Jayden went home, bared his teeth at himself in the mirror. He looked like he'd taken a punch – there was a yellowing bruise across the bridge of his nose that spilled out onto one cheek of his pale face, and the pale blue eye above it was bloodshot. Otherwise, most of the damage was concealed by his clothing. His mail had piled up pretty horrifically, but his apartment was otherwise okay. He spent an entire evening scratching his head before deciding that he was probably supposed to go back to work. He went in on a Saturday, just to make sure he had everything together.

His bowels were still uncertain, his bruises painful, but everything else felt as though it were in good working order. He spent a whole weekend by himself in the office, sipping Immodium, slogging through a backlog of paperwork, before Jim showed up on Monday.

"Hey, welcome back," Jim said. "How was partying in Rio?"

The friendly abuse was again comfortable. "I was sick, Jim."

"Sure. 'Sick.' Sick like a fox."

"Don't be surprised when I 'accidentally' shoot you in the back next time we're out together, asshole."

"Like to see you try it."

Jayden was surprised at how much better he felt. He missed everything he'd just given up – the ARI more than the triptocaine – but it felt so good to be in control of himself, control of his body. He supposed that Ferox would contact him whenever he had to . . . fulfill the rest of his obligations. He even got sent to a job back in Boston that let him look up old friends; it was a genuine pleasure.

Then he woke up one Sunday and had to run to the bathroom, retching uncontrollably. He was slightly angry that, now that he was treating his body so much better, it was refusing to reward him, but he felt better by the evening, dismissed the problem.

It hit him again at work the next day. He grabbed the wastebasket, and heaved into it. Jim whistled appreciatively.

"Somebody tie one on this weekend?"

. Jayden wanted to give him the evil eye, but was afraid he might barf on the carpet if he moved his gaze from the trash can.

"No," he managed. "I –" He puked again, got it all in the can. There wasn't much left in there, but his stomach still felt like it was in a vomiting mood. "Fuck. I wish I'd done something bad enough to deserve this."

Jim chuckled. "Liar."

"No, really," Jayden started, and then was so wrenched with nausea that all he could do was hold on to the can, convulsing, though there was nothing left inside to vomit.

"Jesus," he said, finally. "I don't know why I feel so bad. Doesn't feel like the flu. Stomach bug, I guess."

"Gonna go home?"

"Nah. Had the same thing yesterday, it passed. Think I'll be okay in a little." It did go away, returned again late the next day. He managed to keep everything in his stomach by concentrating, hard, but he was pretty miserable.

The nausea wouldn't go away. It wasn't constant, but it was frequent enough to be an unpleasant inconvenience. A week in, as he rinsed the kitchen sink he'd just hurled into, he mentally kicked himself. Of course. The triptocaine. He was getting some sort of delayed withdrawal from the triptocaine. It would pass eventually, when his body stopped punishing him for denying it what it wanted.

Knowing what it was didn't make it go away, but it helped him manage it when he knew he could expect the heaves to creep up on him at odd times during the day. He was dropping a little weight due to his uncertain stomach, frequently tired, and he guiltily cut down on his morning run to give himself a break.

He started getting phone calls from a number with a Philadelphia prefix. He didn't answer them, afraid it was someone he didn't want to talk to. Then he automatically picked up the phone one afternoon without checking, and it was her. Madison Paige. The reporter he'd met in the whirlwind of the Origami Killer case. She was the one who'd written the stories drawing the spotlight to him, though he'd tried to defer his hero status back onto her – he, after all, had only been doing his job, but when she'd done her part to stop the killings, she'd been acting on her own initiative. It had become something of a battle of overly polite refusals to accept praise before he'd left the city in some relief, fearful as always about the dark secrets which serious scrutiny might reveal about his habits and methods.

"Hi! Norman Jayden?" She sounded unbelievably cheerful.

". . . yeah?"

"I've been trying to reach you for ever. Do you have the time to talk?"

He scowled at the desk in front of him. "Not . . . really."

"Just for a minute. Couple of questions. I'm trying to write this book, see. About everything that happened."

". . . okay," he said guardedly.

"Was there a point at which –" she started. He dropped the phone before she was done, had to puke again. Jim was, thankfully, out of the office at the moment. Jayden eventually finished, eyed the phone warily. When he picked it back up, she, amazingly, was still on the line.

"Hello?" she said. "Hello?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Sorry about that."

"Did I just listen to you throwing up?"

"Yeah. I'm going to have to let you go for a little bit." At least it gave him a good excuse. "I'm not feeling so great."

"Um, okay. When would be a better –" But he'd already hung up. Hopefully that would take care of that.

It didn't. She called back, again and again, on his office phone, his cell phone, and he kept accidentally answering without screening the call. Slowly, she began to wear him down with her persistence, and he started cautiously telling her the things she wanted to know about his pursuit of the Origami Killer. She kept somehow catching him when he was feeling his absolute lowest. He couldn't tell if her questions were reasonable or obnoxious – nearly every conversation they had was hard to follow for him, because he was inevitably feeling ill when she rang him. It went on and off for weeks – the conversations, the nausea, the fatigue. He slipped a little because he was having trouble concentrating, began accidentally sharing small details of his personal life with her, always kicked himself for it later.

Not that she was ungenerous: she told him the damnedest random things. He knew the name of the cat she'd had in college, now, and she kept sharing. It was . . . it was nice, he had to admit, that easy familiarity of hers. He was just completely unprepared for someone being willing to bear their soul over the damn phone. But he kept listening.

"You know, Norman," her voice rang at him, cautiously, one night. "I feel like we've gotten to know each other a little."

"Uh-huh." He was exhausted, had his feet up on his sofa at home, wasn't entirely sure what they'd just been talking about.

"You've been sick for like a long time. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, no, but it'll be all right. I'm going to hang up, now."

"Okay. Take care of yourself."

Finally, he spent a whole day without puking, then another, and, privately, he began to celebrate. It felt like maybe the triptocaine withdrawal was finally over with. He regarded the damage critically. It had been a rough few weeks.

Losing as much weight as he had during the weeks of nausea meant that he'd started to cross the line between thin and skinny. He was so relieved to again be able to eat what he wanted, whenever he wanted it, that he wolfed down meals with little restraint. He even started snacking, plundering the vending machine once or twice a day for chips or candy. The numbers began to creep their way back up the scale, and he pushed himself back up to his full morning run.

He almost purred at Madison when she called again one evening. "Ms. Paige. I hope it was a beautiful day there in Philadelphia, though I doubt it. Your city is terrible."

There was a long pause on her end. "Are you drunk? Should you be drinking, with your stomach problems?"

"I am not drunk," he said, primly. "I am well."

She laughed at him over the line. "God, then you must be a blast when you're drunk. Tell me something good about your day."

"You called me," he said, coquettishly, and he could almost hear her grin.

"If you're going to be like this," she said, "I may just call you back tomorrow."

Things were getting back to normal. Again. Better than normal.

And then the numbers on the scale kept going up.

Seven pounds up from where he'd been before the nausea started, he frowned, irritated, at the scale. As much as he wanted to pretend that it was the mechanism's fault, he could see the evidence that it wasn't – he was thickening around the middle, his pants growing slightly snug. He started eating more sensibly, began absentmindedly fidgeting with his chafing waistbands.

Jim noticed. "Finally pass adolescence there, Norman? It's a bitch, innit?"

"Get fucked," Jayden replied cordially, and wondered privately if Jim was right: Maybe that bastard is right. Jim really was frequently a helpful douchebag.

Jayden had always had to worry about bulking up, not slimming down – maybe his high-running metabolism was finally throwing in the towel. He'd have to figure out how to manage it, and he had so many other important things to deal with – he had to write up an entire damn paper on those killings in Fresno – it hardly seemed worth it. To simplify the process, he cut his dinners in half, every other night throwing the other half in a Tupperware container that he'd eat the next day.

His pants and undershirts began to fit less and less, though his shirts were still working relatively well. He regarded himself in the mirror one morning – his belt showed a series of increasingly-light wear marks that tracked the progress of his bulging waist. He was beginning to look as though he didn't know how to buy clothing that fit, and that bothered him immensely.

He'd spent his entire adolescence dwarfed in too-big clothing that he never grew into the way he was supposed to – he'd continually sprouted up and up, but not out. It had been a miserable few years, always looking like he was trying to fill out someone else's hand-me-downs. So now that he was in charge of his own wardrobe, all of Jayden's clothes had for years fitted him like a glove. It was important to him, not looking scrawny. He hadn't anticipated the problem posed now: because everything fit him so exactly, he had no room for growth. He was getting fat, and he had nowhere in his clothes to put his fat. He spent about ten seconds wondering if going back on the triptocaine would make him not fat, then scolded himself for the thought.

He cut his lunches in half.

Kept growing.

Jayden tried calling Ferox as soon as he got home. The phone rang forever; nothing happened. He stared miserably at the walls of his apartment, which suddenly seemed as though they were pressing at him tightly. He had absolutely nowhere to go, without the job. Had no friends outside of work, no hobbies, not even a gym. Madison hadn't called for a while. And he was too exhausted to go for his runs. His sense of isolation was immense. Without work, he wasn't even Special Agent Jayden; he was just Norman. He didn't have to try to deny himself food for those first few days – he was so depressed that he didn't feel hungry. And his belly wasn't going away, no matter how badly he tried to punish it.  It was still bloating outwards violently.  It was so big that it was beginning to affect his posture.

He began to give in to that sense of isolation, let himself be shut up more and more, no longer went out for the newspaper. Wondered how he could get back to work.

And then, everything got very strange, and he knew he'd lost his mind.

On the night he first felt the thing in his belly shift hard, it startled him clear out of a deep sleep. He was already shaking in terror when it moved again. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his chest seized up with fear; he hyperventilated until he nearly passed out, then made himself relax, with difficulty.

He was fumbling to dial Ferox within minutes; it was the middle of the night, but time of day usually didn't matter to that shadowy figure. Still no answer. He had no one else to call, no one he could explain it to. He didn't even know what he needed to explain, just that there was something in there, and he didn't know what it was, and he was badly frightened. Being hungry all the time already made it hard to think; being hungry and frightened made it impossible. He kept trying to pretend it hadn't happened, but every time he thought he'd nearly succeeded in doing so, there'd be another small nudge against his interior. He had a passenger, a gently insistent one.

