( kings & queens | post-canon ) unexpected

[caipirinha]

She doesn’t tell him that anything’s wrong, a little bit because she’s too proud to do something about it besides soldier on, but mostly because he already knows. It’s hard to miss the early morning chorus of retching, harder still when it happens again in the evening and sometimes in the middle of the night. She’s a little more lethargic in the mornings, absent and drowsy and requiring a little pull out the door as opposed to the (sometimes) playful kick that she gives him. At first he reasons that telling her outright won’t do, she’ll just snap and fuss, and she’s developed a strangely potent resistance to his meaningful looks, the ones where he stares at her with his eyebrows as high as she can whenever she re-emerges from the bathroom, her normally pale face seeming whiter than usual. He starts to worry a little more actively when he realises that the dark circles under her eyes are deepening, and that in between the fits of exhaustion she’s barely sleeping. His first attempt does not go well, and in retrospect, there are intrinsic problems with it. Cat receives a text during her break. A phone number. He doesn’t respond when she asks what it is, ignores the three texts in a row of her just saying “tell me”. If she was inquisitive enough to call it, she would have reached the reception for their nearest clinic. However, since Cat makes no mentions of it that evening, not even exhibiting a hint of annoyance, Bass has no idea of knowing whether she bothered or not. Maybe she decided to leave it, ask him in person, and forgot. Maybe she’s just getting better at acting. Either way, the desired effect is not achieved. The second method takes a little more planning, and a bit of help, through secret phone calls and some workplace whispers. For two days, Cat is subjected to various tales of how great modern medicine is, from co-workers, her boss, and a number of customers in the diner. Most furtive status update reports to Bass confirm that Cat’s manner hasn’t changed a bit; she just waits, silent and tight lipped, until each story is done. No commentary. They all know she’s got a temper on her, and frankly everyone’s just surprised she hasn’t tried to take anyone’s head off yet. (She saves that for Bass when she gets home, having picked up a newspaper on the way home specifically just so that she could smack him upside the head with it when she returned, proceeding to give him the silent treatment for twenty four hours. She only breaks to shout at Bass to “stop mutilating that fucking omelette”, in her words, snatching the pan away and salvaging the mess he has – quite purposefully – created, before breaking into a commentary on how no normal people have omelettes for dinner. At least that plan of his worked.) Then it stops. For several days the constant state of throwing up ends, even if the tiredness does not, and Cat assumes to be in the clear. Everything’s fine now, let’s move on. Invariably – Bass has been counting – it doesn’t last. When it kicks off again one blustery Friday morning, Cat more or less walks right into Bass’ chest as she shakily leaves the bathroom, because he’s leaning right against the door frame and blocking her path. “Go see a doctor.” “No.” “Cat.” “It’ll go again in a few days and then it’ll be properly gone. Maybe it won’t even last that long.” “What the hell is the matter with you? If it’s really nothing then I’d rather at least hear someone who knows about this shit say it, because I’m getting a bit tired of listening to you do this all the time.” She tries to dodge past him, but it’s no use. He’s built like a wall, and she barely has the strength to glare at him let alone push him out of her way. He ignores the way that she rolls her eyes and the sharp, annoyed exhale that passes between her teeth. “Cat, please. Do this for me, before I have to call in to work and explain to them I need some time off this morning so I can drag my girlfriend to see a doctor. And yeah, that’s a promise, not a threat, even if they say no.” It takes half an hour of bickering and rather vicious toast making on Cat’s part for her to finally agree. In a way, she immediately feels better for it. She sees a slight tension that had been present in Bass’ shoulders lift, a slight relief present in his face that she sees when he looks at her and feels when he takes hold of her for a kiss before he leaves. Alone, she finally allows herself to act as tired and out of sorts as she has been feeling for the past two weeks, groaning and rubbing at her eyes dejectedly as she collapses back onto the bed for a few minutes. It goes beyond the sickness and the exhaustion, to a generally uncomfortable sense of change and discomfort in her body. She had been so determined to fight it off herself, but she knows full well by now that Bass is right, that this is a losing battle. With a great sense of defeat, she dresses herself, gathers her things and leaves, even though something inside her is trying its very best to keep her here. She starts work a little later today than usual, but she also finishes earlier; as a final act of defiance, she decides to go afterwards, when she can hopefully hit a mid-afternoon lull (Bass texts her, asking how the it went, and when she tells him that she’s going later, there is no reply; it takes everything she has not to just throw her phone at a wall). The day drags horrifically, even though it isn’t meant to be very long at all. Everything seems to move that bit slower, every minute feeling like two and effectively doubling what is usually her shortest shift. The diner sees little activity, but somehow all those who do walk through the door are incredibly short tempered, irritable and rude. On a normal day, they’d get just as much as they give right back to them, because Cat doesn’t take any shit from anyone, but not today. Today she takes it, she rolls her eyes and sighs and gives them passive sass that they comment on, threatening never to come to the establishment ever again. “Don’t. You’d be doing us all a favour.” Delivered in a low, unimpressed tone that lacks her usual bite or ferocity. Maybe it’s the sheer weight of the atmosphere that’s following her around, or maybe all these dickheads are just pussies, but besides turning read or muttering obscenities, they all stay until their meal is done, and they all pay as opposed to storming off. She’s a little surprised, even, and briefly annoyed with herself for possibly seeming like she needed some pity. Having mentioned that she is finally going to get herself some help, Cat is ushered from the diner with almost an hour to spare before her shifts end, and she protests in an uncharacteristically lacklustre manner. In the end, all she wants to do is get everything over and done with so that she can go home and crawl into bed for an hour or two before Bass gets back. She just wants to sleep, and she’s feeling a bit sick again. The clinic is noisy and packed, despite Cat’s attempts to fix the timing. She closes her eyes as soon as she steps through the door, wishing she could just block everything out and sit in a bubble. She presents herself at reception, and is told to wait. So she does. For two hours. When her name is finally called and she is asked to step into one of the examination rooms, Cat has reached a new level of not giving a shit. She drops herself into the chair by the doctor’s desk, hands folded in her lap, and lists her nausea and her exhaustion. She barely even notices the way the doctor – a small but lively looking lady in her early fifties, give or take, with beady eyes and streaks of grey in her bushy hair – raises a brow at her. “Have you been going to the bathroom more than usual?” “Yeah.” Cat blinks. It hadn’t even crossed her mind until just now. “And when’s your next period due?” “Uh, soon, I guess.” At this, the doctor stands and ushers Cat to her feet. She obliges, looking a little confused, and even more so when the doctor leads her towards the door. “Hey, hey, what are you doing? You haven’t even done any tests or whatever-” “How old are you, sweetie?” “Thirty three.” “Good Lord.” Cat scowls a little, but has no time to snap. “D’you have a boyfriend or a husband?” “Yeah.” “Long term and stable?” “Yeah.” “D’you have sex a lot?” The redness that sudden floods Cat’s cheeks is answer enough. “With protection?” The following silence is telling. Very telling. It’s the moment of pure clarity that Cat suddenly has, the pieces of the big picture have all been put together and laid out right before her eyes. The scowl leaves her, replaced instead by wide-eyed disbelief. The doctor gives her a gentle push out the door, feeling a little bit sorry for this clueless woman whilst also wondering how she didn’t clock on sooner, at her age. “Do us a favour and save us some time, honey, buy a test and come back on Monday, we’ll sort you right out with everything you need, but right now this place is murder and I’m probably about to kill someone with a hypodermic needle, and I’d rather it wasn’t you.” Despite a somewhat embarrassed stop at a drug store on the way, Cat still makes it home before Bass, which is only a very, very slight comfort. She flies to the bathroom as soon as she’s inside, she reads the instructions six times over and then finds herself still needing ten minutes of pacing and making small noises of alarm to herself before she actually has the courage to do it. The wait that follows is agonising. Oh, look, it’s one of those handy tests that tells you approximately how long, too. Delightful. As if Cat isn’t already gripped by an anxiety she has never experienced before, as if she really wants to know how long this has been quietly developing inside her without her knowledge, without even the slightest consideration. When Bass walks through the door, he is quiet. Cat doesn’t know if he’s tired or if he’s still annoyed – angry? – with her for delaying everything just that little bit more, but she hopes it’s the former, so that there is no time for an argument to develop before she tells him. She doesn’t even know how to begin. Seated on the bed with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest, she feels strangely fragile and breakable, and she can’t quite tell if she’s going to adapt to it or if she’s just going to hate it. All she’s ever wanted to be is strong, but right now, she just doesn’t know how. And still, the words stay stuck in her throat.