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“You don’t have to rub it in.”
He loaded a plate with buttered toast and a spoonful of gruel. Well, porridge or whatever. He set the plate down in front of her, and the porridge spread across the plate in the most unappetizing blob.
“Eat,” he said. “Your body needs the fuel.”
Lenore gnawed on the toast, trying not to be resentful. She was a terrible patient, absolutely the biggest baby when it came to feeling sick. There was that old truism that doctors make the worst patients, and it was true in her case.
Part of it was believing she knew better and she could just mind-over-matter her way through a virus. The other part was a Midwestern stubbornness that she got from her parents. She was made of stronger stuff than a common cold. A little case of the sniffles wasn’t going to slow her down. Her father prided himself in never taking a sick day. Not once.
Right up until he had a massive heart attack that forced him into earlier retirement.
Lenore knew she was heading down the same path. She worked too much, didn’t have the most heart-healthy diet, never exercised, and couldn’t even be bothered to get her cholesterol checked.
She added butter and a spoonful of sugar to the porridge, suddenly missing her father. He grumbled about oatmeal, too, but dutifully choked down a bowl every morning after his heart surgery.
Fine. Maybe taking a day to sleep and rest wouldn’t be the worst idea.
“I assume Harol already knows about—” She waved her spoon at Trouble, who was in the process of happily dragging a piece of toast across the table, smearing butter on the tablecloth.
“Indeed. He sends his congratulations. Although that may change if he knew about this one’s atrocious table manners,” Baris said. He took the beleaguered piece of toast, placed it on a plate, and set it down on the chair next to Trouble.
Trouble promptly pushed it off the plate onto the chair, irritated at the feel of porcelain against his beak.
“Oh.” Lenore dropped her spoon.
“Are you well? I will call Harol.” Baris stood abruptly from the table, knocking the chair back.
“No, it’s not that. I’m fine. I mean, I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, but he doesn’t like his beak hitting the plate,” she said, amazed at her own words. “It’s too clicky-clacky.” She wiggled her fingers like that helped explain how she felt Trouble in her mind, not entirely separate from herself but also not her.
Baris grinned as if proud. “You have a strong bond to share senses already.”
“It’s weird,” she said, then quickly added so as not to offend Trouble, “but a good weird. How are you and Little Miss over there doing?”
The other karu was far more regal as she ate. Baris fed her bite-sized pieces of toast, which she calmly accepted as if being hand-fed was her due.
“She is very level-headed. Patient. She will be good for me, I think,” Baris said. His eyes unfocused for a moment. “She waited for us to be ready. That one,” he pointed to Trouble, “was her spy.”
“A conspiracy.” Lenore wanted to chuckle, but she didn’t have the energy, and it’d only set her head pounding again. Right now, the pain had receded just enough that being alive was a tolerable experience.
“I find I do not mind.” Baris grinned, and the pure sunshine of his happiness chased away her doom and gloom.
This was nice. Breakfast. Nothing fancy, just coffee and a bowl of gruel—fine, porridge—and she wanted this every day for always with Baris.
Trouble moved to the back of her chair, burying his buttery beak in her hair. She reached over her shoulder to scratch his head.
And with Trouble and Little Miss.
“I hope you’re taking it easy today. Your body may be better suited for this, but you are recovering from a major illness,” she said. Yesterday, she had asked if there was a waiting period between symbiotes, and he danced around the subject, which basically meant yes, and he had no intention of waiting.
“I have a light schedule today, which I should start before Des starts messaging me.”
As if on cue, his tablet chimed with an incoming message.
Baris finished his drink, dabbed the napkin to his mouth, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and scooped up his karu. He cradled her in his arms like an infant, and the karu cooed with contentment as they left.
“Looks like it’s you and me today. Let’s catch up on our show.” Somehow, over the last two weeks when Trouble invited himself into her suite, they fell into the habit of watching episodes of that nightclub-owning demon crime drama show. It was addictive. The characters were terrible people who made terrible decisions, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the train wreck of all their bad choices crashing down on them.
Harol arrived halfway through, grumbling that he disliked making house calls, but here he was, so could she please tell the king to stop messaging him constantly? After a brief exam, he declared she was not dying and left her a packet of pills to reduce her fever and headache, this planet’s equivalent of ibuprofen.