He began quietly panicking all the time he was awake, knowing that nothing he was doing made sense, unable to do anything else. He ate less and less, tried not to put anything in his mouth that would give more strength to whatever was living inside him. Nothing that was happening made sense, anyway. Doc Gleiss called. Norman told him he was still sick, fabricated the name of a doctor to give him, promised paperwork. Listening to his own falsified explanation was like listening to someone else talk, he was so removed from the whole thing. He began leaving the apartment only to get his spare rations. Spare, now, not only because he was still desperately trying to shed every centimeter he could, but because he couldn't carry much, or carry it very far. And nothing fit. Nothing. Even his sweat pants, with their elastic waists, began looking like they didn't belong to him.

It kept coming back, that wriggling against his insides, and he wondered if he could kill it. Maybe he could starve it out. He was almost starving himself out; it might not take much. On what turned out to be his last trip to the convenience store, he bought a bottle of vodka. As per usual these days, the trip consumed all of his energy for the day; this time, he actually started to black out by the time he reached his apartment door. He dropped everything he was carrying, and had to hang on to the doorknob for dear life, barely bracing himself against the door frame. He cursed himself for having locked it on the way out.

"Hey, are you okay?" He couldn't focus his swimming vision. Neighbor? Must be a neighbor. Not as though he knew any of them.

"Mmmph," Norman replied. It wasn't what he had meant to say, but it was what came out.

"You need help? You look like you need to sit down."

"Flu," Norman managed. "Bad flu." Someone took his arm, had another arm out to catch him, was helping him slide down the door to sit on the floor. He didn't want to be there, but there wasn't much he could do but cooperate.

"This your apartment?"

"Yeah." Norman was still trying to focus. "I'm okay. Almost home." He'd been repeating the last two words to himself for about five minutes, so they were easy to get out. He felt nauseated, but knew there was nothing inside to vomit.

"Do you want me to call a doctor or something?"

"No. Saw one already." Sitting down had added some stability to his perceptions, made his tongue and mind both less thick. He lied fluidly. "Be okay. Bad dizzy spell. Gonna lie down inside."

"Okay. Can I . . . grab your groceries or something?" Looked like a college kid.

That was an acceptable level of assistance. "Yeah. Yes, please. Here." Norman dug his keys out of his jacket pocket, handed them over. "Couldn't manage it." He dragged himself sideways on his ass so he wouldn't fall into the apartment when the door was opened, kept himself propped up on both arms. He managed to blink his way more or less into full consciousness as the kid uncomfortably opened the door, rescued Norman's plastic bag from the floor, and dropped it on the kitchen table just inside.

College boy returned. "Do you need a hand getting up?"

Norman nodded, put a hand up, let his wrist be grabbed. "Thanks a lot," he said, trying to sound as though he was now a little more together than he actually was. "I'll be okay now. I've been throwing up all day, and I just need to lie down again." He was shaky, but got his legs to work as the guy hauled up.

"Sure. Hope you feel better!" College kid fled, and Norman gratefully closed the door, then slid down the other side of it to rest on the floor again. His passenger squirmed, and he told it to go fuck itself. With no one around to be ashamed in front of, he began crawling towards the sofa in the living room just beyond the kitchen that his front door opened into, then paused, yanked the grocery bag off the table and onto the floor to drag it along with him, so he wouldn't have to come back for it. He hadn't been entirely lying to college kid – as soon as he crawled face first on to the sofa, he crashed hard into sleep, not even taking off his jacket or shoes. He woke later, sweating because he was overheated, and struggled out of both before he checked his watch. He'd lost a lot of time again, but now that he'd had a chance to sleep, he didn't actually feel that bad, or that hungry. At least, he'd certainly felt worse.

He dug through the plastic bag next to the sofa, heartily thanking past Norman for his foresight, paused over the contents. The convenience store didn't have a lot of variety, and everything in the bag looked disgusting to him right now. But if he just started drinking the vodka without eating, it would be a quick trip. He decided he wanted to drag out the pleasure of being wasted a little, tore open a box of Saltine crackers, and crunched few a through, increasingly dry-mouthed. The vodka, he realized, could be a good way to wash them down.

"Party like a rock star," he said aloud, and cracked the plastic top.

Saltines notwithstanding, he was still so quickly obliterated that the next thing he was aware of was pain and a stench in his nostrils. His memory was wiped clean. The pain was in his head and along his left side, where his joints had been grinding into the linoleum of the bathroom floor. The stink was from the vomit his face was lying in. Slowly, he crawled out of his clothes and into the tub, laid there a while. Eventually, he got the shower to turn on, stayed in there lying down, drank some of the water from his cupped hand, managed to get the shower back off once it turned cold. He crawled back out, avoiding the vomit, stood shakily, and identified the aspirin. He took some, which he promptly expelled again, accompanied by all the water he'd managed to get inside himself.

"Fuck you, past Norman," he said. He wanted to throw up for the rest of his life, but also wanted the pounding, pounding headache to leave, decided he'd have to get something else in his stomach first to keep the pills down. He grabbed them to take with on his slow odyssey across the apartment.

He didn't know what time he'd woken up, but by the time he'd gotten a pair of sweatpants to stay up under his round belly and stumbled back to where he was pretty sure he'd left yesterday's groceries, it was early afternoon. He groaned as he poked at the grocery sack. Apparently, he'd made a pig of himself last night. He'd gone through most of the Saltines, a can of tuna, and it looked like he'd started on a can of cold chicken noodle soup – most of it was still sitting, in the open can, on the coffee table. The vodka bottle was still mostly full. He wasn't sure exactly which combination had been the direct cause for the vomit he still had to go clean up, but pretty much any one of them made sense.

"Cheap fucking date," he said, and slumped back to the sofa. Well, waste not, want not. He opened the vodka bottle, took a short swig, waited to see if it would stay in there. It did, and as he stayed motionless, a little warmth began to spread out from his still-queasy stomach. It gurgled a little and he wanted to rub at the discomfort, but the feeling of its bulge under his hand was too repulsive to him. Instead, he grabbed the can of soup and drank directly from it. His mouth ached as he did so, and he realized that he must have done the same thing last night, cut his lip a little on the sharp edges of the can, was irritating those cuts again now. He belched, waited again to see if his stomach would let him proceed. The vodka had apparently chilled it out a little, and he threw the aspirin down after the soup. He followed it with some more vodka for good measure, and decided that he'd pushed things far enough, sat back to wait.

The pain in his head lifted a little, though he wasn't sure if it was because of the alcohol's quick fix, or the aspirin's slower one. Either way, he was able to think a little better. He decided he wanted some more water. He dismissively stashed the vodka in the freezer, irritated that it had compounded his misery, rather than relieving it.

After that adventure, he found a grocery store that would deliver, instead. He paid online, slipped a cash tip through the door at an adolescent delivery boy, telling him to leave the bag outside. Norman would expose his increasingly distended middle to the hallway and pick it up only when he was sure there was no one left out there. Weeks passed. He began wearing his bathrobe over everything; it was the only piece of clothing he had that reliably covered his growing belly. Even though there was no one else to see it, the sight of it pressed hard against his undershirts, sometimes showing slivers of bare skin above his waistband, distressed him. The robe also helped to address the fact that he was increasingly cold all the time.

He began giving up on so many little things that his apartment was becoming unbearable: at first it was laundry, as he became unwilling to risk running into other people in the basement. Later, he didn't think he was capable of the trip down there and back, even without the heavy basket. The weight dropped off everywhere but his swelling gut, his muscles withering; his bedroom became a twisted nest of stretched-out, dirty clothing. He surrendered the kitchen to grime, then the bathroom, then the living room, where he spent much of his time exhausted on the sofa, blinking at the television or sometimes just at the fabric. He ate only when his stomach became so painful that he felt he had to. He wished Gleiss had told him to leave his gun behind, could feel the awful temptation of it lurking back in his bedroom. If it had been a revolver, he probably would have tried Russian roulette. He wondered how long it would take someone to find him if he did kill himself.

When he was very hungry, just before he gave in to it and choked down stale crackers or cold soup out of the can, his whole body would start screaming at him to eat. His hands shook, his muscles twitched, pain ran through his bones. It was hard to get from room to room while this was happening, and the walls began collecting long, greasy smears along them from where he had to lean to navigate his apartment. Sometimes, he crawled. The fitful movement in his middle would leave, return to hammer angrily at his insides, leave again. He wasn't sure if it was growing weaker; he thought so, but that might have been wishful thinking. When it did move, it was increasingly painful, as though his fading strength was angering it and it sought revenge. He curled up around his inexorably growing bulge in pain, trying to squeeze it into submission.

The phone rang. Maybe just once, maybe more. It was hard to tell. He didn't answer it, anyway, so the number of times didn't seem important.

Then one day he woke to an excessive amount of noise. It bewildered him as he worked out its source. The pounding on his front door was relentless, and he was too confused to figure out why it was there. It was entirely possible that he'd placed a grocery order at some point and was receiving it today. If so, he should go answer the door. He'd need that food to keep the pain at bay, probably soon.

He accidentally slammed into the front door as he lost his balance; that happened sometimes, now. He peered through the peephole to confirm it was the reliable adolescent grocery delivery boy and there was –

Madison.

Madison Paige. Was standing outside his door.

"Norman? Norman, it's me."

The shock to his brain and body was incredible. He was fainting. Falling. He grabbed absolutely everything in arm's reach that he thought wouldn't fall down with him. The wall. The table in the entryway. The door itself. He thought he felt his head hit something, but he stayed more or less up. If he'd had any food in him, he probably would have vomited. The world had just become even more terribly confusing.

There was a voice yelling at him from beyond the door, and he hated it for making him stay awake.

"Norman, I can hear you in there. If you don't talk to me, I'm going to call the cops. I'll make them do a wellness check on you. They'll break your door down."

He slowly ground his bones back into motion as the spinning in his brain lifted enough to let him move again. Angry now, he opened the door about an inch, squinted through it with the chain on, letting the door hide his body. "Fine," he said, glaring. "Here I am. You've talked to me. Go away. Go back to the phone."

She had her arms folded, her head cocked. "Norman, let me in. I'm worried about you. Come on, I came all the way from Philadelphia. You can let me in for five minutes."

"No."

"I will seriously call the cops and tell them I'm worried about your mental state. I don't know if I can get you involuntarily committed, but I know I can try, and you're not gonna like it. Let me in."

Just then, there was a sharp pain in his middle – the thing in there had thumped against his insides, hard. He grunted, his eyes closing, and grabbed at his belly.

"Norman, what is it? What's wrong? Take the chain off, dammit."

