Work Text:
Finally, couch.
The beauty of Zoey’s condition is that she gets to play her wives like fiddles. What’s especially beautiful about it is that her wives get to be played, thereby excusing them of any other form of obligation. Talk show interview? Ah, well, Zoey’s feeling sick. Late call? No, see, Zoey needs a back rub. It goes on and on.
Teaching the next set of hunters that will succeed them has had all three of them running ragged recently, excited to pass down their knowledge and train the young girls as they had been all those years ago. And like each pillar of Huntrix, each of those girls has a talent that could help propel their fledgling group to the big names, which has only added to the workload they’ve each put upon themselves. One boasts a passion for fashion and sewing, which has Mira working with her to see how she can coordinate future dances with costumes she has had a hand in making.
Rumi has seen herself in another girl, who has a truly beautiful voice, but also hosts insecurities about a number of her features. She’s of mixed descent, her mother from somewhere overseas and her father a local. It’s led to some rough school experiences that, while Rumi can’t relate to – having hid her patterns too closely to even be teased about them – she can certainly understand trying a shun a part of yourself.
And even Zoey herself has taken in the last duckling under her wing, especially eager to help her hone her love for instruments. Like Zoey had filled hundreds of thousands of notebooks with heartfelt lyrics, this girl has scribbled down her own songs. Half-finished melodies, disjointed notes with no home, many a work in progress.
So they’ve been busy. Couch-less, for too long.
But not anymore.
“Hey, pass the chips over here,” Zoey huffs, gently elbowing Mira, who is snuggled at her side and simultaneously hogging a bag of specialty chips on the side table next to her. Mira grunts dramatically as she’s nudged in the side, and even louder as she shifts out of place a bit to stretch her arm out, grabbing a crinkly, half-full bag by the very tips of her fingers. She swings it over to her other side, snickering as Zoey chants, “Gimme, gimme!” with what just might be stars in her eyes.
“You really like those wasabi ginger chips, huh?” Mira gives the obnoxious green bag a dubious look, but decidedly keeps any further judgment out of her mouth. Her face will say enough, and if she so much as makes Zoey sniffle like she had the last time, Rumi will have a lot more to say than a sharp, “Apologize.” In her defense, Zoey has been plenty moody, and even things that make her merry are making her sob, much less a few sniffles caused by Mira’s foot deciding to plant itself firmly in her mouth for the umpteenth time.
“Uhhh, yeah!” The young woman exclaims, with a tone equal to that of a tutor having to explain fractions to a college freshman. She hugs the chips to her chest, curving over them, staring them down, protective like Mira or Rumi would dare to take another taste of its abysmal flavor. One time had been enough for that. “It’s the perfect combo of umami, salty, and sour! A triple punch! And with this sweet potato and kale dip, I can unlock sweet and bitter, at last completing the quintet!” She squeals as Rumi hands her the aforementioned dish without having to be prompted, shaking in their nest of blankets with a joyful cry.
“Uh-huh…” Mira can only watch as she stuffs her hand into the bag, pulling out a handful and dropping them all into the dish. The bag crinkles and crackles, adding to her loud, happy noises and effectively rendering the drama they’ve been watching inaudible. No matter; she had barely been paying attention anyway. Rumi, on the other hand, didn’t even have the decency to pretend she was, humming noncommittally when Zoey would shake her at good moments and demand their opinions on the female lead’s actions in great outrage. She’s just been cuddling up to Zoey’s stomach with this weirdly blissed-out expression on her face, absolutely drunk on, what? Life? Mira’s already surreptitiously snapped a good few pictures for future blackmail.
“Ughhh, it’s so good!” Zoey lets out around a full mouth, kicking her feet on the footrest they’d bought for her weeks ago. This far into her pregnancy, she’s stopped vomiting after taking a single bite of anything. And what a miserable time that had been, as she’d only been able to take in the blandest and lightest of foods for weeks on a fifty-fifty chance she wouldn’t throw it back up in the hour. Days – not mornings, whole days – spent not sleeping in the marital bed, the bathroom her clandestine meeting spot, the toilet her new, forbidden lover. She’d actually lost weight, and for a person who loves food as much as she does, it had been one of the most depressing times of her life. But ever since crossing into her second trimester, the sickness had faded, and her appetite had returned, with twice the intensity. Being part of an accomplished pop band is just about the only thing that’s keeping her from eating a bottomless pit in their collective wallets.
“Glad you’re enjoying it,” Rumi practically purrs, her voice dragging from her throat in an oddly sensual manner, muffled against the hoodie she’s pressed her face up against. Zoey doesn’t mind it at all; however, Mira can’t help but level her with an unimpressed look. “Pup drunk,” is what that quack that Zoey just adores had said on their last visit for pregnancy tonics. An unofficial term for an unofficial diagnosis. But he’s been right before – a broken clock has to be right twice a day – and with this, Mira can’t see a reason to discount it.
Bedtimes spent practically curled around the bump like second skin, goodbyes made longer after a kiss for Zoey and twenty for the bump, taking any and every opportunity to see it unclothed – getting Rumi to rest at night after ogling Zoey getting dressed for bed has been a battle neither of them had expected to have to undertake. She’s worse than–than–hell, than Mira! And Mira has albums dedicated to–well.
“You doing alright there, sunshine?” she drawls, eyebrow raised. Rumi nods, brushing the disorderly baby hairs on her hairline against Zoey. Well. She’s where she wants to be.
“Guys! Shh, shh! He’s confessing!” Zoey says, muffled around another mouthful of her snacks. Mira turns back to the TV; time for another few minutes of vaguely paying attention. Just until Zoey demands the next snack in her frightening rotation of abominable flavors. She contemplates the chances of her being able to escape, if only to get actual dinner in their stomachs, but whatever. She’s warm here, and content with her girls right next to her. They can spare a few more hours of just being here, in the moment.
The only thing to worry about now is the heartburn that chip and dip combo is sure to cause tonight.