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Saturday nights in Samira and Jack’s household had always meant date night: a tradition that started sometime after they started dating and stood strong even now, two years into their marriage. They did their best to shake things up but over time had settled for a handful of their classics, and this Saturday it had been one of their favourite little seafood joints just out of Central Northside.
Jack would always insist on spoiling Samira on seafood nights—lobster, the best they could afford, his treat—and it always went down well. His love language was gifting and acts of service, so getting to not only provide something expensive and delicious for the love of his life, but to break it from his shell and feed it to her too, was simply too good for him to pass up.
That’s why he ends up absolutely mortified on Sunday morning when his wife wakes up with groans of pain, clutching desperately at her stomach.
“Mira?” he tiredly mumbles, rolling around to slide his muscular arms around her and pull her back into his chest, one large hand finding her stomach to smooth comfortingly over it as he speaks. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“… I think it was the lobster,” Samira groans in response, letting her body twist just enough that she can look back at him over her shoulder; and he can get an eyeful of the uncomfortable face she’s pulling. “I don’t even remember the last time my stomach hurt this bad, babe. Oh my god.”
“The lobster?” Jack echoes, his brows knitting together in visible confusion. “There’s no way. That’s gotta be a mistake. It would be totally dropping the ball if you got food poisoning from lobster that cost seventy-eight dollars, no?!” He’s totally perplexed, his eyes glossing over slightly as he tries to relay the entire night in his mind over again, from start to finish. They’d shared the crab cakes, the desserts—the only thing Samira had eaten for herself had been the lobster tail, on Jack’s insistence that she deserved to enjoy every last morsel of it while he watched on.
“… God damn it, I feel like this is my fault somehow.”
Samira’s eyes widen. “Oh, no no no, honey, absolutely not,” she says, turning and reaching her arms out to slide over his shoulders, but she’s not ready in the slightest to try and hide it when another jolt of pain attacks her stomach. “Ugh— how could you possibly have known, huh? Let’s just, uh…” she trails off, shifting closer and letting her head fall forward to bury her face into the crook of his neck in an attempt to bury a groan, to no avail. “Let’s just… avoid that spot for a while.”
As his arms tighten around her, instinctively raising a hand to cup the her nape and cradle her against him the way he’d turned into his own personal ritual, he still can’t quite help but blame this mishap on himself. Maybe if they’d gone to that little Italian place, or maybe the Tamil, or the Mexican— literally anywhere else, his wife wouldn’t have food poisoning bad enough to be whining in agony in his arms right now.
“You want me to grab you a bowl?” Jack asks, voice soothing whilst his thick fingers idly brush through her curls, unknowingly following the pattern he’d come to recognise even with his eyes closed. One nod from Samira is all it takes for him to move into action, repositioning her so she can lay comfortably; she’s elevated just enough that if she feels her stomach start to turn, she won’t be on her back. “Wait here, sweetheart,” he tells her as he presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose, met with a weak (but still blindingly beautiful) smile from her before he shifts to the edge of his bed to slide his leg into his prosthetic and stand up.
“Don’t take too long,” she calls out, to which he turns around to flash her a fond smile of his own. “I miss you already.”
He feels just a little stiff as he makes his way downstairs and through their house, missing the morning massages that Samira would usually give to his residual leg. But there was no time for that, not when he has a wife to take care of as part of his doting husband duties. He’s greeted by the earthy scent of pine and cedarwood in the kitchen—one thing they’d united on when getting closer all those years ago was their appreciation for woodsy fragrances to welcome autumn, although it had taken some convincing from Jack for Samira to add any personal touches to her own apartment.
Jack reaches into a cupboard for a clear plastic bowl, one that had quickly been designated the role of ‘the puke bowl’ after a couple of nights drinking gone awry. While I’m up I should get her some Tums, he thinks, pacing slowly back up the stairs until he reaches the bathroom. Okay, Tums, check. Maybe she’ll want some Pepto too. And just in case, he grabs some Tylenol. That should be enough… more than enough, in fact. He dumps the packs into the bowl to carry them all at once with one arm.
Once he’s back in the bedroom he gives Samira a little once over: his wife seems to have all but drifted off in the five minutes or so it’d taken him to gather the supplies, her lashes fanning out against the highest point of her cheeks. God, even when she’s gaunt and unwell, she still looks so damn beautiful. How does she do it?
“Mira,” he mumbles, just loud enough in an attempt to rouse her, sitting at the side of the bed and turning his body to face her. Her eyelids flutter open, a hazy look across her pretty brown hues once they instantly find his face. “Hey. Were you sleeping?” he asks. She shakes her head, his free hand moving to tenderly cup her face, smiling when she nuzzles into it—some of her usual self is still there. “I got some stuff for you.”
“Stomach really hurts,” she complains, clutching her navel with another little sound of displeasure. Jack can’t resist the urge to lean closer again, this time brushing her now-sweaty curls back from her forehead to plant a kiss over her skin. There’s a risk that by getting close or maybe kissing her on the mouth could make him sick too, so he does try to be clever to some extent so she’ll have him healthy and ready to take care of her, but… when it comes to it, he just loves his wife far too much to not kiss or touch her altogether. Even if only for a day or two.
“It’s okay, honey. Here, I got you the bowl… and some Tums, Pepto,” he says, placing the bowl at the side of Samira’s hip so she has it close by and lining up the meds on the bedside table. “… And some Tylenol. Let me get you a glass of water to take that with.”
He’s about to stand up again, but Samira’s fingers wrap around his wrist just tight enough to stop him (although it takes both hands). Almost instantly he reacts, turning towards her worriedly to see what else she might need. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Jack, baby, I love you so much,” Her voice is even weaker when she answers, and it’s starting to worry him just a little bit. “Thank you so much for always taking care of me when I can’t… or refuse to do it myself.”
It’s definitely just food poisoning, right?
“This honestly might be the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, I think my stomach is tearing itself apart. I’m struggling to even stay conscious…”
He starts to really second guess now, wondering if he needs to rush her into the ED—but when she continues, she gets that look on her face: the look that can only mean a demand he can’t refuse is imminent. “But next time? Either we choose somewhere else, or you’re gonna be eating the lobster too so I won’t risk being sick alone.”
The concern on Jack’s face quickly morphs into amusement, and he bursts into laughter. “Oh my god, you scared me for a second. But you’re actually just being adorable.” he soothes her between chuckles, one large hand covering hers reassuringly. “I love you too, honey. Think I might be falling in love with you all over again after a stunt like that, actually. Don’t you worry, okay? From now on, I’ll be your devoted taste tester. I’ll make sure everything’s perfect, and if it’s not—or you get sick again? I’ll be right there by your side, suffering with you. Now let me get you that glass of water.”
It’s a bit of a disjointed love confession, and certainly unorthodox. But how could they settle for anything less? Their weird had always fit together so perfectly; it was part of what made their marriage thrive.