He swayed dizzily and leaned against the door; it shut in her face.

"God dammit, Norman!"

-- Edited by Please Stand By on Thursday 2nd of June 2011 12:28:56 PM

-- Edited by Please Stand By on Saturday 25th of June 2011 07:57:07 PM

She crawled out of bed at the first crack of dawn. He was still deeply asleep under the covers. She took a trip to the bathroom, put herself and a little more of the apartment in order, then rubbed him cautiously awake.

He again looked at her face incredulously, as though she were a phantom.

"I'll bring you breakfast," she said, briskly, trying to ignore his reaction. "You want it hot or cold?"

Norman shrank back from her for a few seconds, blinking, disoriented, then became irritated. "I can get up," he snapped. "I just need a minute." He pulled his filthy undershirt down so that it covered him all the way, wondered if there was a way to get her out of his apartment, now. She'd have to leave sometime, he supposed, and he could try locking her out again. Now that he could think a little better, he might be able to figure out a way to defuse her threats. Madison drew back to the doorway to watch him get up. His right leg was cramping, and he struggled with it as he got both feet on the floor. She bit her lip as he did so – one leg of his sweatpants was caught on the bedsheets, causing it to ride up to his knee, and the sight of the too-slim scrap of calf muscle that was left distressed her. Out from under the blankets, he shivered.

"Do you want your robe?" she asked gently. "I hung it up in the bathroom."

He knew he was going to need to pull on the headboard with both arms to get to his feet, didn't want her to see him do it. "Yeah, okay," he said, and began hauling himself hastily upwards as soon as she turned her back. Too hastily, as it turned out; even with arms and legs working together to keep him up, he sagged helplessly against the wall for support, as he was now used to doing on his bad days. His anxious stomach growled, as though he needed to be reminded what the problem was.

He was cautiously pushing himself free of the wall – though still holding on to the headboard – when Madison's footsteps were running towards him, and her warm arms had grabbed him again low around his bulging waist.

"Okay, Norman. Just lean on me. Save your strength, okay?"

He was too relieved to be properly pissed off, too pissed off to be properly grateful, clung reciprocally to her. "I just need a minute."

"I believe you. You don't have to prove anything to me. Come on, let's just get in the kitchen and you can wake up a little more. I dropped your robe, I'll have to go back for it."

His brain was working better, he was sure of that. Yesterday, he wouldn't have caught her polite lie: that he was having trouble walking by himself because he was half-asleep at the moment, not because he was too weak to do very much, and had been for some time. Today, he was just alert enough to notice she was humoring him, though he couldn't quite work out if he was annoyed by it. He really was cold, wished he already had the robe on, and he was shivering violently by the time Madison got him into a kitchen chair.

She fussed him into his bathrobe – he was too eager to put it on to shove away her help – and she winced at the sharpness of his joints. She hugged him and rubbed his back again to try to help him warm up.

"I bet you're freezing," she said. "You haven't got an ounce of fat on you to keep you warm. How do you like your eggs?"

God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had fried eggs. "Over easy." He cast his eyes around the room as he tried to find a position in the hard chair at which his ribs wouldn't protest too much. "Did you . . . did you take the chain off the door?" There was a pale rectangle where the entire mechanism had been unscrewed.

"Yep."

"Why did you do that?" He knew why already, wondered if she'd admit it.

"Thought it might be dangerous," she said, lightly, "If you were having health problems and I couldn't get in. I found your keys, by the way."

He returned to darkly musing, recovered from journey from the bedroom while she cooked, letting the shivering warm him. The smell of breakfast perked him up. His body reminded him that it was starving. It demanded that he do something about it, and he actually had to start swallowing to get the anticipatory saliva out of his mouth.

She was much more moderate with the portion size she gave him than she had been the previous night, but still thought she'd probably overestimated what he could squeeze in. Unbelievably, he made it through most of what she served up – English muffins and bacon to go with the eggs. He couldn't get himself to stop eating, though his stomach quickly began sending up distress signals indicating that its extremely limited capacity had been bypassed. It told him he was nauseated, but the rest of his body was telling him to ignore it. He started having to lean back in his chair. Finally, he swallowed a bite that was rejected, popping smartly back up into his mouth, and his stomach heaved threateningly. He spat the chewed wad out into his hand, groaned as he wiped it on the plate. His breathing was shallow again.

Madison had been watching with her own breakfast only half-finished, unsure if she should be horrified or encouraged. "Jesus, Norman. Overdo it a little?"

He grunted, packed to the eyes. Everything between his sternum and his pelvis was groaning, and his treacherous body had changed its mind: it hadn't wanted him to stop, but now it was telling him he was going to split open. He could barely bring himself to hold his distressed belly in his hands, afraid the added light pressure of his fingers might be the last straw that made it all come out again.

Madison dragged his chair back from the table; even that motion made him belch uncomfortably. "Okay," she said. "You're going to be miserable for a little bit. Let's get you lying down, yeah?"

Norman could only moan, bulging roundly outwards. She waited a few minutes, then squeezed his arm. "Come on. Maybe if you lie down, you won't pop." It was hard work to get him up – he was still impossibly wobbly on his feet, and Madison didn't dare grab him around his ominously rumbling waist. The trip to the sofa was difficult enough that she decided that, if he was going to stuff himself to the point of misery, he could just stay on the sofa all day, no matter how insulting he thought it was. He puffed, flinching, as she settled him there.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned, "It's moving. Oh, not now." He wrapped his hands around his stretching belly like he was trying to keep himself from exploding.

"You'll feel better in a little bit." He hiccoughed dismally, and she wondered if she should have forcefully cut him off before he'd become this painfully full. Whatever else was wrong with him, he clearly wasn't fully in control of himself. "Sorry, Norman. God, you just need the calories so badly. Try to go back to sleep."

He and his stomach both grumbled their way towards comfort. Sleep was a relief.

When he woke, hours later, he got up on his own – he was shaky, but he made it off the sofa without help. Madison looked up, glad, from her magazine. "Ready for lunch?" she asked.

He rubbed at the lump in his middle, nodded reluctantly. "Bathroom."

He stumbled hard against the bathroom door when he was done, had to cling to it. Madison came running at the noise, wincing at how much of his upper arm she was able to get her hand around as she grabbed at him.

"I'm okay," he said. "Just tripped."

She frowned at his jutting collarbones, caught sight of the bathroom scale. "Just how much weight have you lost?"

He shook his head. "No idea." He'd become so focused on the size of his swelling belly that he'd begun more or less ignoring the more abstract numbers of pounds.

"Well, let's see." She helped him perch awkwardly on the edge of the sink, then pulled out the scale. "You know, if you really are pregnant, then that is one determined baby. I can't believe you kept growing that much; it's obvious you haven't been eating enough for weeks."

He stepped on to the scale and stared down, critically.

"Well," she asked. "How much?"

He groaned. "Not a lot. I –" Abruptly, he staggered off the scale, and Madison caught him again as his left knee buckled.

"You okay, Norman?" The denial implied by the not a lot worried her.

"Just got tired all of a sudden." He looked it – slightly flushed, heavy-lidded.

"I'm sorry if I kept you on your feet too long. You're still really sick right now, okay? Your job for the next couple of days is sleeping and eating. Come on, back on the couch, I'll get lunch." She managed to keep him awake just long enough for him to gorge himself. He was terribly uncomfortable, his belly packed again, while he dropped off to sleep, whereupon his disobedient hands tugged aside his clothes so his bloating stretch of middle could poke freely out of them.

In those first few days, Madison tried to ask him gentle questions about what had happened, how he'd ended up in his current state. Frequently, he was so full that the best he could manage in response was, "Oooogh." She ran him a bath on the third day. He was so humiliated at the prospect of needing help to wash and so shyly ashamed of his body that she let him try to bathe himself; as she'd feared, he almost immediately fell asleep in the tub. She coaxed him into letting her help by giving him a washcloth to hold over his crotch and promising not to look. It completely drained him for the day, but he ended up clean. The smell of his unwashed body lingered on the bedsheets for a little while, but was much more bearable.

She made him work hard at his new job of recovering. Whenever he was awake, she plied him with glasses of water, multivitamins, endless plates and bowls of food. His life became a cycle of eating until he was too full to move, then sleeping off his binges. He still staggered everywhere, but it was getting better. The stagger was increasingly less because he was dizzy, and more because the muscles of his legs had shrunk, were struggling to support him as he gained weight. The apartment began to slowly, magically put itself together back around him, and he knew Madison was cleaning while he was unconscious, but his guilt about that was weaker than his need for sleep.

On the fifth day, he woke so early it was still dark, feeling and looking grotesquely, painfully bloated. There was a sharp stab in his left side that felt like it was somewhere deep in his guts. He made his way out of bed with difficulty – trying to bend at the waist intensified the problem – and stumbled to the bathroom, pressing one hand against his side. He couldn't tell if it was his skin creaking or his intestines groaning, but there was definitely an unsettling noise rising from that area. He squatted unsuccessfully on the toilet until that position became too uncomfortable on his legs, then gave up and laid down on the bath mat for a little while. Even the press of the floor against his belly was hard for him to bear, and he rolled onto his back, shivering, letting his violently swollen gut complain towards the ceiling. The painful pressure inside built, shifted, built again. Cramps chased each other through his nether regions. He prayed for a fart.

After a while, there was a knock on the bathroom door. "Norman," came Madison's voice through the door, "You've been in there a really long time. Are you all right?"

He knew she'd stay until he answered. "Fine," he said, unable to keep the strangled tone out of his voice.

"Are you trying to take a crap?"

". . . yes," he said truthfully. Maybe that would get her to leave him alone.

"When's the last time you took one?"

"Jesus Christ, Madison!"

"Well?"

"I don't know!" He realized it was true, couldn't specifically remember having moved his bowels for at least a week, maybe two, but he didn't feel the need to elaborate.

"Okay."

He waited to see if more interrogation was going to follow, but only heard the front door slam. He relaxed as much as his distress would allow; at least now he wasn't in pain and intensely embarrassed. The feeling of his bones pressing into the floor became unbearable, and he tried the toilet again, then gave up and went back to the bed, which at least was soft. Madison wasn't there. Eventually, the prayed-for fart arrived, and some of the sharpness of the pain went away, but he was still massively uncomfortable, felt like everything below his sternum was packed full of heavy, expanding clay. He shifted in the bed without relief. It was dawn when he heard her come back.

"Any luck?" she asked, sticking her head in the bedroom door.

