the weekend, but she was still the best bet for something to help. Barbara Randall was a highly efficient woman who liked to mother Gabe just a little too much; usually he just grinned and let her fuss over his lack of gloves or lament over his single status. Today he was hoping that Barbara’s unique blend of efficiency and caretaking extended to Tums or Pepto Bismol in her desk.
He was rifling through one of her top drawers, feeling a little bit guilty about it, when a surprised gasp made him look up. He had an excuse on his lips - Barbara had left him a file he needed - but then he recognized Logan Gold, one of their newer data analysts, standing there with a pile of files in her arms. Fortunately, Logan semed pretty cool, as far as Gabriel had been able to tell so far. Now his prepared excuse flew out of his head.
“Looking for, uhh, Tylenol,” he stuttered. “Headache.” Admitting to an upset stomach seemed suddenly too personal. But then he immediately burped - baked beans this time - and couldn’t hold back his grimace. Logan raised her eyebrows.
“That didn’t sound like your head,” she commented lightly. Then her expression softened. “Are you okay? You look kind of . . . peaky, as my grandmother would say.”
Gabriel gave her a sheepish smile. “It may be my belly,” he admitted, then flushed. Belly? Why the hell did he call it that? But if Logan noticed his embarrassment she didn’t say anything, just nodded knowingly.
“You too then? You’re on the Lane Partners-Cooledge deal, aren’t you?”
Gabe nodded slowly. “I am,” he said, both impressed and not surprised she knew what deal he was working on. There was already talk around the office about Logan’s work ethic and talent. “You did the initial valuation analysis for us, didn’t you?” He swallowed down another burp, but it returned a moment later as a hiccup. He massaged his chest. “Sorry.”
She shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. And yes, I did. Now Mr. Harrison is having me take a more detailed look at some of the numbers. I guess they’re looking at a third company to be part of the merger?.”
“Yeah, Stillwell Manufacturing.” Gabe gave an impressed huff. “If Daniel’s having you work on their research, then he must have really liked what you’ve already done. Stillwell’s kind of his baby.” He looked around. “Is he still here? I know he’s been putting in really long hours to try to get them fully integrated into the negotiations.” Another burp rose up and he muffled it into his fist.
“He went home.” Logan looked like she was about to say something else, but just put the files she was holding on a nearby table. “Come on, I have pepto in my desk.” She started walking, and Gabe had no choice but to follow her. Fortunately, with Logan several steps in front of him, he was able to discreetly rub his stomach. It was definitely feeling more unsettled and bubbly, and there was even starting to be a twinge of nausea under the heaviness. It was bearable, though, and Gabriel was certain that a gulp or two of pepto would help even more.
“Here, keep the bottle in case you need more later.” Logan handed Gabriel a small pink bottle, the kind with two doses. “Do you want Tums too? Or I have alka-seltzer, I think.” She rummaged in the bottom cabinet of her desk and Gabe took the opportunity to slug down the entire bottle of medicine. He stifled another burp and cleared his throat.
“You’re a regular pharmacy there; I think you have more drugs than my secretary.” Over her shoulder Gabe could see Tylenol, cold medicine, benadryl, and a few other bottles and packets. Logan shrugged.
“My little brother was sick a lot growing up so my mom always had a full medicine cabinet. The habit stuck.” Her voice had an odd timbre to it, and she didn’t look up while she carefully put all the other medicine away and closed her desk.
“Well, I’m very grateful it did.” Gabriel wondered if he’d said something wrong, although he couldn’t think what. He swallowed. “I’m actually feeling kind of lousy but I bet the pepto will help, so thank you.” He realized he sounded a little whiny and cringed. Maybe that’s what he’d done wrong.
Logan gave him a small smile. “I hope it does, and that you can get your work done and go home.”
“You too.” Gabriel resisted the urge to rub his stomach where she could see. Logan still seemed upset about something and before he could even think about what he was doing, he gently touched her arm. “Are you okay? You seem sort of . . . I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Did I say something to upset you?” He felt slightly awkward; normally he’d try to cut to tension with a joke or flirting comment, but right now his stomach felt as heavy as Logan’s expression and he couldn’t drum up anything witty to say. Her mouth twisted for a moment.
“No, you didn’t do anything.” Another small smile. “But thank you for asking.”
It was a brush off. If he’d done something wrong, she didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and Gabriel was in no state to try to flirt it out of her, no matter how cute Logan was. But just as he was about to say something in the nature of goodbye, he found himself needing to swallow down another burp, and so instead of already being turned around and heading back to his office, he was still standing at Logan’s desk and saw it when she quickly wiped a tear away from her eye.
Stomach ache or not, Gabriel couldn’t just walk away from the possibility he’d made her cry, even if he had no idea what he’d done. He touched her arm again. “What is it? I swear if I did something, I didn’t mean to.” His stomach gurgled and he swallowed down yet another burp. Logan glanced down for a moment.
“I hope the medicine helps soon,” she said softly. “That sounds uncomfortable.”
“It is,” Gabriel admitted. He sighed. “I just need to get through one more . . . hic . . . term sheet and write up my comments before I leave, but my stomach’s killing me.” He grimaced an apology. “Sorry. I’m not usually this transparent. You absolutely don’t need to hear me complain, I know all the burping is gross.” He gave in and rubbed his stomach. “Hopefully it’ll settle soon.” It was almost 7 pm. That wasn’t late for a normal night at the office but with the long weekend looming, almost everyone had found a way to leave early. Except Logan, apparently. She wasn’t crying anymore but her expression was still guarded. Gabriel’s stomach gurgled again and she picked up an unopened water bottle from her desk and handed it to him.
“It doesn’t bother me,” she said finally.
“What doesn’t, my complaining or the sounds my stomach is making? Because they’re both bothering the hell out of me.” It wasn’t exactly flirting, but Gabriel didn’t know what else to say. He’d talked to Logan before, but only casually or for something to do with work; he certainly didn’t know her well enough to understand why she was upset or to show his own weakness in front of her. And yet, here they were, her sort of crying and him a burpy and gurgling mess. Oddly, Gabriel didn’t feel nearly as awkward or uncomfortable about it as he probably should have.
“You should try to drink some water,” she said. “It’ll help with . . . it’ll help.”
The last thing Gabriel wanted was to put anything else in his stomach, but he found himself unscrewing the top of the bottle anyway. He took a couple of sips and tried not to grimace. “Thank you,” he said once the threat of gagging had passed. He really needed to get back to his office. At this point he wasn’t sure how much he was going to be able to finish, but he was determined to try. Still, he couldn’t make himself leave. “And umm, I’m sorry again. For whatever.” He took a deep breath, knowing he needed to turn away.
“My brother had cancer.” The words burst out of Logan and by the look on her face, Gabriel could tell she hadn’t meant to say anything. Her lips tightened for a moment. “That’s why we always had a lot of medicine; he was immunocompromised so much.”
Gabriel nodded. He didn’t say he understood, because he didn’t have any experience with a sick sibling, but he knew why she was upset, and what she wasn’t saying. “Is he okay now?” he asked gently, already knowing the answer.
