Work Text:
(Prompt 46 from this list )
Monét was supposed to be here half an hour ago.
Not that she didn’t have a habit of showing up places late, but she usually called or— no, no, she never called Monét texted.
Either way, Bob hadn’t received one word, sticker, or gif from his sister in an hour and she hadn’t been on Insta or Twitter and it was just so unlike her he couldn’t shake the growing feeling that something was wrong. Like, ‘I had a bad dream, please don't take that ship to America oh shit it was the Titanic aren’t you glad you listened to your wife’ level of wrong.
He shook his leg and looked out the window.
“She may have gotten held up in traffic,” said Luis. “ ‘Avoid 22nd. Fatal car crash’,” he read off his phone.
Something in Bob’s throat snagged. There weren’t fatal car crashes here, he’d insisted once. In New York, theres so many goddamn people no one can move fast enough to hit anyone.
His stomach roiled.
“You okay, man?”
Bob looked up at his assistant. “Why?”
“You look, like…” He motioned with his hand around his face.
“I look like what, Luis?” Bob demanded, trying to be playful, and hide just how not okay he was. “You’ve said I’m ugly a million times through our friendship—“
“Not ugly,” insisted Luis. “Like… I dunno, pale? You look like you’re worried. I’m sure Monét will show up sooner or later, why don't we order PostMates. See who gets here first.”
Bob wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to let on about the places his thoughts were going because Monét had told him her most common route to his place was via 22nd that it was the most reliable and had the best food on the way— Bob’s stomach hurt.
Luis asked his order, then just asked if he wanted his usual and Bob nodded because he definitely couldn't think right now. He pulled out his phone and pulled up the local traffic app, scouring for the entry Luis had read off all while it felt like his guts were constricting even tighter. He sent off a flurry of texts to his sister.
Hey just checking in you on your way?
Whats your ETA? Did you stop for food bc we’ve got pistmated ordered
*postmates
Bob gnawed on his cuticles and stared at the screen, willing three dots to show up in the corner, willing Monét to answer her fucking PHONE because she wasn’t even texting to make fun of his typo what the Fuck was going on where was she. Heat pricked at his eyes and he felt his temples and jaw start to ache from grinding his teeth, which he needed to stop.
He refreshed the app. And again. Every 30 seconds. Traffic. She was probably held up in. But if she was she’d reply she’d text back she’d whine on twitter about the jam. Unless she wasn't held up by the traffic unless she was part of the reason for the backup unless she was in her Lyft on the way to his place and now— and now— fatal. Which fatality? Just the driver? Was there a passenger? Why wasn’t there any FUCKING UPDATES??!!!!
The com buzzed, jarring Bob from his hyperfocus, still refreshing and refreshing and re-checking. Shit. It was the police. It definitely was and they were telling Bob who is Monét’s In Case of Emergency number that his friend and colleague and adopted family that her body was a fucking red smear down 22nd street.
Luis buzzed them in. Bob was thankful he’d been seated on the couch this whole time because he was suddenly feeling the exhaustion from all of the tension he’d been holding this entire time. His arms were wet noodles, his legs turned to jerky underneath him. The strength had gone from his stomach muscles and he couldn't sit up straight anymore. His head lolled to the side, to watch from meters away when the officers introduced themselves and asked for him.
Luis opened the door, and, at first, Bob didn’t understand what he was seeing. Then it hit him. Then the feeling in his stomach returned, in a different form. Rage.
Bob hauled himself to his feet and marched over to grab Monét by the shoulder and spin her to face him. “WHAT is the meaning of this?!”
Monét’s brows were high in alarm, her round eyes large. “Shit! I’m here to film!” She screetched.
“Man, what the hell?” demanded Luis.
Monét relaxed slightly, her eyes flickering to Bob’s assistant. “Seriously,” she breathed.
Bob backed off. Sat back down on the couch. “Why didn’t you respond to my texts?” His voice was still firm, but had lost its threatening edge.
“Um, I did,” Monét opened her phone to show Bob, only to find error symbols next to each text bubble. “Wait. Why didn’t—“ she brought her fist, phone in hand, to her forehead. “Fuck. I’m an idiot.” She showed him how her settings were fucked up after downloading a recent software update.
Then she shook her head. “But why’d you get so angry just now?”
Bob took a deep, steadying breath. He looked at the TV, which wasn’t on. “I thought you might be dead.”
Monét let out an insensitive laugh, only to receive a sobering glare from Bob. “Wait. What? Really?” Her voice heightened in pitch with every word.
Bob spread out his hands. “You left an hour ago. It takes twenty minutes to get from here to there, you take 22nd. You weren’t responding do I thought you were dead!”
Monét let out another laugh as she came over to join Bob on the couch. She wound her hand around his shoulders and leaned all the way into his space, smelling like vanilla and coconut butter. Her presence, her touch, seemed to break the spell for Bob, allowing all the stress to wash off of him, leaving a thankful giddiness in its wake. “When I tell you I sat refreshing this one damn page for a solid twenty minutes—“
“Aw, babe! You were worried about me!”
“Beyond worried,” insisted Bob.
“What is that? Like Beyond Bread?” asked Monét. Bob shoved her playfully. “God, I want bread. Luis! What time’s that food coming?”
Bob rested his head on Monét’s shoulder. “Hooo I am so glad you’re not dead.”
“Me too, Mister Sweaty Forehead,” Monét cooed. Bob blasted out a laugh, stomping his feet. “Me too.”