"Fuck off," he said, both hands spread across his rigid gut.

"I'll take that as a no, then. Jesus, you look miserable. I'm trying to get you healthy, Norman. I know it's embarrassing, but if you're not going to go see a doctor, you've got to tell me things like when you get this constipated. Sit up, I got something to help you out." She disappeared from the doorway; he stayed stubbornly lying down.

"Sit up," she repeated, reappearing with a plate and a plastic tumbler.

"No," he moaned. "I can't eat anything."

"This is going to make you feel better," she insisted. "It's bran muffins and prune juice. I know, it sounds like a bad joke, but it should help move things along. If it doesn't, I got some stronger stuff, too, but try this, first. You're just going to make everything worse if you try to get rid of all that without eating anything more. You're still so skinny." She put the plate and glass down on the nightstand, reached down for him. "I'll feed it to you, if I have to."

"Don't," he said. "Don't touch me." He pushed away her hands, worked himself painfully upwards in the bed. He dreaded swallowing anything, but was starting to feel desperate, and the desperation helped him work through the juice, as Madison supervised. She got him another glass of it; he picked at a muffin.

"I've got to stop eating so much," he complained. "I just can't handle it." The thing inside moved, and he grunted, puffing, as it squeezed his crowded interior.

"You're not eating so much," she scolded. "You're not used to eating normal amounts. I saw what was in your fridge when I got here. If you could handle eating like that for as long as I think you did, you can take a little more of eating like this until your body's in better shape. We've just got to pay more attention to what you eat, mix things up better. I'm sorry, I should have thought of it before." She forebore mentioning that, while she was certainly providing the food, he'd almost immediately become the one who seemed to be trying to make himself explode with every meal.

The prune juice worked, well enough that he had to scramble out of bed when it hit, moving faster than he had in weeks. His resulting time in the bathroom was a massive relief, but the effort was also draining in all possible senses of the word, painful not only on his insides, but also on his bony thighs and hips. It was hard to get up when he was finally done, and he was asleep again in bed before Madison could chase him down for lunch. He was so difficult to rouse that she finally let him be. He woke ravenous for the first time in days – it was the first time in days he hadn't spent all of his waking time stuffing himself – and she promptly let him jam himself full of food again.

"Feeling better?" she asked. He shrugged. "Do you want anything special, or is cereal okay?"

"Fine," he said, and eased himself into a chair. "I'm not that hungry."

"I'm sorry –"

"Forget it." They began eating in awkward silence.

"I'm going to start calling doctors, Norman," she said in a small voice. "I mean, about actually going in, we can cross that bridge when we come to it, but I want to at least get an appointment made so we have somewhere we could go. A plan." That seemed like it was safe enough to say.

He chewed, nodded. "Okay."

His capitulation was so understated, so immediate, that she didn't understand it for a second, then leapt at it eagerly. "Have you thought about whether you'd like to go talk to a man or a woman?"

"I guess I'd like to see a man." He seemed disinterested. "You pick."

This wasn't like him, not at all. But maybe that was a good thing, maybe she had scared him productively. "Do you want to talk about what just happened?"

"No." He finished his cereal, stared into the bottom of the bowl. "There aren't any bagels, are there?"

"No," she responded, surprised. He'd never asked for a specific food item before. "Would you like some?"

"Yeah."

She became cautiously optimistic. "I'll go get some. And I'm going to go out today and get you some clothes, okay? Get you some things that fit better. I should've done it before now, I know you're embarrassed in your old stuff."

He thought about that for a second, nodded. "Good," he said. "Not a lot. Just a few things."

"We're running low on some other stuff, too. Crud, I should make a list." She dragged a blank sheet of paper out of his printer, started scribbling on it. "You really just need comfortable clothes, I guess. Some shirts and sweatpants that'll cover you up. What do you think, Norman, do you need anything else?"

He toyed idly with an orange. "My boxers are too tight."

"Oh, god, I guess they would be. Okay. Um. I'll see what I can do. I don't know what size you'd need. I should probably get a tape measure while I'm out."

"Do you need any money?" he asked, dropping the orange unharmed. "I don't have any cash left, but I can give you my ATM card."

He was never this interested in how she got things done, in what was happening outside the confines of his apartment, where she went while he was sleeping. It was becoming unsettling. "Don't worry about it right now," she said. "Are you really done with breakfast? That wasn't much."

"Yeah. Enough for this morning."

He was probably right; it was time he got back on some sort of normal eating schedule. She jotted down everything she could think of that she needed, too – she hadn't brought enough clothes for three weeks and had been washing out the same few pairs of underwear, started wearing the things he couldn't fit into any more. Though too big – he was a good few inches taller – and cut wrong, they'd been working, but she could stand at least one more pair of pants that didn't make her look like a clown. She ran herself through the shower, decided while she soaped up that she wanted to deal with the easy stuff – the errands – before she could face the intimidating hurdle of setting up a doctor's appointment. She needed a break, after this morning. And before this afternoon. Maybe she'd do something nice for herself. Go to a bookstore. Stop for ice cream. She'd gotten used to caring for him, and in the beginning he'd just protested meaninglessly, refusing to differentiate between when he didn't need help and when he did. Maybe he was showing her that he could do that now.

Norman was sitting on the bed, staring thoughtfully at his knees, when she walked back in, towel-wrapped, to get dressed, and for a moment she thought he'd withdrawn totally again.

"I'll be back by lunchtime," she said, testing, and relaxed a little when he nodded. She shimmied into her clothes while he absentmindedly cracked his knuckles, heaved himself to his feet, transferred his gaze to the closet door.

"Madison," he said, and half-turned towards her. "Listen. Thank you. Thanks, okay? For everything."

She was startled, smiled. "You're welcome." She walked over to squeeze his arm, and he waddled after her to the front door, watched her walk out.

She heard him lock the door behind her, shook her head at his paranoia. At least she had the keys.

She got all the way out to the car before she realized she'd forgotten the damn shopping list, wondered if she could remember the items on her own, decided to just go back up and get it. She heard a flurry of movement inside as she unlocked the deadbolt, and when she opened the door, Norman was sitting at the table, arms wrapped awkwardly around himself.

"You all right, there?" she asked.

"Fine," he agreed, then jerked a little, hands sliding. She realized, puzzled, that he was posed so oddly because he was hiding something inside his robe, and it was slipping. She wanted to demand information, told herself not to – as much as it killed her, he needed some privacy. He was probably just embarrassed about eating extra food after he'd said he was done.

"I forgot the shopping list," she said. "Wait, where is it? Didn't I leave it on the kitchen table?" The pen was still there.

His eyes widened; he looked panicky. "That paper? Oh. I think I might have thrown it away."

She rolled her eyes. "God, Norman, I wrote it right in front of you. Didn't you even look at it first? It had a bunch of stuff all written down one side." She opened the trash can lid and poked at the top layer of garbage. "I don't see –" she started, and there was a clatter from behind her.

She turned; if Norman hadn't been made so clumsy by his lack of a waist, she might not have even seen the gun before he managed to snatch it off the floor. She jumped at him without thinking, grabbed for his hands.

"Don't!" he shouted. "Don't, it's dangerous!" He was fumbling, one-handed, trying not to drop it again, and she was moving too fast for her brain to keep up, her hands trying both to pinion his wrists and to grab for the gun itself. The kitchen chair jerked across the floor as they struggled. If he'd been in anywhere near his usual shape, it would have been no contest; as it was, he ultimately ended it by spreading his hand wide and flinching as he let the pistol drop again to the floor.

She let it lie there while she continued to grip Norman's wrists. They panted at each other, both wide-eyed.

"Shit, Madison," he scolded, "Don't ever wrestle someone for a gun. You'll get your head blown off."

She stared at him, abruptly released her grip, and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. Hard enough to rock him in the chair, to make him exclaim, to put his hands up reflexively before she could hit him again.

"You fucker," she snarled. "You utter, absolute fuck."

He wouldn't look at her.

"You hardly waited until I was out the fucking door. Where have you been hiding it?"

"I haven't been 'hiding it.' I keep it secured at home."

She slumped into another chair, wanted to cry with rage, relief, but didn't feel like she had any tears left. "You were going to let me find you like that? Just come back and find you . . ." Her sob was dry. She wanted to vomit.

"I was writing a note." The shopping list. He really hadn't looked at the paper at all before he'd picked it up. It was probably somewhere in his robe, too. "So you wouldn't come into the bathroom."

"You fuck," she repeated.

"It's my life. It's mine, and I'm the one who gets to say what I want to do with it."

"You're scared. You pussy. You coward. You want to kill yourself because you're scared of a problem you could try to solve if you put one fucking bit of effort into it. Maybe everything's going to be fine, maybe everything's going to be great, maybe you could be back to yourself tomorrow!" She doubted that was true, but it sounded good. "But you won't even put the effort into going to see a fucking doctor to see if it's true. You didn't even have to look for one, I found them for you. And you were going to put me through that, through finding you, put everyone through having to go to your funeral, because you're . . . you're fucking lazy."

She was so angry she wanted to hurt him; she kicked him, childishly, in the shin, hard enough to make him gasp. "Ow."

"At least give it a chance, Norman. You owe me that much. Don't you? Owe me?" He didn't respond. She got to her feet and fetched the gun. "Do you have any others? Don't lie, I'll tear this place apart."

"I do, but not here. They're still at the firing range, at work." He sounded defeated.

She couldn't figure out what to do with the gun now that she'd picked it up; she needed to get it out of the apartment, but had nowhere else to put it. Finally, she buried it in her backpack, laid her backpack in front of the front door. He watched her warily.

"Come on," she said. "Bathroom."

"What? Why?"

"Because that's where you're going to stay for a little bit while I figure out what I'm going to do about this. Jesus, I should just call the cops. Hell, I should call the FBI. God dammit, Norman, I don't want to threaten you, but you're not making it easy. Seriously, right now, go get in the bathroom. I'll drag you in there if I have to, I bet I can still do that. I bet I can still kick your ass, right now. You can fight me until we get so loud that someone else calls the cops, or you can get your ass in there yourself."

He moved awkwardly, sullenly to his feet and she followed him down the hallway. He rubbed at the small of his back, his belly jutting towards her, as he hovered in the middle of the small room.

"How long do I have to stay here?" he asked.

"Until I say you can come out. Hold on." She started running through the drawers, the medicine cabinet. She threw every pill bottle she could find – even the antacids, even the Midol she'd brought with her – into the hallway. She followed it with her safety razors, the drinking glass, his corded electric razor, the cleaning supplies, and, after a pause, the plunger and the scale.