Logan shook her head. “He died when he was fourteen, a month before I graduated from high school.” She took a deep breath. “Neuroblastoma. He’d been sick off and on since he was seven.”
Years and years of friendship with Rory helped Gabriel know what to say. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said, meaning it. “What’s his name?” He glanced at Logan’s desk, for the first time noticing the photos on it. She followed his gaze.
“Yeah, that’s him, that’s Charlie.” She picked up the frame and smiled at the image inside, a younger Logan and an even younger boy in matching baseball hats, grinning from a beach somewhere. “That was his last good summer; he was able to start high school but didn’t go a whole lot, and then after winter break he didn’t go back at all.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gabriel said again. The churning in his stomach was getting stronger but he ignored it. “That just sucks. For so many reasons.” He looked more closely at the photo, and Charlie’s impish grin. “He looks like he was a troublemaker.”
“Oh he was, for sure.” Logan’s voice was suddenly animated. She laughed, half to herself. “Used to drive the nurses crazy when he was inpatient.” Her eyes fell on Gabriel and he could see a real smile in them now. “We used to gang up on our parents.”
“I . . urp . . . I bet,” agreed Gabriel, blowing out an airy burp he wasn’t able to hold down. He wanted to keep Logan talking, but if he was being honest with himself, he was also starting to think about how he could say a graceful goodbye, pack up his office, and get the hell out of there before things in his stomach got any worse. His next smile felt forced, but he pushed on. “I’d like to . . . hrrulp . . . ‘scuse me . . . hear stories sometime.” That burp was closer to a gag and Gabriel had to close his eyes for a moment. Dimly, he heard Logan suck in a breath.
“Oh my god, now I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble on when you’re not feeling well.” There was a soft touch on his arm and Gabriel slowly opened his eyes. Logan’s eyes found his and they were full of concern.
“Pepto not working so well then?” she asked.
Perversely, Gabriel started to say that yes it was, that it was fine, that he was fine - he just needed to finish a bit more work before he left - but something about Logan’s expression, not to mention the nausea currently swirling in his belly, stopped the lie before he could speak. “Not really, no,” he sighed. “I’m actually feeling pretty sick to my stomach.” He rubbed it, not really caring anymore what she thought. It was bloated and swirling under his hand and he swallowed again.
By Logan’s slight nod, he realized she’d expected that answer; indeed, she didn’t even look surprised. “Mr. Harrison had an upset stomach too; that’s why he went home early.” Her lips tightening in apology. “Said something about bar-b-que the Lane Cooledge team brought in?”
Gabriel groaned. “That’s what I keep tasting when I burp.” He froze, staring at her. “I’m sorry, that was such a gross thing to say.” He took a deep breath. “Please blame my terrible manners on my stomach ache; I swear I’m usually much better behaved.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Logan firmly. “I’m pretty used to gross.”
Gabriel blew out a breath. “From Charlie, right?” One thing he’d learned from Rory was how much he liked hearing his sister’s name. Indeed, Logan looked pleased.
“Yeah, I was his official ‘puke bowl’ holder a lot of the time.” She blushed. “Sorry, now I’m the one being gross.”
“It’s . . . hic . . . it’s okay; we’ll call it even.” Gabriel grimaced as a fresh wave of nausea rolled over him, this one bringing a prickly sort of discomfort with it, and for the first time he considered that maybe just going home to lie down wasn’t going to fix things.
Logan seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “Come on; let’s go close things up in your office, and then I think we need to camp out in the partner’s bathroom for a bit.” She tugged on his arm and Gabriel let himself be led back down the hallway, vaguely thinking about the fact that Logan had said ‘we.’ Despite the fact that he barely knew this girl, the idea didn’t bother him as much as he would have expected. There was something very comforting about her attitude - a cross between no-nonsense and compassionate that Gabriel appreciated. Not to mention the fact that he was rapidly starting to feel so sick that just having Logan there making his decisions was a relief.
Indeed, he’d not been completely paying attention to where they were walking and was surprised when she pulled on his arm to stop his progress. He gulped when the sudden movement caused his stomach to slosh.
He’d almost walked right past his office, he realized.
“I can’t . . . can’t use the . . . partners’ bathroom.” He stuttered through another aborted gag. “Not a partner.”
Logan gave him an amused look. “I realize that, Gabriel.” She held up a small key on a ring. “But I can get into Mr. Harrison’s office to finish up the work I was doing for him, and his office is connected to the partner’s lounge, which is connected to the partner’s bathroom.” She squeezed his arm. “It’s much better than what we have; you’ll see.”
For a moment, Gabriel was too focused on hearing Logan say his name than even the churning in his belly. He swallowed. “Thanks . . . Logan,” he managed. She grinned.
“I wondered if you knew my name.” She followed Gabe into his office and he was disappointed at the loss of contact when Logan dropped his arm, which was silly. He swallowed the saliva in his mouth so he could answer her clearly.
“Of course I do; you’re the hotshot analyst everyone wants on their team.” That many words were almost too much; no sooner had he finished speaking than a deep belch rose up in his chest. Gabriel put his fist to his mouth to muffle it; there was no way he was going to be able to choke it down.
Logan looked both pleased and amused by his comment. “Barely able to talk without gagging and yet you still manage to flirt with me,” she teased.
Gabriel quickly shook his head and then stopped when the movement made him dizzy. He sat down heavily in his chair - relieved he had a reason to get off his feet for a moment - and began saving his work and shutting down his computer. “I’m not . . . ulp . . . flirting,” he said with as much indignation as he could muster in his current state. Logan gave him a look and he quickly amended his answer.
“Okay, maybe I am,” he admitted. “But . . .” - he burped into his fist again - “but in this case it’s actually true; we had a whole discussion about how to get you on our team.” He closed his eyes for a minute, fighting the queasiness. He really needed to stop talking or he was likely to throw up all over himself. Logan was being extremely cool and helpful right now but Gabriel wasn’t sure her caretaking extended to wiping vomit off his keyboard.
“Thank you.” Logan’s voice wasn’t joking anymore. It was also a lot closer. Gabriel felt the weight of her hand on his shoulder and it grounded him enough to open his eyes. His trashcan was by his left foot and he quickly leaned over to spit out the bitter saliva he wasn’t able to swallow down.
“I . . . I think I need . . . bathroom,” he said shakily. “Gonna . . . gonna puke.” His stomach rolled and he couldn’t quite hold back a groan.
“I know,” said Logan calmly. “Do you think you can make it? We can stay here with your trash can if that’s better.”
“Bathroom,” Gabriel said thickly. “I’m okay.” He was determined not to throw up in his office.
“Let’s go then.” Logan quickly but carefully helped him to his feet. He swayed against her and she wrapped her arm around his waist. “Steady,” she muttered. “Try not to puke on me.”
Gabriel wanted to promise her he wouldn’t but for a long moment, he couldn’t be sure. His stomach flipped again and he gagged.
“Breathe,” Logan instructed. She led him out of his office, and Gabriel was thankful no one else was there to see him like this. He focused on her voice. “Slowly, in and out, you can do it. In and out.”
Gabriel did his best to comply, forcing himself to breathe in time to Logan’s instructions, only having to stop once when he belched wetly into the air.
