#uhhhh cat treats and nuts in her pockets

[aakiwa]

Need her so bad

[basenji18]

Smoothies

They may not take care of themselves, but they can take care of each other.

She’s awake and snuck out of bed before he’s woken. By the time he catches up with her, she’s completed a sweaty workout, read up on the day’s news in three different languages, and started work on her laptop, all the emails, invoices, and planning involved with running an international company, even without Cobra’s additional activities. She grunts hello when he brings her tea and a biscuit. Three hours later, they’re still there.

In the ninth hour, when she goes yet again to clean glasses which are not dirty, an excuse to give bloodshot eyes a break, he unplugs her computer.

The squawk she gives. Jumping up and spilling papers and clawing at the computer before she notices him with the plug in his hand. She scowls and opens her mouth, but before she can tell him off, he pulls her into a warm hug.

“There comes a time when food and rest are more productive than banging your head against a wall anymore.”

He strokes the top of her head.

“You passed that point two hours ago.”

She sighs against him, shuddering in his arms like she might cry from exhaustion.

“I was in the middle of - “

“It’s all backed up.”

She’s petulant, like a very tired toddler. It underscores his point. But the pressure of his hands massaging her neck and shoulders and the thumping of her own dehydration headache get the best of her. He knows he’s won when she slips her arms around his waist and leans into him.

“Take me to bed, handsome?”

He smiles behind the mask.

“I’ll take ye to supper first.”

She whines into his lapel.

“I don’t want food.”

They’ve done this before. Caught up in work, she gets sick from not eating, then doesn’t want to eat because she’s sick. James might have to take up Mindbender’s trick of keeping crackers in his pocket. He rubs her arms like he’s warming her.

“Here now. We’ll get you something easy. How about soup? That little pho place you like is still open.”

“Eat with me.”

He hesitates.

“Uhhhh...”

“I don’t mind being seen with you and your straw. Or we can bring it back here.”

She tilts her head up and kisses his metal chin.

“Or we won’t go out, and I’ll eat what you eat tonight.”

“I’d like to treat you better than that, love.”

She pulls back, bloodshot eyes finding enough energy to pierce through the exhaustion.

“What does that mean?”

The warmth of her against him and that piercing gaze always scramble his brain.

“It’s just that...well...I’d like you to have something a little nicer, is all.”

She narrows her eyes, still looking tired, but still doing a hundred calculations in her head that he can’t read. She pinches his clothes with two fingers, at his waist, his bicep, his chest. Never catching skin, and he doesn’t understand what she’s doing until she runs her hands down his sides and measures his waist with a hug.

“Neither of us is filling our clothes the way we used to, are we?”

That’s a bit unfair, he thinks. He’s not skinny yet. Not a sunken-chested little thing like Mindbender.

But...she’s right. He’s noticed it in her and ignored it in his bathroom mirror. They’ve both taken on a lean, hungry look that’s not good for health or public image.

Ana’s mouth is set in a firm line. She grabs him by the wrist and pulls him from the room, and James realizes that once again he has lost control of the situation to her.

She drags him down to the kitchen and through the heavy doors. The housekeeper, Ms. Hannigan, greets them with a smile, and a laugh when she sees the predicament James is in.

“What has he been feeding himself?” Anastasia demands.

With another laugh, Ms. Hannigan, fixture of his childhood and trusted stewardess of his home, throws him under a bus.

She pulls out a nondescript bag of nondescript power. The bag lists its contents and nutritional values, and the empty promise of “vanilla.”

Ana inspects the bag, interrogating every scrap of text. Her face says she’s not impressed.

“What do you mix with this?”

“The laird gets himself a glass of water, but we like to give him a nice mix with some milk and berries noo and then.”

Ms. Hannigan fixes him with a grin and Ana fixes him with a glare, and he’s sure both women can see him blush right through the metal. Ana looks to the smiling traitor.

“You have a good blender, I trust?”

“The best, ma’am.”

Both women grin the same grin of the cat who’s just seen the canary. James feels rather feathered. Ana gives the bag of nutrient mix another thoughtful look.

“It’s not a bad base...but it’s not food.”

“It’s nutritionally complete - “

“Darling, you cannot live on dust.”

Hmph. This from a woman who spent the last thirty-six hours running on air and spite.

His opinion doesn’t matter. The women are in cahoots. Ms. Hannigan produces a blender, a quiet, powerful affair with blades so wicked James wouldn’t be ashamed to have it come from his own workshop. In goes milk, powder. Then the produce comes out.

The fruit’s not bad. Berries and banana for sweetness and body, he quite expects to enjoy that.

They don’t stop at fruit.

Pumpkin, fine. Greens, okay. There’s enough in there he probably won’t taste them anyway. But when Anastasia pulls out a can of beets with a look of triumph, James excuses himself to go wait in the dining room.

He might have to drink it, but he doesn’t want to see it.

Ana comes out later, and his jaw drops, as far as the mask will let it. She’s run up and dressed for dinner, put on a nice blouse, freshened her makeup, brushed flyaway hairs back into place. He stands and pulls out her chair.

“You look lovely.”

She pecks his cheek. A moment later Ms. Hannigan arrives with two glasses. Ana’s is not quite filled to the brim; James’ is piled high in soft, frosty waves.

“Slainte mhath, laird,” she says. “And the lady.”

James toasts the housekeeper in turn, and Ana lifts her glass as well. She arches an eyebrow at James as the housekeeper leaves.

“A toast to good health,” he explains.

Ana takes a long draw off her straw, delicately licks her lips. It’s an inviting move. She waits for him.

Here goes.

The mask blocks most of his sense of smell, but after two months chugging nothing but the sad, “vanilla” shakes, his taste buds almost explode. There’s vanilla in it, and fruit, but the funny thing is, he can’t pin down any one flavor. It’s frosty and smooth, and somehow nutty, though he didn’t see them add nuts. Earthy, somehow, and the beets have lent it a rich pink color.

It tastes like health, but not suffering.

Ana smiles around her own straw at his enjoyment. He reaches for her hand.

“Let’s have dinner again tomorrow.”

“Why not breakfast?”