"What the fuck do you think I'm going to do with the scale," he asked, "Beat my own head in?"

"Break the mirror with it and cut your wrists," she replied coldly.

"Want the shampoo?" he snapped. "Maybe I'll drink it."

"Do it. Puke all day, see if I care. You're lucky I'm leaving you the towels." Finally, she was satisfied with the contents of the room. "I'm going to go through the rest of the apartment. I'll come get you when I'm done." She left him glaring after her.

In the hallway, she scooped the suicide contraband into a pile, sat down next to it, and rested her forehead on her knees. She felt genuinely trapped. She should call someone else, someone who knew what they were doing, get him put somewhere safe. He could get the medical help he needed that way, certainly. But she was still so frightened of what had happened that morning, when she'd forced him to look at his own fear, when he'd seemed to have that panic attack, that schizophrenic episode, whatever it was. After all, threatening him was what had landed them in their current positions, on either side of the bathroom door. She was afraid that having him taken away might break him entirely. After a few minutes of her spine digging into the wall, she wearily got to her feet and began searching the rest of the apartment.

She went over it with a fine-toothed comb. She soon found the small unlocked – and empty – gun safe on the top shelf of his closet, the key still in it. She stashed the gun in it with some small measure of relief, planted the whole thing in her backpack. She uncovered no other real weapons, except for the handful of kitchen knives she'd been using, dropped those by the front door as well. The rest of the cleaning supplies joined the pile. She took all his belts, his ties, all of the shoes with shoelaces. She even checked under the furniture, which was disgusting but produced nothing. She began to hate him for all the different ways she had to imagine he could succeed in killing himself. At least the apartment didn't have a balcony, and she wasn't even sure he could manage to make it out the narrow windows at this point. It took ages for her to finish, and she put everything by the front door in a garbage bag. There was no sound from the bathroom.

Finally, she braved the bathroom door; when she opened it, the light was off. She clicked it on fearfully, and Norman looked silently up at her from the bathtub. He'd taken everything soft she'd left in the room – the bathmat, towels, and washcloths – and piled it up in there, was nested among them on his side with his bathrobe over him.

She sat wearily next to the tub, pulled her knees to her chest, sat there for a moment. He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully against his forefinger, in front of his face, staring at it.

"I need a hug," she blurted, and started to cry again; it seemed that she did have tears left. He slowly, awkwardly pushed himself up, and reached across the rim of the tub, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She leant into him as best she could and cried until snot ran down her face. She slowly subsided.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly. "I'm sorry. I'm terrified. I don't see any way out of this."

She nodded against him. "I know."

"I'll try things your way. I'll try. If it's bad, if it gets worse . . . I don't know. I don't know what I'll do. I want to be honest."

"Good. Be honest." She hugged him back. "But promise me. That you'll give it a chance. That if we go see a doctor and they say your life doesn't have to be over, that you'll listen. And you'll tell me if you hear it."

"I . . . I'll try," he repeated, and she knew that was going to have to be good enough for now. They pulled apart, regarded each other. He looked strained.

"This was hard on my ass," he said. "The bathtub. I think I need help getting up." He did.

He was anxious, angry the next morning.

"I can't go like this," he said, and pushed the sheet down to show what he meant. "I won't go like this." Despite having thrown up some of it, he was still visibly bloated from the previous night's blowout, and it was clear as he tugged at his clothes that his shirt and pants wouldn't meet on even a temporary basis. "And not in that fucking bathrobe, either. I'm not going out of here looking like a crazy freakshow."

"I know," Madison said. "I wouldn't try to make you do that. I got some stuff for you while you were sleeping that you can try on. Come on, let's at least take care of breakfast and I'll get the stuff."

His stomach was already beginning to churn with nervousness as he struggled his way out of bed, and she frowned as he stared miserably at his untouched toast, pushed the plate away.

"Come on, Norman, no backsliding."

"I don't feel well. I really don't." His stomach was audibly lurching, and he gagged a little, looking away from the plate. "I'll just puke it up. I had way too much, last night. Shit, really, don't ever let me do that again. It hurt. Give me the morning off eating in exchange for going to the doctor."

She wondered if he could be hungover from the vodka, wished she'd been a little more conservative in mixing the drink. "Well . . . all right. Drink some water, though. Hop in the shower, and we'll see what fits."

She'd arranged the clothing into piles on the bed by the time he'd lurched his way back from the bathroom.

"I got you just a couple of extra-large men's things, and some . . . some maternity wear. I don't know how well it'll fit; it's made for people with boobs and hips, but I thought you could try it." She gestured at the piles: tops and sweatpants, a few pairs of boxers of varying sizes up from his old ones, and the real prize, a relatively masculine hoodie that she had found at the top end of sizes in Sears' maternity section. "It's really hard to find not-girly maternity clothes. Oh, and here." She shrugged, gave him a box of safety pins. "Just in case." She left him to it.

The boxers didn't fit right, due to the odd way his body had become distorted, but they stayed up after he'd gathered in and pinned the elastic waistband together low under the swell of his belly. The maternity tops sagged over his chest, but they did actually emphasized his size less than the XXL clothing that simply assumed he was fat all over, and it was a relief to again be wearing something that fully covered him that wasn't his odorous bathrobe. They were a little short in the sleeves, but manageable. The hooded sweatshirt he zipped up was what made him finally decide that he might be able to do this after all – it was featureless, oversized, grey, bulky, and when he put his hands in the pockets, it suggested that the bulge in front of him might be partially due to his posture. As he tried to finish getting dressed, he discovered almost all of his shoes were missing from his closet, and he emerged puzzled from the bedroom.

"Oh, wow," Madison said as soon as she saw him. "Oh, god, I do feel bad, now. I should have done this like two weeks ago. You look so much better in stuff that fits. I'm not blowing smoke up your ass, Norman. I guess it's not perfect, but you look pretty good." She meant it. He still needed a shave, but wearing clothes more tailored to accommodate his proportions made him look relatively normal, even healthy. Without the naked globe of his middle poking out or struggling to emerge from his bathrobe, it was easier for her to accept that the thinness of his neck and limbs was within reasonable limits.

"Where are my shoes?" he asked, and her stomach sank a little as she remembered.

She fidgeted, but admitted, "I got rid of them during yesterday's suicide watch because they had shoelaces." He stared at her.

"What . . ." He shook his head in exasperation. "That's just stupid. What am I supposed to wear?"

She bristled – apparently they had different definitions of the word stupid – but she held her tongue. "You've got shoes left. Put on those loafers I saw in there." He protested that he'd look like an idiot, and he did, a little, but Madison insisted that the odd combination of sweats and loafers wasn't a good enough excuse to miss the appointment.

They fought briefly in the parking garage where he kept his car over who was going to drive. She'd had possession of the keys for some weeks now, and he was furious that she wouldn't give them back.

"It's my goddamned car," he snarled. "I'll drive."

"I'm the one who knows where we're going," she hissed back. "You're the one who tried to kill yourself yesterday. I'm not letting you behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. Just get in before we start attracting attention." That got him in, pretty quickly.

He leaned his forehead against the passenger side window on the way, let it rattle there painfully when the car went over bumps. Madison stole quick, concerned glances at him; it seemed like bizarre, semi-autistic behavior, that passive self-punishment, but she was willing to accept a lot as long as it kept him in the car. He didn't respond to any of her conversational gambits; she just kept driving, unsure if he wasn't talking because he was angry, or because he'd withdrawn again.

They arrived, and she looked over at him, still leaning into the window. "Norman?"

After a few seconds, he turned his head to meet her eyes. There was such despair there that it broke her heart a little: that face said, Are you really making me do this? She leaned over and squeezed his knee a little in response.

"Come on," she said. He was still silent on the way in, lowered himself into a chair just inside the door, glowered at the floor. Madison, in turn, was immediately glowered at as soon as she tried to check in. She'd been so focused on getting Norman in to the office in one piece that she'd forgotten to account for her cover story; there was no way she looked anywhere near as pregnant as she'd said when making the appointment.

The receptionist looked at her suspiciously. "I think there may have been a mix-up with your information," she said, and Madison knew what she was trying to say: You lied to me on the phone.

"I need this," Madison said. "This is important. Please. My, uh, my boyfriend and I just really need to talk to someone." She didn't know what the hell she was going to do if they had to turn around now. The receptionist grudgingly complied, handed over a clipboard.

Madison gave the paperwork to Norman. "Look," she said, "Just leave the name blank and fill everything else out with your information. We're going to fake it until we can talk to this guy." Norman stared at it a little bit. "Come on," she said, "I don't know half this stuff. I don't even know your birthday."

"August 14. How am I supposed to fill this out? I don't have a date of last menstrual period."

"Well, then, just do, like, the allergies and stuff. Any known conditions. Are you just being dumb on purpose?" His face hardened and he began to scribble angrily. Boy, he hadn't liked that, but at least it had gotten him in motion. Norman rode that little rush of anger all the way into the actual exam room, where they sat in chairs and awkwardly regarded each other.

"I'm not sure what we're going to say," Madison admitted.

"I'm not sure what you're going to say, either," Norman snapped. "This was what you wanted to do. It's your problem."

"God." Today was turning about to be about as much fun as the day before. They were saved by the opening of the door.

There was a sandy-haired man in early middle age filling a lot of that doorway. He peered in at them. "I'm Doctor Robert Carey," he started cautiously, and entered, letting the door shut behind him. "I'm very confused as to just what we're all doing here this morning and why my receptionist does not feel it's going to be very productive."

"I'm Madison Paige. And this is Norman Jayden. We're not trying to waste your time," Madison started immediately. "I want to say that, right off the bat. We're not trying to waste your time, and we're not lying to you. We might be crazy, but we're totally in earnest. All the way."

". . . okay," Doctor Carey said, slowly, and worked his own way into a chair. "Why don't you just tell me what it is that you're not lying to me about?"

Madison took a deep breath, looked over at Norman. He stared miserably at the floor, trying to disappear. He was wrestling futilely with the effort of keeping his tailbone from grinding into the chair, while simultaneously attempting to shrink himself into oblivion. "We think," Madison said, "He's pregnant."

The doctor blinked. "Why's that?" he asked, politely.