“S-s-sorry,” he slurred. “Need . . . need to spit.”
Logan bent Gabriel over one of the many recycling bins that dotted the office. “Here,” she said. “Do you still think you can make it to the bathroom or do you want to stay here?”
Gabriel spit ropey saliva into the bin, not caring at all any more how gross he was being. He took a deep breath.
“Bathroom,” he said as firmly as he could manage through the heaviness growing in his jaw. “Please.”
“Hang on then; we’re almost there.” He couldn’t look anywhere other than his feet, to make sure they were still moving forward. Logan’s arm was firm around him and Gabriel was pretty sure he would have fallen over without her there. Dimly he heard the jingle of a key and the opening of a door. He knew they must be walking through Daniel Harrison’s office and then the fancy partners’ lounge he’d only been in on two occasions, but he didn’t care. The only thought in his mind was the unbearable nausea in his belly that was rapidly moving up to his throat, and the need to fight it off for just a few more seconds. He gulped over and over, tasting more of his lunch.
It was suddenly bright after the dimness of the partners’ lounge. Gabe heard the squeak of a door and Logan’s relieved sigh and then there was a toilet in his line of sight.
“Here Gabe, can you kneel for me? You can throw up now.”
Gabriel didn’t need the invitation. He crashed to his knees and retched hard over the bowl, and then again, and then belched up an enormous gush of his half-digested meal. A pause, a retch, and then another heavy stream of puke joined the first. Blindly he reached up for the flush.
“I got it; you just focus on getting it all up.” Gabe was aware of Logan reaching over him and then the noise of the toilet flushing. He burped again, spilling more of his stomach’s contents into the bowl.
“That’s right.” Logan’s voice was even and calm. “You’ll feel better soon; I promise.”
“Damn . . .” - Gabe spit - “was hoping to feel worse.” Another burp rose up from his rolling belly and he heaved again. Behind him, Logan snorted.
“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” she said. She squeezed his shoulder in a comforting manner and peered over his shoulder, supremely unconcerned to look at what he was bringing up. “But you do seem to be slowing down.”
She was right; Gabriel belched again but it only brought up a trickle of liquid. He gagged a couple of more times over the bowl and then his stomach calmed down. He leaned back on his heels.
“Fuck,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That totally sucked.”
“I thought it looked like fun,” said Logan dryly, handing him a wad of toilet paper. Gabriel snorted, and then grabbed his stomach when it spasmed.
“Ugh,” my stomach’s not ready to laugh yet,” he groaned. “Be sure to repeat that when I’m feeling better.”
“I promise,” said Logan solemnly. She handed him the bottle of water from before; Gabe didn’t even remember giving it to her. “Rinse, and take a couple of sips if you think your belly can handle it.” Her lips twitched.
Gabriel groaned, but this time not from nausea. “I can’t believe I called it my belly; I sounded like I’m five.”
“No, saying your tummy hurt would have sounded like you’re five; ‘belly’ is more like ten or twelve,” Logan teased.
“Do you talk to the partners that way or am I just lucky?” Gabe decided it was safe to flush the toilet again, but he stayed where he was, not entirely sure the current reprieve from puking would last. And truthfully, a tiny part of him - very tiny, but still there - wished he had a reason to draw things out just a little longer, if only to keep Logan talking, and keep her hand on his shoulder.
“I think you’re just lucky.” Logan’s voice was quiet behind him. She cleared her throat. “If you consider puking at work at 8 at night on a Friday, lucky.”
Gabe started to joke that if he was lucky for puking, what did that say about her having to watch him puke, when he felt another jolt of pressure rise up from his stomach. He gave a sudden wet belch.
“I’m . . . I’m okay,” he said when he felt Logan tense behind him. “Just aftershocks.” Logan’s hand squeezed his shoulder again, and the thought that he wished she would keep doing that was enough for him to force himself to try to stand up. He swayed only a little bit and Logan put her hand on his waist.
“Careful there,” she muttered. “Don’t want to add a concussion to the mix.”
“Thanks, I’m okay,” Gabriel said quickly. It was mostly true; he was able to stand and his stomach felt more or less settled. At this point he was more concerned about Logan being able to feel how sweaty and gross he was, not to mention her proximity to his puke-breath. He carefully stepped away from her, and then out of the little toilet room where he’d vomited.
“Whoa, you weren’t kidding about how nice it is here!” The partners’ private bathroom looked more like a spa than something you’d find in an office building. Gabe walked slowly over to the line of fancy marble sinks and splashed water on his face, washed his hands, then helped himself to a mint from a dish on a tray that also contained mouthwash, cologne, and other toiletry items. He looked around. “Is there a similar bathroom for the women?”
Something flashed in Logan’s eyes - appreciation maybe? She huffed. “There is, but it’s a lot smaller.”
“Hopefully there will be more female partners soon,” said Gabriel. “Noa asks me about that all the time.” He took a paper cup from the tray and filled it with a bit of mouthwash; the mint hadn’t done enough.
“Who’s Noa? Your girlfriend?” Logan was carefully wiping up the water he’d splashed around the sink. Gabe flushed.
“Let me do that.” He grabbed the wad of paper towels from her. “Noa’s my sister; she’s two years younger than me and is dating my best friend.” He grinned. “And that’s never awkward at all.”
Gabe wanted to believe that Logan’s laugh had a little relief in it, but decided that was probably the food poisoning making him slightly delirious.
“I can imagine,” she said. “How long have they been dating?” Logan looked at Gabe’s face and frowned suddenly. “Actually, let’s save the small talk for another time; you look exhausted.” She lightly touched his cheek with the back of her hand and he was sure she felt him shudder. “No fever,” she said with the authority of someone who had a lot of experience checking for them. “What you need is to sleep for about the next 12 hours.”
Gabriel groaned. “Sleep sounds amazing.” He followed Logan out of the bathroom and into the partner’s lounge where, to his surprise, his briefcase and jacket were waiting for him on a plush blue sofa.
“I don’t even remember you grabbing these, thank you,” he said gratefully, picking them up. “I was really out of it.” Briefly, Gabe wondered if he’d said anything embarrassing he couldn’t remember now, and then shrugged to himself. Somehow he already knew Logan would be too tactful to mention it. He followed her docilely to the elevator.
“I don’t know how you usually get home, but you’re taking an Uber tonight.” Logan’s voice was firm.
Gabriel was going to protest, but then his stomach dipped uncomfortably as the elevator dropped and he decided that getting home as quickly as possible was probably a good idea.
“Good . . . hic . . . idea,” he agreed. Logan narrowed her eyes.
“Are you going to make it? Maybe I should find you a bag.” She began rummaging through her work backpack. “Where do you live?” She quickly dumped something he couldn’t see into the bottom of the backpack and held out a plastic bag from CVS. “Just in case.”
“I really think I’m okay, really.” Gabriel took it anyway and shoved it in his jacket pocket. “It’s only about a 15 minute ride.” He swallowed again. “I’ll be fine.” At this time of night on a Friday it would probably be closer to 20, but he didn’t say so.
