Work Text:
It wasn’t often that Secco really felt things; not in the way that normal people did, at least. Every so often, he got this nasty, feely feeling in the pit of his stomach that refused to go away no matter how hard he tried. Watching his favorite movies, dissecting his favorite stuffed animals, even taking long naps on his favorite of Cioccolata’s lab tables did nothing to make him feel better. The most frustrating part of the entire ordeal was that Secco had no way of describing or explaining the feeling to Cioccolata.
Stretching his arms over his head after waking up from an ineffective bad-feeling-go-away snooze, Secco hops off the lab table and shakes his head hard as if that would help fix it. If only he could find the words to tell Cioccolata, or even himself, how he was feeling right now, the best doctor ever could make him feel better without any doubt.
Tapping a finger against his mask, Secco comes up with a brilliant idea Cioccolata would definitely be proud of. He darts around the exam room, flinging open drawers and rummaging through them until he finds what he needs. It’s in the third drawer to the left of the sanitization sink, buried beneath documentation papers and instruction manuals, all things Cioccolata seldom used in his line of work.
In Secco’s hands lies sheet of laminated paper, displaying a scale from one to ten with a series of smiley faces above each number. Well, the first one is smiley, at least. As the numbers get higher, each colorful face changes, going from a happy grin to a tiny frown, to a really big frown all the way to a super frowning face with tears coming from its eyes. The very last face with the tears and big, BIG frown was exactly how Secco felt right now on the inside. He knows well that Cioccolata likes seeing that face on their patients, so there’s no way he’d be mad at Secco for feeling the same.
With the chart tucked under one arm, Secco slips out of the exam room and down a dark hallway, passing by a series of heavy doors until he reaches Cioccolata’s study. He barges in unceremoniously, feeling too super-frowny-face to worry about knocking. The doctor is sitting down at his desk, swirling a spoon around in a cup of tea while intently analyzing a video on his computer screen.
He glances up at Secco but before he can speak, said creature is climbing over his desk and shoving a sheet of laminated plastic in his face.
“What’s this, Secco?” He asks, head tilting to the side, “Did you find something new to play with?”
Secco shakes his head hard, kneeling on the desk and holding the sheet up in Cioccolata’s view. He points aggressively at the last face, then to himself, then back at the face, hopping the doctor will make the connection.
“You want to make someone cry, is that it?” Cioccolata asks, pushing a stack of papers aside and pausing his video.
Secco gives another shake of his head, pointing at himself and jerking the chart around and trying not to giggle at the wiggly sound it makes.
“You want to cry?” He finally asks and Secco nods so hard his teeth chatter, shifting to sit on the edge of his desk.
“Oh, Secco,” he croons, leaning forward in his chair to wrap his arms around Secco’s waist, “What reason do you have to be sad?”
Sad. He was sad. Secco was so, so sad, there was no way he could possibly go on.
Secco shrugs, looking down at Cioccolata with those big, empty eyes.
“Would you like me to help you feel better?” The doctor asks and Secco nods hard again, settling his hands in the thick coils of Ciocolatta’s hair.
“Come here then, Secco,” he instructs, leaning back and assisting Secco in sliding off the table and onto his lap. He allows his assistant to get comfortable, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other supporting his legs.
Cioccolata stretches a hand out to press the play button on his desktop, bumping up the volume a notch or two. Secco tries to focus on the screen, watching as the footage begins to roll. A young man is on the lab table, and Secco almost cracks a smile at the way Cioccolata flaps the two symmetrical halves of skin sliced from his chest cavity around like butterfly wings. He can hear himself giggling from behind the camera, but right now, he’s still feeling super-sad-face.
As the video continues, Secco can feel Cioccolata’s hand creeping up his shoulder and along the back of his neck, soon making itself at home in his hair. It’s not a weird, feely feeling like being sad is, and as the doctor ruffles and pets through his blonde locks, Secco has to grab for the chart again. This time, he points at the big frowny face with no tears, a number seven on the chart.
“Good boy, Secco!” Cioccolata praises gleefully, giving his hair an exceptionally aggressive fluffing.
Secco beams, nuzzling his face into the doctor’s shoulder for a few moments, until Cioccolata’s hand in his hair redirects his head back toward the computer.
“Look, it’s one of your favorite parts,” he informs with a grin, and Secco’s eyes are glued to the screen.
The man on the table begins to stir, lungs inflating and deflating rapidly in his labored attempts to breathe. Cioccolata pays him no mind, taking a scalpel to an artery, when suddenly, a spray of blood hits him directly in the face. In the video, Secco’s laughter is riotous, and he can’t help but giggle now.
During that operation, Cioccolata had been annoyed with him, yapped at him to grab a wash rag, but now, he’s not at all irritated. The pair laugh softly together in fond reminiscence at the memory, Cioccolata’s hand still firmly planted in Secco’s hair. Lifting the chart once again, Secco indicates the face listed above the number four, a somewhat neutral face wearing the tiniest of frowns.
“See, Secco? I knew you’d feel better in no time,” Cioccolata praises again and Secco tilts his head back into the other man’s palm.
The doctor outstretches his free hand to reach for the teacup, taking a sip as Secco watches curiously. If Cioccolata was drinking tea, then that must mean…
Secco begins to outright vibrate with excitement, thrashing so violently in his haste to pull down his mask that he nearly knocks the teacup free from Cioccolata’s grasp.
“What is it, dear? Would you like a drink too?” He asks, hushing Secco’s gleeful hysteria down to barely-contained fidgeting.
Secco shakes his head hard in response, mouth pursing into a pout. Cioccolata knew what he wanted, that much was obvious; Secco almost found it annoying that the doctor would make him work for it even when he wasn’t feeling well.
“Oh! I know exactly what my sweet Secco wants,” Cioccolata relents, his voice musical as he outstretches an arm once again to retrieve his assistant’s most desired treat from the small dish on his desk.
“Now, you’ll have to be patient if you really want it,” he instructs and Secco nods, pleading at him with his very best puppy-dog eyes.
A singular sugar cube is balanced precariously on the bridge of Secco’s nose, and he has to keep painfully still in order to avoid dropping it. Cioccolata grins at the way Secco goes cross-eyed, focusing on that little block of sweetness with all his might. After a few painfully long minutes, the doctor gives a signal of his hand to indicate that Secco can go ahead and have his treat.
Secco’s uncomfortably long tongue slips free, swiping the sugar cube off of his nose and into his mouth in one quick movement. He grins and laughs and flails his arms with joy as he munches on it, letting the crystals of sugar dissolve completely.
As soon as he’s finished, Cioccolata is pressing his hands against his face, squishing and squeezing at the residual baby fat of his cheeks. He presses kisses and enthusiastic praises against Secco’s forehead as he does, leaving his formerly gloomy assistant unable to stop smiling.