"Well, for one thing, god, just . . . look at him. He's big as a house, sorry, Norman. He says he spent a couple of months throwing up, then his belly just . . . blew up, even when he was trying to lose weight. He's tired all the time. And most importantly, there's something in there. He feels it moving around. I've felt it moving around. He's . . . he's had some sort of muscle spasms recently, where everything in there just seizes up. Like contractions. If he were a woman, it'd be a no-brainer."

"But he's not, correct? You're not a woman, are you, Mr. Jayden?" He shook his head. "Never have been? No female genitalia?" He flushed, shaking his head again. "Those sound like very uncomfortable symptoms, and I believe you're telling the truth about what you've felt, but it's much more likely to be a gastrointestinal problem. Much more likely. In fact, it sounds like a very, very serious GI problem, and I think you're right to seek medical help. I can refer you to someone else who could do a series of –"

"Look," Madison started again. "Is there any way you could just do an ultrasound? Please? We can pay. If we're wrong, then . . . I don't know, I guess we're wrong. We'll have to go to the hospital or something to figure out what the problem is. And if we're right, then maybe you can help. But not knowing for sure . . . I don't think we can take it any more. If you can just give us that much, we'll do whatever you recommend. Follow any advice. Promise."

The doctor shook his head. "I don't . . . I don't think I'm comfortable . . ."

"Please," Norman said, his voice cracking. It was the first time he'd spoken. He was too embarrassed to meet anyone's eyes.

Carey regarded him carefully. "It's never really a good idea to perform useless unnecessary medical procedures, even if they're uninvasive. I'm not an internist. Most probably, the only thing I would be able to tell you is that I don't know what the problem is, and you'd be back at square one."

"It won't be." Madison was seizing the opening he'd provided. "It's not unnecessary. It's . . . think of it as a necessity for mental health purposes. You have no idea how hard it was to get here today. If you believe that we're not lying, imagine how desperate we must be, how confused."

He was starting to relent. "I don't even perform the ultrasounds, I have a technician."

"Please don't," Norman said, "Make us have to tell anyone else." Madison had done all the real work, but it was still torture to sit through.

Carey sighed. "I really shouldn't. All right. Ms. Paige, Mr. Jayden, don't make me regret this. I'll be right back. Get your sweatshirt off and get up on the table." As soon as the door closed behind him, Madison leaned over to hug Norman's shoulders.

"This is going so well," she said. "Thank you. We're halfway there." He slowly, reluctantly unzipped the sweatshirt – his new security blanket – and emerged from it in one of the long-sleeved maternity jersey shirts she'd brought home, heaved out of the chair, hoisted himself up awkwardly to sit on the end of the table. The paper crinkled underneath him as he shifted nervously, hunched over in another useless effort to make himself smaller; Madison gathered the sweatshirt in her arms and followed him, rubbed his back softly.

Carey returned wheeling a small cart, wrestling it through the doorway. "This is just the portable one," he said as he entered. "It's not that great, but you're –" He caught sight of Norman and jerked, didn't finish his sentence. While the jersey covered him comfortably, it was thin and fitted enough to fully display the dramatic contrast between his belly and the rest of his body than the sweatshirt had. Carey stared for a second, then looked up at Norman's desolate face apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was unprofessional. I guess in some ways I can see why you'd come to the conclusion you have. I just need a few minutes to get this set up. Why don't you lie down, try to make yourself comfortable."

Norman was so rigid with tension that the idea of his being comfortable was clearly unreasonable, but he scooted upwards on the table and lay back clumsily. Madison squeezed his shoulder.

As he worked, Carey filled the uncomfortable silence with an explanation of what he was going to do, what the ultrasound could show, what it couldn't. He stumbled verbally a few times, apologized again: "I'm sorry, I genuinely don't usually do this end of things, so I don't have the little speech quite down. Not sure if I'm remembering to tell you everything the tech usually says. Don't worry, though, I know what I'm doing. Even if I didn't, I'd have to screw up pretty badly in order to hurt you in any way. You should try to relax a little, you're making me nervous." He and Madison exchanged strained smiles, Norman took a few deep breaths as he regarded the ceiling.

Madison had been congratulating herself on being a smooth enough talker to get them into this position, but she was realizing that they'd also been lucky as hell to end up with Carey, that it was largely his empathy that had convinced him to go through with this. He had a gentle bedside manner, and was patient with Norman's reluctance to roll his shirt up and waistband down, the discomfort with which he endured the spread of gel onto his stomach.

Everything was on and in place, and Carey looked at them again seriously. "Now, remember," he said, "The most I'll probably be able to tell you is that I can't tell you anything."

"Right," Madison said anxiously.

"Okay," Carey said, "Here we go, then."

Firstly, there's nothing wrong with the length of this story, and secondly it's just about the first I've bothered to fully read through on this forum, perhaps the second. ;) Lastly, you are a good writer. To elaaaaborate... I wish I knew the plot of the story this fanfiction is based on, and the characters... though I think I would have twitched a few times becasue I'm SO PICKY about the depiction of pre-existing characters, lol... so I'm probably more glad I enjoyed this story in it's own right. For fanfiction, it's exceedingly practical. ...I can't tell you how refreshing that was to read. Suicide is getting a little cliche for me in mpreg, BUT... it only makes sense that this character would hit such a low the way he's been portrayed, so I'm goin along with it. For character development and realistic portrayal, I give you... well, it's in the upper 90 percentile of what I consider worth reading, that much I can say. Sincerely; I'm impressed. How in HECK he didn't miscarriage with all the starvation I am trying to get my head around... but as I said, I'm on for the ride, and even that shaky logic, is just within acceptable for me. Especially if something is explained later... I mean, I'm a little surprised that he was told he could jog within months of a massive surgery to make him able to carry a baby... I wonder why they didn't initally at least try to put him on a multivitamin/medication to help the baby develop (knowing he's a single and oblivious guy who probably does the bad things to his body, like drink, fast, etc...) even if they said it was just to help with withdrawal, and even if he didn't take it... but anyways, those are just a few thoughts, overall, your work stands out as exemplary effort, I fully support this fic! Despite my unique perspective on some scenes, you REALLY make sense. Thank you for posting! please update when you are able. :)

-- Edited by Faunus on Thursday 24th of February 2011 10:11:06 PM

-- Edited by Faunus on Thursday 24th of February 2011 10:13:43 PM

They worked out a schedule and left the office. Norman was writhing restlessly on the table when they returned; Madison was relieved when his eyes opened.

"Feeling better, Mr. Jayden?" Carey asked.

"I'd like to go home now," he replied.

Carey continued, "Don't have too much else to do, here. I'd like to give you a quick physical examination and draw some blood. Think you're up to it?" He directed the question towards Norman, but eyed Madison.

"It'll help, Norman," she said. "It'll help him figure out how to get them out, get this over with." Carey raised an eyebrow at her phrasing, but didn't protest.

Norman looked confused, then frightened. "Today?" he asked, and began jerking himself upwards in a panic. Madison jumped to him, grabbed his arms.

"No, Norman, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's the same reason we came here, you know. Having a plan. Making a plan, so things are easier later. It won't – it won't hurt any more than, like, your back hurting. This is part of the deal to do things my way, doing a few more little things here today."

He looked angry now, shook his head, but said, "Fine," and she made eye contact with Carey, who had already dug out a paper robe, and promptly handed it over.

"I'll need you to put this on, Mr. Jayden." Norman shook his head again, but snatched at it. "I'm going to go get the things for the blood draw, I'll be back in a few minutes." He turned and walked towards the door.

Norman snapped at Madison, "Get out." She was surprised, wounded.

"Are you –"

"Get out of here. Give me some fucking privacy. And stay out."

She flinched, but said, "Okay," and followed Carey into the hallway. She still hadn't put down the sweatshirt.

Carey looked at her. "Ouch," he said, cautiously.

"Yeah, that's his other mood. He's got two, lately: depressed, and total dick. Total dick is actually kind of a relief, because at least he's not so depressed." She tried to sound like she was fine with it. "Hell, I think being a total dick is the only way he can keep himself from not being so depressed. He's only been totally reasonable once the whole time I've been here, and it was scary as hell."

"He's lucky to have you as a friend, but don't let this wear you out as much as it's done to him."

"Yeah, I know. I'll be in the waiting room, I guess."

Norman barely made it through the experience of Carey guiding his feet up into the stirrups without vomiting or trying to bolt. Much to his relief, the doctor gave up on the pelvic exam almost immediately after realizing that there really wasn't anything down there he could investigate, let him put his legs back together. He jerked, flinching uncontrollably, as Carey gently palpated his bulging abdomen, and shivered through the rest of the examination, though he tried to relax, as the doctor kept gently suggesting. He even managed to curtly answer Carey's cautious questions: no, the prodding wasn't painful, yes, he was a little cold, no, he hadn't eaten today, yes, if Carey had to know, he was having problems achieving sexual arousal, but Norman didn't see what business it was of his.

It was intensely uncomfortable, and he began to sweat, but he got through it without having to turn his brain off too much. Then came the worst one: "Can you think of any explanation for this? Any way this might have happened?"

Norman had a violent spasm on the table, as though he'd touched a live wire. He panted.

"Are you all right?" Carey immediately drew his stethoscope away from Norman's back. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, even though it seemed unlikely.

"No," Norman breathed at him, and began to shake.

"All right," the doctor said hastily, as his patient stared at the wall. "I sort of need to ask, you know. Because I don't know. But it's not too terribly important if you don't have an answer. My job is helping the three of you now. Let's just finish this up, shall we?"

The clinical professionalism of the blood draw was a comparative relief for both of them.

"One more thing," Carey said. "I'm sorry, I should have mentioned this earlier. Do you think you can pee in a cup for me? Your bladder felt pretty full, so I'm guessing yes." Norman clamped his lips shut, and Carey winced, guessing that after the question about how it'd started, his patient had passed his capacity to deal with sharing personal information. "Here's the cup. Take your time getting dressed. The bathroom's actually just the next door down. You can just . . . well, why don't you leave it in there? I'll get someone to grab it. You can come down to my office when you're done, it's at the end of the hall."

Norman thrust himself into his clothes almost as soon as the door had closed behind the doctor, and slunk into the bathroom – truthfully, he felt like he was going to explode if he didn't take a piss immediately. He abandoned the filled cup on the sink, thought about simply trying to flee the building, remembered that Madison had his car keys and the concealing sweatshirt, and reluctantly trudged into Carey's office, once again hunching over. Both the doctor and Madison were already waiting for him.

"I'm done," he announced as soon as he stepped in. "I mean, I'm done. No more. I'll walk home, if I have to." It was a bluff, but he was getting down to his last reserves of courage.