Logan bit her lip, and Gabriel suspected she was ready to offer to come home with him to make sure he got there, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. It was a Friday night; she probably had all kinds of plans. “I’ll text you,” he blurted out. “When I get home, to let you know, okay?” He realized he had just more or less asked Logan for her phone number; too late now, he supposed.
She nodded. “That’ll work, but give me your number instead; I don’t trust you.” She pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling you an Uber too.”
Gabriel didn’t even care that Logan had said she didn’t trust him; the way he was feeling, he didn’t totally trust himself either. He tiredly repeated his phone number and then stood awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his feet until the Uber arrived. He really didn’t feel like making any more small talk, which Logan seemed to understand. When the black sedan drove up she settled him inside and made him promise to respond to her text later.
Most of the ride home was a blur; Gabriel’s nausea climbed steadily, as did an ache in his lower belly that suggested another need for the bathroom too. When the Uber dropped him off in front of his building he stood for a moment at the end of the walkway, deciding if he needed to throw up just then or if he could make it through the elevator ride. He tried to burp to relieve some of the nausea and ended up spitting up into the bushes before a twisting pain in his intestines sent him racing into the building where he just made it to his apartment and then into the bathroom where he was sick in a way he was extremely glad Logan hadn’t witnessed. Afterwards, he was in the kitchen looking through his fridge for Gatorade when his stomach turned over the same time his phone dinged. He promptly vomited into the sink and only then was able to look at his message.
“Please tell me you made it home in one piece; I’m feeling guilty about not coming with you in the Uber. And send proof of life; if something happens to you I’ll be the only member on the Lane Cooledge deal young enough to not know how a rotary phone works and we can’t have that.”
Gabe chucked to himself and sent back a short text:
“I’m alive. And I’m not too proud to admit that while it was difficult to throw up without you to encourage me, I managed it. Don 't worry, I made it home first and I’m even feeling a bit better now.” There was no need to go into further details, he decided. He also suspected he wasn’t entirely through with his time in the bathroom, but Logan didn’t need to know that either.
Gabriel thought long and hard about the next question.
“I swear it’s not the food poisoning talking, but I’d like to take you out to dinner once I’m better. Partly as a thank you, but more because I’d really like to see you again in a less pukey situation.”
Logan’s answer came back gratifyingly quick.
“I’d love that, as long as we don’t go for bar-b-que.”
Gabriel grinned to himself; for the first time considered that maybe getting food poisoning had been a good thing. He quickly texted back.
TW/CW: mentions of death (drunk driving accident), drinking to excess for the sole purpose of numbing the emotional pain, induced vomiting. This story jumps back in time a couple of years - Noa is a senior in college and Rory and Gabriel are two years older and working in a city a couple of hours away (I’m purposely vague on the city - think of it as an amalgam of most of the big cities on the east coast of the U.S. - Boston, New York, Philadelphia, D.C. - plus Chicago. Rory’s sister, who was Noa’s best friend, was killed by a drunk driver when she was 11; there is a lot of trauma there, obviously. Also, while Rory may come off as a little obsessive about Noa, it’s not meant to be unhealthy or oppressive. He’s intense, yes, but for Rory and Noa, taking care of each other in the extreme is as natural to them as breathing.
Noa’s midterms schedule was brutal this semester. Abnormal psych and Spanish 401 on Tuesday, Statistics Wednesday, Cognitive Neuroscience on Thursday, and a paper in her Research Methods class due by noon on Friday. Rory had sent her and her roommates an enormous basket of snacks and then vowed not to contact her for the entire week other than quick supportive texts, lest he distract her from her studying. He knew her test schedule as well as she did, and as she walked out of her Abnormal psych exam Tuesday at 11 there was a text waiting for her.
One down! How was it? Actually, don’t worry about telling me now; I know you only have an hour until Spanish and you need to get something to eat. I’ll text you after the exam - it’s over at two, right? Wait, don’t respond to that either. Go eat something, please. I know you probably didn’t before psych. Te Amo!
Noa rolled her eyes and texted back.
It was LONG! 100 multiple choice and four short answer that really weren’t that short. I’m glad it’s over, and before you say anything, I’m walking to Starbucks right now with Marley to get something to eat. Yes, the test is over at 2, and your Spanish is cute.
A second later Rory responded with a heart emoji, and then a coffee emoji, and then nothing else. Chuckling to herself, Noa responded with a thumbs up and then put her phone away, vowing not to look at it again until after her exam.
The test was hard, but Noa had studied a lot and walked out feeling good. She said goodbye to Marley, who was rushing off to a review session, and opened her phone, eager to see what Rory had written to her this time. She was ready with her response - exam had been fine, and no, he wasn’t distracting her because she was currently walking home to grab some snacks and then plant herself in the library to study for statistics for the rest of the evening. And yes, she’d get a good night’s sleep so she’d be alert for her test and ready to study for cognitive neuroscience afterwards, and then able to finish her paper after that. The next two exams were Noa’s toughest, and she was relieved to have started working on them a week ago, when she knew a couple of her classmates had barely begun reviewing the material. It was going to be a tough and exhausting couple of days, but Rory was taking the train to her Friday night, and having that to look forward to was all the incentive Noa needed to buckle down.
But there was no message from Rory, which probably meant he’d gotten pulled into some sort of meeting. Noa texted him anyway - Two down, two (plus a paper) to go! Love you! - and figured she’d hear from him soon. Knowing her boyfriend, he was probably going a little crazy not being able to have a message waiting for her as soon as she got out of her exam. She grinned to herself, imagining him talking to his boss or something, totally focused and present, but with one foot tapping softly on the floor, or his jaw just a little tighter than normal. Rory’s tells were subtle, but Noa could read them like a book.
She made it home, grabbed food, loaded her statistics binder and computer into her backpack, and headed back out to the library, all with no text from Rory. That was definitely odd. Still, she didn’t send another text; he obviously had something going on and she didn’t want to bother him. He’d contact her as soon as he could; of that she was certain.
Indeed, Noa hadn’t even made it to the library when her phone buzzed against her hip. She pulled it out immediately, ready to give her boyfriend a hard time for not sending her a message the instant she finished her exam, not that he’d believe it for a second. But instead of a long, detailed, and totally unneeded apology from Rory, the short message - hey - call me as soon as you can - was from her brother.
Noa frowned. She and Gabriel texted regularly, and even talked on the phone every so often, but usually there was a reason, like trash-talking about their family football pool or Noa interrogating him about his most recent date. For that reason, they tended to communicate mostly on the weekends, or at least at the end of the work day. Middle of a Tuesday? Noa’s stomach dropped as she hurriedly pressed the button to connect the call.
“Hi, I know you’re in exams and Rory made me swear not to call you but I thought you should know.” Gabriel spoke all in one breath as soon as he answered the phone. He paused for a second. “It’s bad.”
Noa squeezed the phone in her hand. “What’s bad, what’s wrong with Rory?” Without consciously thinking about it she had already turned around and was heading back to her apartment. If something was so wrong with her boyfriend that Gabe was calling her in the middle of the workday she obviously needed to be there and not here. Gabe took another breath.
“You know his friend from work? Danny?
