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There's no polite way to say it, so Vic thinks it the rude way: Val looks *fat* this morning.
He’s just shuffled into the kitchen in his red velvet robe, belt tied loosely around his waist and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He’s knotted the belt right underneath his round belly like it’s a big, fat present just waiting to be opened. The fact that he couldn’t close the robe all the way doesn’t help, either. She’s got a clear view of bare skin all the way from his thick pecs down to his navel.
He looks like a busted can of biscuits. Vic bites her lower lip to hold back a laugh.
Vic, for her part, has been awake for a few hours. She’d been holding out for Val to make breakfast — his hash browns are insane — but judging by his molasses-slow movements and the amount of crust in his eye, he won’t be fully awake until lunchtime. She rises to stand near Val, who is currently going through the motions of making espresso.
He looks cute with his brows pulled down in concentration. And, yeah, his belly. She can’t help herself anymore: she has to say *something*.
"Oh my god. Are you still bloated from dinner last night?" She swats him near the belly button with the backs of her fingers, sharply enough for him to suck in a shocked breath. That'll wake him up. "You’re an *incredible* pig."
"Yeah, well, whose fault is that," Val says, rubbing his stomach. "And, ow?"
"A huge *pig*," Vic says, palming the area she had just smacked in apology, then sticking her hands into his robe to cup and squeeze the sides of his warm gut.
"You need to expand your vocabulary.” Val’s standing there patiently with a hand on his hip and the other on the counter.
“The way your belly’s expanding?” she murmurs, looking at his stomach, then covers her mouth. Okay, maybe that went too far.
Val raises an amused eyebrow. “Exactly like that.” He moves the espresso pot off the burner, then rummages through the cabinet. “Have you seen my espresso cup?” Vic shakes her head. Val grumbles, pulling out a full-size coffee mug, the one that says “don’t talk to me until I’ve had my daughter.” He pours himself a couple ounces of espresso, then adds some water from the fridge’s filter. The americano — his favorite.
While he’s taking his first sip, Vic’s thinking about how nice it’d be to feed him pancakes until his stomach swells out far enough to bust his belt open.
“What’s that face for?” He asks.
“Oh, just thinking of cramming you full of breakfast.”
“You’re gonna ruin my figure!”
Vic smiles and, failing to suppress a sudden, overwhelming urge, lunges forward, biting a patch of skin right below his tits.
“Eek!” Val exclaims. He grabs Vic’s collar and pulls her off him, holding her at arm’s length. “Not that I’m opposed, but can you *please* wait until I’ve had some fucking espresso?” He takes a sip, thoughtful. “Speaking of breakfast… I was thinking pancakes.”
“Oh my god!” Vic shrieks with glee. “Me too!” She skips to the cabinet and pulls out the little half-apron Val bought her a few months ago to foster the illusion that she was a help in the kitchen. She’s picked up a few tricks since then: especially when it comes to pancakes. Val *loves* her pancakes. “Blueberry and chocolate chip?” She asks.
Val nods. He takes a seat at the table, opening the newspaper to the crossword section.