"Just sit down for a second, Norman," Madison said. "It's just paperwork. Some of it's even paperwork making sure that you don't have to do any more paperwork." She caught Carey's eye. "Not even any questions about how you're feeling, or anything that's happened, I promise." Carey gave a nod.

Norman had to sit down, anyway, was too shaky not to, running almost entirely on stress. Madison handed him back the sweatshirt, and he bundled himself into it with a small degree of relief.

"Who's your usual primary care physician?" Carey started.

Norman shrugged. "No idea. Not sure I have one."

Carey shook his head slightly, and Norman saw an expression flit across his face that reminded him, suddenly, of Doc Gleiss, wondered if all doctors looked the same when they thought you were an idiot. "Well. I'm going to need some kind of way to track down your medical history."

"I'll figure it out," Madison said. "I think I know how I can. Can I have your business card or something?" Carey handed her a few.

They wrapped things up as Norman began to slump in his chair, drained from the ordeal. He stopped trying to follow the conversation around him, rose obediently when Madison squeezed his elbow.

He was still trembling on the way out to the car, quiet, withdrawn.

"Want to stop somewhere for lunch?" Madison asked as she started backing up out of the parking space. "Might be sort of nice, while we're out."

"No." He jammed his hands in the sweatshirt's pockets in irritation as his stomach gurgled, disagreeing.

"We could just go through a drive-through somewhere, we don't have to go in. Or I could run in somewhere and you could stay in the car. Is there anything you miss? McDonald's? Dunkin' Donuts?"

There was stony silence from the other side of the car, and then he admitted, "Starbucks."

She laughed louder than the answer deserved, feeling relief at his engagement in what was going on, no matter how slight. "You're in luck," she said. "I absolutely saw one on the way here. Drive-through and everything. Just a coffee? Or you want a pastry, too?"

"Maybe, if they have any danishes left."

"I think you're supposed to have decaf."

"I think I don't fucking care and I'm going to have some real coffee."

He had some real coffee. And a danish. Despite the caffeine, as soon as they got home, he crashed into sleep in bed at warp speed.

She made herself let that danish tide him over while he slept, fighting the urge to get him to eat something more substantial. In fact, after that, Madison largely let him pick his own meals, stopped presenting him with food as soon as he woke from one of his frequent naps. She still made dinner most nights, served herself, let him take what he liked. The only thing she pressed on him was a round of vitamins in the morning, and enough food to go down with them. He took them without question, complaint, or, apparently, interest.

His stomach was much happier when he was feeding it a little bit all day, and he started grazing continuously, like he'd done during his high school growth spurts. Over the first few days after they'd seen Carey, as he stopped going through his uncomfortable cycle of binge and crash, total dick Norman began replacing depressed Norman on a semi-permanent basis. But he was a total dick who wasn't unconscious most of the time. She still shook her head at his sloppy bachelor eating habits, his habitual quick fixes to hunger – he'd bolt sardines straight out of the can, or have an entire meal that was just toast dipped into the peanut butter jar, filling it hopelessly with crumbs.

She complained about that one: "Thanks, Norman, now I have to eat your toast every time I have peanut butter."

"Were you going to put it on something that wasn't bread?"

". . . no," she admitted.

"Then I don't see the problem."

Madison tried to get him to talk about what he'd said at the doctor's office, about not wanting anything to do with the lives that were, it turned out, actually growing inside him. "They have to go somewhere after they come out," she said softly in bed one night. "Where do you want them to go?"

"I really don't care," he insisted. "So long as it's not here."

"You don't want kids, then," she asked, "Not at all?"

"I don't want these kids and I can't do anything about it," he clarified. "How would you feel about being forced to go through with something like this? If you got raped, even, and then you had to watch your life fall apart around you? This is the worst shit that's ever happened to me, and I've been through a lot of shit."

She made a face in the dark. "Are you sure you don't want to think about it?"

"I'm sure," he snapped back, and turned to face away from her in bed. It was a awkward process to get on his other side, but, as far as he was concerned, worth it at the moment.

She haunted him for three days before she decided he wasn't going to try to kill himself again, at least not right away. She pretty much had to give up being with him every minute; they were running out of food. By that point, total dick Norman made it clear that she was driving him up the wall. She could tell that depressed Norman – though he would never admit it – was having trouble sleeping unless she was nearby, preferably on the same piece of furniture. Every so often, she got a glimpse of reasonable Norman, though she quickly learned that he would only appear if she didn't try to force him out of hiding.

"Hey," she said with forced casualness over breakfast on that fourth day, wondering who she was sitting across from at the moment. She'd woken up next to total dick Norman, but she never knew, from moment to moment. "I'm going to go out and do some stuff. Run some errands. Will you be okay here?"

He blinked at her, looked like he was trying to adjust to the information. Madison was suddenly afraid that she'd put him in an impossible position; it was impossible for any version of Norman she'd met to say he wouldn't be all right without her, regardless of whether it were true.

"It's just," she continued, "It can be boring, I know. I bet you're going stir crazy. I can stick around for a while and go do stuff later if you'd like to talk or something for a little bit first."

He shook his head. "No, it's fine," he said. "I'll shave."

She smiled a little at the idea that this was a major enough undertaking that it would fully occupy his time. "Do you want some library books? I got a card the other day."

He cocked his head, surprised. "Yeah. I can't think of anything specific at the moment. You've seen what's on my shelves. Surprise me. None of those shitty romance paperbacks I know you've snuck in here. Thanks."

"You're so welcome." Sometimes, total dick Norman really was sort of reassuring. "I don't think they carry editions of those Playboy magazines I found under your bed."

"Fuck you." He said it lazily, without real malice, and used the table to haul himself to his feet, puffing a little.

-- Edited by Please Stand By on Wednesday 2nd of March 2011 03:17:43 PM

The morning of the hospital visit arrived, and Madison still hadn't told Norman about it. But she had filled the prescription Carey had given her for whatever tranquilizer it was he'd been "willing to risk;" the name meant nothing to her.

She knew it was the cowardly thing to do, but heading to the FBI and dealing with total dick Norman had used up a lot of her energy. Before breakfast, she convinced him to shower, put on actually clean clothes, nagging at him until he grumpily agreed. She knew he'd be embarrassed, depressed, if he ended up at the hospital dirty. Then she stuck the sedative in with his morning dose of vitamins, assuming he wouldn't notice, and it worked – as usual, he tossed the handful down without question. After he'd finished breakfast, she sat down across from him at the table.

"Norman," she said, "You have to go in to the hospital today."

It was like she'd dunked him in cold water. Immediately, he began to gag and jerk. "No," he choked, shaking his head. "What? No."

"They have to figure out when and how they're going to do the surgery. Help you out. Run some more tests."

"I can't. I, I, I –"

"I just want you to think about it right now," she said, "okay? We can talk about it again in an hour or so, but right now, just think about why you're going to need to go there eventually." It was about as bad as she'd feared; he was gasping, one hand under his protruding belly, the other on his chest. "Relax. Catch your breath."

But depressed Norman was back, working up into full panic mode. She realized she should have done this while he was on the sofa, or in bed, somewhere he could lie down, somewhere he wouldn't hurt himself if he passed out. As the thought hit her, she jumped out of her own seat.

He had both hands on his knees, now. She cautiously worked her arms around his chest while the gasp turned into a more frantic wheeze. "Slow down. Slow down. Deep breaths." She talked him down again, could tell he was getting his head together by the way he began twitching away from her hands.

Finally, he shook her off entirely, as if repulsed, turned to glare at her meaningfully. "I'm not going," he said. "You can't just decide for me."

"Do you agree you'll have to go sometime?"

It took a long time for him to concede: ". . . yes, but that's not the point. You're treating me like a fucking toddler."

"If you go today, you can get it out of the way for now."

He tried to storm to his feet, but failed to reckon with everything that kept him from moving quickly: his sore back, his slightly uncooperative legs, and the added weight that stuck heavily out in front of him. It took him three tries to get up, leveraging his hips under his heavy pregnancy, and the successful one was more of a lurch than anything. He slammed the bedroom door behind him.

When the promised hour was up, she didn't bother to knock on the bedroom door, but opened it quietly. She was surprised to see him sprawled awkwardly face-downwards on the bed, a position he could barely manage at the moment because of the obstacle of his rounded belly. She wasn't surprised, however, that he was dead asleep. He woke a little as she worked his shoes on – an old pair of sneakers that she'd taken the laces out of after rescuing them from the trunk of the car. Not because she was afraid he was going to hang himself with them any more, but because his feet now looked too swollen to wear them with the laces in.

"What's going on?" he mumbled into a pillow. He looked dopey, confused.

"Time to go to the hospital," she said. "Remember, your appointment is today?" His brow furrowed deeply in puzzlement, and Madison felt a little bad, but . . . not that bad. "Come on, I'll help you up."

She started a gentle patter of monologue that he was obviously having a hard time following. She wasn't even sure what she was saying; the important thing was to keep him a few steps behind. "What's today?" he asked, and Madison wondered whether she should tell the doctor whether the dose was too strong, or whether this was, in fact, just about perfect.

"The day we set your appointment for." She handed him his sweatshirt, and he started automatically putting it on, albeit clumsily. "Gonna go get those tests done, get them out of the way, then we can come back home and you can go back to bed."

"Okay, thanks," he said, "I forgot." She decided on just about perfect . He was so doped up that he didn't appear to care at the moment about how he looked. He simply planted one hand on his lower back, the other under his heavy front, and thrust his belly forward emphatically to help himself balance as they worked their way out to the car. Madison was freshly startled at his size: He really had gotten big, like home-stretch-to-labor big. Maybe she hadn't realized until now how much he'd grown again over the last week, maybe she just wasn't used to seeing him when he wasn't trying to hide it.

He squirmed unceasingly on their way to the hospital, leaned the passenger's side seat all the way back, rubbed at his stomach, scratched his crotch, lifted his shirt to let himself stick out.

She had to smile a little at how unselfconscious he was. "You doing okay there, Norman?"

"Oooooooooooooooooooo." He'd spread his legs so far apart it was nearly obscene, arched his back to its limit, lifting his belly from beneath with both hands. It made him look both improbably huge and uncharacteristically maternal. "It's so hard to get comfortable," he complained. She parked close as she could to the hospital doors, helped him out, lent a hand to guide his temporarily-exaggerated waddle on the way in, one arm snaked around his back.