Noa nodded, and then remembered Gabriel couldn’t see her. “Danny Willis? He’s one of Rory’s mentors.” The man was a couple of years ahead of Rory at the Bureau and had taken him under his wing almost immediately. He selected Rory for interesting cases, always made himself available to talk about anything from the legality of a recent search warrant to what team was most likely to make it to the Super Bowl, to the best place to get really authentic and delicious Chinese food in the city. And then he and his boyfriend took Rory and Noa there and wouldn’t even let them look at a menu, ordering for the table in flawless Mandarin.
“What about Danny?” she asked carefully. Her heart was in her throat. She tried not to think too often about the dangerous parts of Rory’s job, but they were there - he had cases involving drug traffickers and human traffickers and arms smugglers and probably worse things he couldn’t even tell her. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Rory was fine - he’d told Gabriel not to call her. He was fine. This time. Over the phone she heard Gabe suck in air too.
“He was riding his bike home from work yesterday and he got hit by a car.” Gabe’s voice was nearly toneless when he spoke again. “Driver was drunk.”
It felt like the earth tilted for a moment. Noa swore and dropped down onto a bench outside the psychology building. She didn’t want to ask the next question but it didn’t matter; Gabriel answered it anyway. “He died at the scene.”
For a moment, Noa was transported back ten years, and her mother was waking her up from where she’d been napping on the sofa, sick with the flu, to tell her that her best friend Jamie, Rory’s sister, had been killed in a car accident, hit by a drunk driver. Noa was supposed to have been with her, but she’d stayed home sick instead. Bile rose in her throat and she took a deep breath and then another so she didn’t vomit. A million questions and thoughts needed attention but only one mattered right now.
“How’s Rory?” She asked, feeling sick.
Gabe gave a hollow laugh. “About as you’d expect. Everyone from his office is coming to our apartment to figure things out - traveling to the funeral and stuff.”
“When is it?” asked Noa. Her brain was already whirling - statistics tomorrow, neuroscience Thursday, paper Friday . . .
“I think Friday morning” Gabe said. “Everyone’s caravaning there Thursday; his parents live like three hours away.” He took another deep breath. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you; Rory didn’t want to interrupt you during exams. Obviously that’s stupid.”
Noa loved how well her brother understood. “How did he think he was going to explain not talking to me for another three days?” Even as she said it, a text from Rory popped up on her phone.
congrats on two down! things are crazy at work so I can’t text again until tonight, if then. hope studying goes well - I promise not to bother you. and please get some rest; I know you’ve been staying up late. Love you so much.
Noa sighed and read the text to Gabe. “He can’t really think I’m going to fall for that.” Her heart hurt just imagining how hard Rory was trying right now. Gabe made a sound of agreement.
“He’s taken it upon himself to get everyone and everything organized, of course.” He paused. “He’d kill me if he knew I’d told you”
Noa’s mind was already making plans. “I know,” she said. She got up from the bench. It was convenient that both of her professors for her next two exams had their offices in the psych building. “I won’t say anything.” She didn’t add the ‘yet.’ “I’m . . . are you going to see him?”
“Not until tonight; he called me at work to tell me people were coming over.” There was another beat of silence while Noa filled in the blanks, imagining that phone call, and Rory’s voice.
“Give him a hug for me,” she said softly. “And Gabe? Thank you.”
“Shut up,” he said roughly. “I’ll take care of him.”
Both of Noa’s professors were in their offices. She was getting a high A in each class and they were reasonable people; she walked out half an hour later feeling a mix of relief and determination. She’d have to go home briefly that evening, but the library was open 24 hours and Noa intended to take full advantage of the time.
Twenty-two hours later she collapsed onto the seat of her train five minutes before it left, yet another cup of coffee in her hand. Pushing away her exhaustion, she opened her laptop and pulled up her research methods paper. It needed a final body paragraph and conclusion, plus a good proof read. Fortunately all the research she needed was finished; she could hopefully get it close to complete in the next two hours.
Normally Noa would take the subway from the train station to Rory’s apartment, but today splurged on an Uber that would take her right to his door, biting the inside of her cheek at times so the swaying of the car didn’t rock her to sleep. She hadn’t told him she was coming but Gabriel had left a message and a key with the doorman and Rory had sent her several more falsely cheerful and sanitized texts in the past day. Each one made her heart squeeze a little more. The last minutes in the elevator felt like hours.
The door to Rory and Gabe’s apartment was propped open and Noa could hear the low murmur of voices inside. She pushed open the door with her hip and dropped her suitcase and backpack by the front door, eyes searching the room.
Conversation stopped as Rory stood up from the sofa. “Noa?” he asked hoarsely, sounding confused. “What are you . . .?” He stopped and stared at her for half a second, and then he was closing the space between them. Noa met him halfway and let him pull her into his arms. He buried his head in her neck and breathed out a tiny involuntary sob. She could feel his body trembling against hers and she tightened her grip until he slowly relaxed into her, some of the tension leaching out as he breathed in.
Finally he pulled back just enough to look at her. Heedless of everyone else in the living room, he cupped her cheek with his palm and brushed his thumb across her face, gently touching the circles she knew were prominent under her eyes right now. “Do I want to know what you did to be able to get here?” he asked softly.
Noa shook her head and bit back a yawn. “I have to . . . to finish editing my paper,” she said. “an’ then I’m done.”
Rory frowned at the slur in her words. “When’s the last time you slept?”
Noa shrugged. “I needed to be here.”
Rory looked like he was about to say something, and then stopped and took a deep, shaky breath. He pulled her back to his chest and rubbed his hand up her back. Noa could feel his heart beating against the side of her face. “What can I do to help?”
As much as Noa wanted to tell him she could handle it, she knew she was at her limit, and Rory was going to need her even more soon. She forced her mouth to work. “Sit . . . sit with me while I finish,” she mumbled against his sweatshirt. “Almos’ done.”
Rory’s arm’s tightened around her and Noa resisted giving in to the urge to just let him hold her upright. “Can I proofread it for you? Is that all that’s left?” Carefully she shook her head.
“I want to read it once more through,” she said, trying hard to enunciate each word. “An’ then you can. Help me send it.”
So swiftly she wasn’t even aware it was happening, Rory got her things from the hallway and had her set up at the desk in his bedroom, her computer plugged in and the paper pulled up for her to read. He knelt next to her chair and kept a steadying hand on her back as she forced her eyes to focus on the words that tried to swim across the page. Twice he pointed out small typos, and then helped her fix them, and when they both finally reached the end, he typed in her professor’s email address and attached and sent the document himself.
“And now you need to sleep,” he said, voice boding no argument.
Noa couldn’t have protested if she tried. The weight of a week of studying and five midterms crammed into two days and then more than 30 hours awake crashed down on her, and she was barely aware of Rory helping her out of her jeans and sweater and then tucking her into his bed. The last thing she remembered was him kissing her on the forehead before she fell asleep.
It was pitch black when she woke house later, and Rory was slotted in behind her under the covers. She knew immediately he wasn’t sleeping, and when she turned in his arms to face him he gulped out a sorry, and then buried his head in her chest and began to cry. Neither of them spoke; there was nothing that needed to be said.
