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Fitz lay curled on the couch, as was her custom when she wasn’t feeling well. She’d woken up in pain and thrown up twice. This was exactly why she was zoned out and staring at the door, imagining all the places Ace could’ve left to.
After maybe an hour, though Fitz didn’t have a watch nor proper view of a clock, Ace returned looking stiff in the spine and rather bloodied up.
She walked straight into the kitchen and dishes started banging. Ace was a distress cleaner. Fitz didn’t move a muscle, choosing instead to listen to the enraged rants that were being muttered by the sink. She smiled; Ace never broke a dish, despite how angry she was.
“It’s not healthy. She doesn’t know what’s good for herself. Her stupid little theatrics are going too fucking far!”
“Hey!” Fitz sat up amazingly quick, not giving herself time to consider her usual tact of just letting Ace’s rant fizzle out, “Grim….Grim’s plenty capable…she know’s what’s good…she’s fine.”
Ace strode into the dining room to get a look at Fitz. Obviously, she was on crack or light-headed. “Have you been drinking water?”
“I’m not thirsty,” Fitz returned to laying down, staring at the crook of her elbow in front of her.
“What’d you have for breakfast?” Ace’s hand found its way to the niche of her hip, a sassy pose that Fitz always favored for Ace, except when directed at her.
“I never eat breakfast, Ace,” Fitz stated calmly.
“You should,” came the matter-o-fact retort, “What’d you eat yesterday?”
“I had a cookie.”
Ace stared at the deserted plate on the dining room table, where a cookie lay, completely abandoned and untouched.
“What do you want? There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge; I can make toast; how bout chicken?”
Fitz rolled over so her back faced Ace, “Not hungry.”
This exact encounter had taken place a dozen times. Ace was, frankly, tired of both her roommates dramatizations.
She stormed into the kitchen, finished the dishes, swiped the counter clean, and then grabbed Fitz by the collar, giving a sturdy yank that pressed into Fitz’s collarbone rather than her jugular. Still, Fitz fell from the couch and proceeded to be drug into the kitchen.
Fitz yelled, positively infuriated that she’d been caught at her weakest. In fact, she screamed as Ace took the corner and her knee accidentially caught itself on the walls. That would be a great bruise.
Fitz’s arms went above her head and she was now sitting on the linoleum, shirtless and scowling, refusing to look at Ace who still held her shirt tightly. They were both still, Ace steaming, Fitz outraged and embarrassed.
Ace watched Fitz reach a finger out onto the cold linoleum and streak the freshly fallen tear. Great, she’d embarrassed Fitz. Before her maternal empathy kicked in, she told herself that Fitz had deserved it. After all, Fitz had deserved it.
Fitz opened her dry mouth with difficulty, simply to whisper, “I’m not hungry.”