The next morning Noa was up early enough to see her brother before he left for work. He called her crazy for rearranging her exam schedule and then gave her an enormous hug. “He barely stopped moving until you got here; I don’t know how he’d have managed alone,” he said, glancing into the kitchen where Rory was putting out bagels and donuts for everyone before they drove upstate. His shoulders were tense again but when one of his co-workers said something to him he responded with a soft smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
They drove three other people in Rory’s SUV and Noa stayed mostly quiet and let the conversation - as it was - mostly float around her.
At the funeral Rory was stiff and silent, gripping her hand so tightly she felt the bones move. The only time he made a noise was when Danny’s younger sisters got up to speak about their older brother; the involuntary sound of distress spoke of mountains of pain that would never completely go away.
There was a gathering at Danny’s parents’ house afterwards, and Rory made it a point to find those two sisters, and spoke to them in a corner while Noa agreed with more than one of his friends that yes, this was hell and yes, Rory was being really, really strong. His friends knew about Jamie, but she was pretty such none of them understood just how tightly Rory was holding himself together right now.
That evening, everyone convened in the bar attached to the hotel, the unspoken agreement that they were all going to drink hard etched on every grim face. Rory and two of his co-workers spoke quietly to their server, handing over three credit cards to open the tab and telling her they didn’t care what it cost.
His hand automatically found Noa’s again when he sat down and he squeezed it for a moment before letting go and shuffling his chair closer to hers. The server brought over a tray full of shot glasses and another of beers, and once they were all passed out, somehow everyone automatically looked to Rory. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked slowly around the table, making careful eye contact with every person there, before taking a deep breath.
“Danny was . . .,” he began in a hoarse voice. He stopped and cleared his throat. Noa put her hand on his thigh and Rory grabbed it in his. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and started again.
“Danny was the best fucking agent . . . no . . . the best fucking person I ever had the privilege of working with. One of the best people I ever knew, period.” He picked up his shot glass and twirled it in his hands for a moment before putting it back down.
“And . . . and when I first came to work for the Bureau, and he sought me out, I thought I was special, you know?” Rory’s mouth quirked in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “In my ego and pride I figured he’d seen something in me, something that made me . . . better somehow.” Rory shrugged and shook his head to himself before continuing. “But what I didn’t realize at the time is that Danny made everyone feel that way.” He looked around the table again. “Admit it, how many of you thought you were Danny’s favorite?” Rory unabashedly held up his hand, and the gesture was immediately met with nods of agreement and raised hands by nearly everyone else at the table.
Rory gave a watery chuckle. “That’s what I thought.” He took a deep pull of his beer. “But, here’s the thing.” He looked down for a second, and Noa was pretty sure she was the only one who could see the quiver of his chin. When he looked up again, it was gone. “Here’s the thing,” he said again, his voice steady. “It’s not that Danny thought I was better, it’s that he made me better. And he made me want to be better, too. He acted like he believed in me before he even knew me, and that was . . . everything.” Rory looked down at the table again, and his voice caught over the next words. “Damn, I . . . I’m going to miss him.” He cleared his throat harshly and held up his shot glass. ‘’To Danny . . . thank you.” He slammed back the drink quickly and swiped at his eyes.
“To Danny,” everyone else intoned.
Noa drank the first shot and then turned down the next rounds, sipping slowly on a couple of dirty martinis instead. They ordered baskets of fries and pretzel bites with cheese for the table, and lots and lots of alcohol - more shots, glasses of bourbon, bottles of beer, a couple pitchers of margaritas. The atmosphere ranged from loud and raucous to teary and emotional and back again, everyone seemed to want to talk and remember and take comfort in being together and Noa - who had met Danny - wasn’t at all surprised.
Sitting next to her, Rory somehow managed to engage with every single person at that table. He told stories, and did a shot, and listened to stories, and drank bourbon and margaritas, and laughed, and did still more shots, and more than once got up to give someone a hug, his voice even and his steps steady even as those around him began to slur and slip. Noa watched him carefully, seeing things she knew no one else could, and just after midnight she gave a big, expansive yawn and touched her hand to her temple. putting her other one on Rory’s arm.
“I’ve got a bit of a headache,” she said quietly. “Will you walk me up to the room?”
He paused for less than a second and then nodded quickly, taking her arm as she stood up. Carefully, they made their way around the table once more. Rory was calm and reassuring, touching each person on the shoulder as he said goodnight, and then stopping to talk to the server and signing for a large portion of the drink tab. He put his arm around Noa as they walked out of the bar, and she could feel him trembling.
“Thank you,” he said under his breath, and he stumbled a bit against her as soon as they were out of sight.
“You did good,” she said quietly. She rested her thumb on Rory’s cheek and he leaned into her hand.
“That . . . tha’ was hell,” he slurred. “I couldn’t . . .” He turned his head to kiss her hair and gave a soft hiccup. She squeezed his arm as the elevator arrived and she could tell by the deliberate way he stepped inside that his careful facade was crumbling. Still, it was only when the doors closed that he let himself slump more fully against her.
He gave another hiccup and she touched his jaw until he turned to look at her. “How are you feeling?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Rory grimaced. “You know.” He gave a small shrug and burped into his hand. “I need to throw up.” A pause, and another hiccup. “A lot.”
“I have water in the room,” Noa said. “And some ginger ale.” She had Pedialyte too, but that would be for tomorrow. He nodded.
“Yeah.” A swallow. “I don’ feel well.”
Noa didn’t know if Rory was talking about his stomach or his emotional state; probably both. What she did know was how to take care of him right now. Indeed, she’d been preparing for it ever since that first moment Gabe had told her about Danny. Before today, Noa had only seen Rory drink solely for the purpose of getting emotionally numb three times - and all were because he’d been thinking about and missing his sister. Now it felt like memories of Jamie were sitting in the room with them, had been there all week. If Rory had needed to drink enough that he could try to forget for a little while, Noa certainly wasn’t going to stop him.
She quickly took off her funeral clothes and got into sweats before going to help Rory. He’d gotten his belt undone and pulled off his pants but was still fumbling clumsily with the buttons on his shirt. She walked over and stood between his knees to help him and he leaned forward and rested his head on her stomach.
“Don’t puke here,” she warned him. It was harder to reach Rory’s shirt buttons with him in that position and she had to lean over him and snake her hands under his chin, but she managed.
Rory gave a soft burp, but it didn’t sound very wet. “I won’t,” he said. “Not . . . not there yet.” He shrugged off his shirt and stood up in his t-shirt and boxer briefs, swaying only a little bit. “Sit with me?” he asked thickly.
Noa gave him a fond look. “Of course.” She started to walk them the bathroom but he grabbed her arm and pulled her into a hug, dropping his head to her shoulder.
“I hate this,” he said. “Kept . . . urp . . . kept looking at Danny’s sisters an’ didn’ know what to say.” He blew out a boozy smelling breath. “I din’t want to pay-pay-patronize.”
“I know,” said Noa softly. Rory’s latest burp sounded a little more dangerous and he’d begun to swallow more. She turned him towards the bathroom again and this time he followed her willingly. “You didn’t sound patronizing at all, just like someone who cared, and actually knew what they were going through.” She flicked on the bathroom light and grabbed one of the water bottles she’d left there earlier. Rory lowered himself clumsily to the ground and leaned back against the bathtub.
“I miss Jamie,” he slurred. Despite how much Rory’d had to drink, Noa knew he was still completely present and aware. If one of his colleagues had suddenly shown up at the door, he’d have been able to pull himself together again, for as long as he was needed. She also knew how exhausting it was, holding himself together like that. There had been years when they’d been broken up that she knew Rory hadn’t allowed himself to lose control and just feel.
They couldn’t get those years back but Noa was never going to let that happen again.
Now she sat down next to him and unscrewed the top of the water bottle. “I miss her too,” she said. She squeezed his knee. “Every day.”
Rory hiccupped again. “Throwing up isn’t going to make me feel better.” He took the water. “Nothing’s gonna make me feel better.”
“I know,” she said softly. She ran her hand up and down his arm. “There’s nothing to do but hang on and ride it out.” She nudged the hand holding the bottle of water. “But you do need to drink that,” she said. “If you don’t puke tonight you’re going to feel even worse in the morning and you have to be with everyone.”
Rory nodded. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Pretending I’m okay.” He took a deep breath. “Harder to do if I’m so hungover.” He raised the water to his lips and began gulping, not stopping until the water was more than half gone. He lowered it and put his fist to his lips, breathing heavily for a moment before shaking his head and draining the rest. He burped in the direction of his lap, his entire body jolting against her. “More,” he croaked.
Noa got up and got the second bottle of water and one of the ginger ales. “Which one do you want?” she asked.
Rory squinted at them blearily. “Water,” he said after a second. Don’t . . . don’t need bubbles, jus’ . . . need full.” He gave a thick, nauseous burp. “S-s-see? already burping.” As if to prove his point even more he dropped his head and belched again, and then lurched forward to spit into the toilet. He hovered there for a second until his stomach heaved with a sick-sounding hiccup and more saliva dripped into the bowl.
Noa ran her hand up his back. “That’s right, love, try to burp some more.” He could also stick his fingers down his throat, she knew, but could usually get more up if it happened naturally. Even those times he “pulled trig,” he’d often end up chugging down water anyway to get the rest of the alcohol up.
Rory shook his head without looking up and reached blindly behind him. “Water,” he gulped, and Noa quickly put the second bottle in his hand. He lifted himself up just enough to take a couple of sips, stopping only long enough to burp again before drinking more. Noa kept her hand on his back, watching as his throat worked to swallow down more water and his face grew pale with nausea.
The bottle clattered suddenly to the floor. Noa started to lunge for it and then realized it was nearly empty. Rory gave a queasy groan and braced his arms across the toilet seat. “It’s coming,” he said thickly. A second later he rocked forward with a harsh gag, and then another. There was a beat of stillness, and then he burped up what looked to be almost all the water he’d just drank. He paused and took a deep breath, and then burped up another huge stream, this one smelling of tequila.
Noa began patting his back. “Keep going, sweetheart, just like that.” She doubted he needed the encouragement, indeed, his stomach seemed to have gotten the message that it was well beyond the time to empty itself. Rory’s next belch was heavy and wet and sounded like it came from the depths of his stomach. He jolted with another gag and then retched up more liquid and something thicker - the little bit of food he’d eaten that day. His next burp was hollow and he heaved dryly for a minute, trying to force up more alcohol before finally falling back against Noa’s chest, panting heavily.
She wiped his face with a washcloth. “Do you need more water? Are you done?”
Rory shook his head. “Not . . . done,” he gasped. He leaned forward again and burped up more puke, and then spit out thick saliva. His head dropped back onto his arms and he panted and gulped and tried to get his stomach under control.
Noa got the third bottle of water and this time when Rory leaned back, he took it and swished his mouth out a couple of times and then took a hesitant sip. It didn;’t come back up, and neither did the next one, and then he put the water down and sighed.
“I think I’m done,” he said hoarsely. “Probably’ll need to puke again in the morning when I’m hungover.” He already sounded a lot more sober, not to mention exhausted. Noa kissed him on the temple
“I have pedialyte for then,” she said. “Do you think you could keep down some Tylenol and a little more water right now? It’ll help later.”
Rory hiccupped. “I think so,” he said. “Still kind of queasy but don’t feel like I’m going to throw up again right now.” He fell back against her again. “Jus’ wanna sleep.”
The first time she’d taken care of Rory when he’d been this drunk Noa had set him up in the bathroom with a pillow and blanket after he’d stopped vomiting. But now when he said he didn’t need to be sick again, she knew she could believe him. Slowly she helped him stand, and they shuffled to the bed, Rory collapsing heavily onto the pillow.
“I should’uv brushed my teeth,” he slurred sleepily. “Sorry.”
Noa chuckled. “Well I’m not going to be kissing you anytime soon.” She immediately proved herself a liar by touching her lips to his hair. “Not your mouth, at least.”
Rory burped softly under his breath and gave a sigh of relief. “That felt good,” he mumbled. “Not going to puke.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but there’s a trash can on the floor next to you just in case,” said Noa. She carefully slipped into the opposite side of the bed and put her hand on his back, feeling his breaths even out as he fell into a heavy, alcohol-induced sleep. If history was any guide, he’d wake up early feeling terribly hungover, vomit a couple more times, and hopefully be able to drink some pedialyte before sleeping for a couple of hours. At least the rest of his co-workers were likely to be in as bad if not worse shape, and Noa was prepared to drive Rory’s SUV back to the city.
“I love you,” she whispered into the dark. She didn’t expect Rory to answer, but he surprised her, mumbling something that might have been “love you too,” before settling deeper into the pillow and beginning to snore.
Noa smiled to herself. She knew Rory was going to have more moments of mourning Danny and missing Jamie over the next few weeks - and he’d miss his sister for the rest of his life, of course - but he was going to be okay.
also, what sort of crying is it? not every character is going to sob with sadness, there's also frustrated crying, crying from fear, overwhelm, shere pain or exhaustion, loss, anger... lots of different types of misery. and, if you're feeling merciful, tears of relief or happy crying.
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i’ve seen so many posts like these and they never fail to do it for me
there’s just something about the tender, simple things you do and say when taking care of a sick lover
i wanna find him in the beginning stages of a brutal stomach flu when he’s complaining about feeling a little dizzy and queasy.
i’ll guide him into our bed and bring him water, telling him not to drink too fast “just in case.”
i want to wake up to him sitting abruptly up in bed. it’s late now, and his stomach has been churning for just long enough. i’ll sit up too and breath with him, run a hand up and down his back, hand him the wastebasket i set by our bed and tell him “shh, baby, you’re okay.”
i want to wipe puke from his lip and let him rest his head on my shoulder between bouts
i want to stop him from apologizing, to murmur reassurance when he moans, to keep him as comfortable as possible
i want to pay attention to his breath and notice when he starts to toss and turn as his stomach prepares to vomit again. “up, sweetheart, get up.”
i want to hold his burning body as he tries to use mine to get warm.“you poor thing, you’re burning up.”
I need more fat men who have round, nauseous tummies after a stuffing. I have a few videos on youtube that I’m rewatching through, and I genuinely need this genre to exist more.
Here’s a link to a youtube playlist I made of all of my favourite overstuffed nausea/vomit videos. Let me know if you have any recommendations.
CONTENT WARNINGS: descriptions of vomiting, of food, nausea, burping, stubborn sickie
A/N: not too happy with this :( for the record: i didn't like lyney at first, but now i regret skipping him, he's cool and he's highly whumpable. and another thing, i think it's silly the traveler was so cold to him during the trial, but i did like how they grew to trust him and his siblings. and thought it would be cute to write something like this. might've turned out more overindulgent than the angsty comfort fic i had in mind. i might do something more detailed with it in the future!
A shuddering sigh escaped Aether's lips, breaking the silence hanging awkwardly around him and his flying companion, who just shot him an anxious glance. Trying to distract himself from the growing boredom, he traced the outline of the playing card in his pocket, with his finger. Lyney was late.
In the last days they had met inside the fortress of Meropide, that would be a first for him, and while it would be fair to allow him a grace period, several minutes had already passed. What Aether was feeling was a mix of annoyance and a bit of apprehension. He was lending his help in the magician's investigation, and was still being left out like this. And then there was the matter of...
“Ourrp—”, Aether burped discreetly into his fist, tasting his lunch in the root of his tongue. “...yuck”, he muttered under his breath while massaging his chest gently with his fingertips, trying to chase away the heartburn.
“Ugh, don't remind Paimon”, the small fairy groaned, hugging her middle as she floated aimlessly by the traveler's side, like a deflated balloon. “Paimon doesn't wanna think about the horrible lunch we had!”
“I didn't even say anything, you did”, Aether responded, his voice coming from the bottom of his throat. Now he was thinking about it, and his belly wasn't too happy to be reminded. “I don't know why you're being so dramatic. I was the one who had to eat both of our bad dishes...”
“That's exactly why!”, Paimon stomped in mid-air. “We both had bad luck, you ate your seafood soup AND my onion soup! Now Paimon's hungry...”
Aether let out a nauseated groan, loud enough to silence her, he had started to sweat cold. The memory of the suspicious-looking dishes he had forced down came flooding back, fish stench and greasy cheese churning restlessly inside his belly.
“Stop— ugh, we'll get some food for you after this, okay?”, he hurriedly said, through his teeth. ”Just don't talk about it anymore.”
“Really? Oh, you're too nice, traveler, hehe”, Paimon cheered, flying around him, which she only realized was a bad idea as she saw Aether wince with nausea. ”Ah, sorry! Now, if only Lyney would show up —”
Paimon stopped talking as she picked up on footsteps on the metal sheet flooring, turning to their direction. Aether only heard them when they closed in, raising his gaze to find the pair of twins standing there, Lyney already smiling apologetically at him, and Lynette, with an unamused expression.
“Oh, hi two! Some slackers you are, keeping us waiting”, Paimon greeted, briefly cordial as she already jumped to accusations.
”My sincerest apologies, friends. We had some trouble getting to our meeting spot, but we're here right now”, Lyney said, with a small bow.
Lynette simply shrugged, muttering an apology, which Aether took as an opportunity to change his posture, and strategically cross his arms over his belly. While it wasn't the most comfortable position, it was his best shot at hiding the noticeable size of his abdomen. His exposed midriff was nearly pink, the skin stretched over his upset stomach, making his discomfort quite obvious.
“So, what's the plan?” Paimon ushered them, knowing they didn't have much time to talk.
Aether's face scrunched up as soon as Lyney started talking, leaving his companion to lead the whole conversation. The idea of working with a fatui didn't sit right with him, especially one that had lied and deceived him, but at that point it couldn't be helped.
The traveler briefly closed his eyes, his stomach was churning viscously, leaving him disoriented. It was already hard to tell which way was up when all he could see was metal and rust inside that underwater fortress, but now it seemed nearly impossible. The ever present musk of sea salt and humidity was making the nausea even worse.
“Did you get all that?”, he felt Paimon nudge him, bringing him back to the conversation.
Aether grunted, shifting his weight. “Y-Yeah.”
Though he tried to act like he had been paying the least bit of attention, Lyney gave him a curious look, his green eyes pinning him in place. A second of silence hanged in the air he spoke up:
“You seem a bit pale, friend. Is everything alright?”, the magician asked, and at first, Aether took his tone as mocking, seemingly shrinking in place.
“Let's just finish this so I can go back to my — OoUrP!”, he started before a rather loud belch cut him off, his hand flying up to his mouth as a small splash of bile came up with it.
If at that right moment a portal to the abyss opened in front of Aether, he wouldn’t hesitate to jump into it. His face immediately flushed a bright red as he felt the twins’ gaze closed in on him. He swallowed hard, trying to keep down the rush of hot acid pooling over his tongue. Lyney gave him a worried glance, stepping in his direction
“Ah, I suppose we could… take a break? You really don’t look well”, Lyney offered, to which Aether, hand still pressed to his mouth, shook his head vehemently. “Are you sure…? You look like you might —”
A noise akin to a wet muffled gurgle leaves Aether's mouth, unable to protest before he feels his abdomen squeeze, a thick mass of undigested food inching closer to his mouth. He turns on his heels, stumbling a few steps away before he vomits onto the floor.
In between coughing wetly over the puddle of his regurgitated lunch, he hears Paimon shriek, and light steps coming his direction. Lyney appears in the corner of his vision, kneeling by his side. He doesn't hesitate before he reaches out, gathering Aether's hair in his hand.
“You could’ve just told me you weren't feeling well”, he tells him in a playful tone, brushing a few strands before his ear. “Now, try to get it all out, okay?”
Aether scowls, about to argue he doesn't want his help, but he doesn't get the chance. His stomach squeezes again and he leans forward with a harsh retch, bringing up another thick wave of cheesy clumpy vomit. It splatters wetly in front of him, missing his boots by little. Lyney seems disaffected by it, keeping a firm hand on his back.
Aether groans miserably and spits into the puddle, trying to rid his mouth of the sickening taste. He is faintly aware of the stare crawling up his back, though Lyney’s presence somewhat distracts him from it. He rubs his back lightly, his demeanor gentle, almost brotherly, a small chuckle leaving his lips.
“I think we’re done here. You should pay a visit to Sigewinne”, he suggests. “Do you want me to help you get there?”
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02. Can’t stop puking and 16. Waking up puking for Heizou please ♥️
And we're officially starting Novemetober Rescheduled! As stated before I am doing the prompts out of order, so we're kicking things off with this request for Heizou!
@monthofsick
Can't Stop Puking + Waking up Puking
Warnings for: graphic descriptions of vomit; Fever; Mentions of passing out
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
It's been a while since I've written anything for Heizou, and I'm excited to move forward with his story. What's his living situation looking like right now, and how are things about to change? Buckle up, because it's finally time for this arc over the month of Novemetober Rescheduled!
ooh I would love to see Exis with a very full tummy if that sounds like a fun thing to doodle! ^^
I wanted to do a SLIGHTLY more realistic stuffing tummy, and put a little more effort into this than intended lol. A bit more extreme under the cut tho... as a treat.
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