"Yeah," he enthused when she cupped the other hand widely round the base of his round bump to try to keep him from swaying, "Oh, yeah, right there." It was heavy and firm against her palm.

She got him in the front door, but she was unsure about just how steady he was on his feet, and stashed him in the first chair she could find. He was starting to look a little suspicious of her now, uncomfortable, curling up around his unhideable secret. Between his posture now and his earlier sprawl on the bed, Madison was betting that she would hear a lot of bitching about his back later, when the drugs wore off. "Stay here for a second. I'll be right back." He slumped a little, stuck his hands in the pockets of the sweatshirt, and began rubbing his sides through them.

She checked in at the front desk, asked if Doctor Robert Carey could please, please be told they were in the lobby. "He'll want to know. We need to talk to him." She sat next to Norman and put her arm around his shoulders, helping to shield his stretched belly from view. He responded by resting his head on her shoulder, a gesture of closeness she hadn't felt since the day of his suicide attempt, and she remembered that she was doing this because buried somewhere in there was a Norman who wasn't a total dick, and he was worth bringing back. She shyly rubbed at his round bulge as well, and he snuggled a little bit against her.

It didn't take Carey long to appear. He frowned as he spotted them.

"He's sort of wasted," Madison said immediately. "I think maybe he should use a wheelchair."

"I can walk," Norman contributed, without lifting his head from her shoulder.

Carey was less enthralled about Norman's dopiness than Madison had been. "I told you to only give him one."

"I did!"

"When did you give it to him? Did he take anything else? No? Are you sure?"

Madison got defensive. "He wouldn't have come in without it," she said. "I guarantee it."

"It was a low dose. It shouldn't have hit him this hard. Mr. Jayden?" Carey peered curiously into Norman's face.

Norman blinked. "Can I lie down for a little bit?" he asked.

"I have the feeling," Carey responded, "That you're going to, no matter what I say."

Ultimately, they did work Norman into a wheelchair. He was lifting his shirt again to scratch at himself, and Madison pressed it back down for him over his round swell. She hoped he wouldn't remember doing that in public like this; the shame would kill him.

"It itches, the fucker," he said, dreamily. "It's getting bigger."

"Yep," Carey agreed, absentmindedly. "Well, Madison, you can stay if you like, or just come back in about two hours. Not going to be very interesting for you to be here."

"I want to run a few errands," she said, thoughtfully. "I'll be back."

It was more than two hours for her as she buzzed the library again, got a haircut, did some other small things that she'd let pile up. She was looking guiltily at her watch by the time she got back to the hospital.

"I'm looking for Norman Jayden," she said. "He was just here for like some outpatient tests. Where do I go?" They directed her to the appropriate ward. There, she hesitantly asked the next nurse behind a desk, who looked up quickly at the question.

"I hope," the nurse said, "That you're Madison."

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"Mr. Jayden's in room 222. You can just go ahead down there. I'm going to tell Dr. Carey you're here."

Norman was alone in the room, curled up on his side, sleeping palely in a gown. She sat next to him, unsure whether she should wake him. "Norman," she tried. He didn't move.

When he walked in, Carey looked relieved to see her, for a change. "I'm sorry," he began. "I'm not giving him back to you in very good shape."

"What's wrong?" She felt for Norman's hand; he still didn't respond.

"After a while – almost certainly when the lorazepam was wearing off – he had what looked to be like a pretty bad panic attack. We ultimately ended up sedating him again, which I did not want to do. He's going to be sleeping for a little bit. I think you'd better stay with him, if you can manage it. He was . . . very confused about where he was, very upset that you weren't here. Very frightened. I think he might have strained his knee pretty badly, trying to . . . make a run for it. Make sure you ask him about that knee when he wakes up, see if he needs any help with it."

"Oh." She was surprised, reached out to stroke Norman's sleeping face. "Poor Norman. I wasn't expecting that. Half the time he seems like he can't wait to get rid of me. Did you get all the tests done?"

"Well, we got about as much done as possible with him being largely unconscious and generally uncooperative. Some things I still need to wait on, some, I know now. Shall I tell you what we found, or would you like to wait for him to wake up so you don't have to sit through it twice?"

"Why don't you just tell me," she said. "Maybe I'd better tell him, when we get home. I doubt he'll want to stay when he wakes up."

"That's really not –" Carey started, then stopped again. "You know what? Fine. I can do it that way. God knows he doesn't need any more stress today, and I don't think I do, either."

He started talking; she got him to slow down after about five minutes so she could start taking notes. It wasn't all bad. He left.

* * *

Back in his car, Robert Carey let out a long, strained exhalation. He was frightened now, too. That voice on his phone had promised dark, dark things if he didn't do as it instructed in his treatment, and it had known enough about his life and needs to make him believe it. More than enough. He liked his practice and his family and his skin just the way they were, and he was deeply invested in keeping them that way. He could stand feeling like he was acting under orders.

He tried to push aside his guilt – at least the orders didn't seem immediately harmful, hadn't asked him to betray the Hippocratic Oath. It wasn't as though he had an ideal plan for dealing with a pregnant man, anyway, so doing what he'd been told to do was at least a solution. He only had one gnawing regret: when Norman Jayden had begun to emerge from the haze of his sedation, he'd become first difficult, then directly combative with medical personnel. Carey, struggling with irritation and fear, had done what he'd been told to do should the patient attempt to refuse treatment: leant down and whispered in his ear, "Ferox said you have to."

The words meant almost nothing to him, but the uncontrollable explosion of fear that followed, which Carey had more or less truthfully reported to Madison Paige, had done two things for him. For one, he'd been immediately remorseful, wished he could take it back; they'd been unable to calm Jayden down without chemical restraint, which the pregnant man had again reacted to more dramatically than he should have, passing out rather than slowing down. Carey had decided now not to ever utter the phrase again, that there must be better ways of managing the situation.

For another, Carey mused, as he put his car in reverse, preparing to return to his clinic, it had strengthened his resolve to follow the instructions of the voice on the phone. Whatever, whoever Jayden was so afraid of, it was something Robert Carey had no interest in investigating.

* * *

Fortunately, Madison had brought one of her new library books in, so the wait wasn't totally interminable. Eventually, Norman began to shift in bed, then to jerk restlessly. He moaned, and Madison decided to simply get him up.

"Hey," she said, squeezing his arm. "Hey, you're dreaming. You're okay." She had to rub his back a little before he managed to get his eyes partway open.

He shivered. "I'm cold," he said, then, "Where am I?"

"Hospital," she replied. "We can go home as soon as you're ready."

He blinked slowly at her. "Did you drug me this morning?" he asked.

Well, that hadn't taken long for him to figure out. "Yeah."

"You shouldn't have done that." He wasn't quite awake enough to blow his top at her. Yet. He started wrestling his way upwards, flinched as he drew his legs up. "Oh, shit, my knee. What happened to my knee?"

"I think you fell and hurt it," she said carefully. "I wasn't actually here for that part. Do you think you can stand up?"

"I think I'm not going to spend another minute here, no matter what." He was testing his leg against the floor, flinching. "Ah, fuck. Where are my clothes?"

"Jesus, Norman. Hold on. Maybe someone can give us an Ace bandage or something."

The shy nurse in the hallway did them one better – a soft knee brace. "Doctor Carey said I should try to rustle up something like this. Just try to stay off it," she concluded. "Let Doctor Carey know if it gets worse." Norman was sullenly silent, refusing Madison's help as he limped his way out to the car.

-- Edited by Please Stand By on Wednesday 2nd of March 2011 03:32:25 PM

Norman's middle slowly shoved its way out of the rest of his body like a blister; because his narrow pelvis had so little room, he burst right out the front with every ounce. He was awake now, sometimes memorizing the handful of ancient files he'd brought home months ago, sometimes hungrily consuming news reports, sometimes relentlessly pestering Madison about whatever little story it was she was managing to still write and submit remotely to keep up an income. Fed and alert now, he was starved for stimulation. However, his body was beginning to distract him in new ways.

He began to stick out so much that it was absolute hell on what used to be his abdominal muscles. Madison caught him a few times in increasingly awkward positions – stretching on all fours or nearly upside-down on the sofa – as he tried to ease the strain. His knee was healing, but still painful enough to be a problem. She gently asked him if there was any way she could help, was refused, pretended not to see the other strange ways he posed himself to try to relieve the discomfort. His belly exploded with pain and pounds, while the rest of him continued to be slight, lanky. He quickly became so disproportionately large in front that he had visible trouble standing up from the sofa, even walking. He was constantly wracked by the pain in his hips as they refused to give way to the weight, had problems moving from room to room again, as when he'd been starving. Except for the fact that his pregnancy didn't – probably couldn't – drop down in front, he looked to Madison's eye as though he might deliver at any moment now. He was roundly swollen, visibly ripe. But there were still about six weeks to go before the due date Carey had scheduled.

Madison went out and bought extra pillows, littered them around the apartment like confetti so he could always find one to shove between his spread thighs, behind his arching back. Every week, she got him back in to see Carey, and every week, it was a struggle to get him out the door. He'd moan, whine, claim he didn't feel well enough to walk out to the car, claim truthfully he was intensely embarrassed by having to waddle his way there in broad daylight. He refused to wear a seat belt, kept himself distracted on the way by holding desperately to his stomach as though he could somehow miraculously push everything back in. They kept making it to the office, though neither one of them was ever happy by the time they got there. Carey always thoughtfully put aside an exam room for them early, both so Norman wouldn't have to sit in the waiting room with patients waiting for the other doctors in the practice, and so he'd have the time to try to reacclimate himself to his surroundings, panic a little and then calm down a bit – never fully – before the exam. Even with that accommodation, Norman was hideously miserable. As he began being unable to hide his enormous pregnancy, was forced to waddle widely to keep the weight manageable, he kept the hood up over his face every time they went.

The doctor was increasingly reserved during their visits. He never asked if they wanted to hear the babies' heartbeats, feel where their heads were, discuss the wildly varying fundal height as the twins shifted from week to week. Madison ached a little to hear it, held her tongue for the sake of peace. Norman had no interest in seeing his babies on the ultrasound again, and didn't want to hear about their health. He'd doze, scratch his stretching skin, stare at the ceiling, only respond to questions when Madison snapped at him to do so. She had to do almost all of the talking about how he was doing, digest all of the information they were told about what to expect and how to cope.

Because the doctor said so little about it, Madison could tell that Carey was increasingly uncomfortable with just how much Norman was still growing. She wondered if Norman could tell, too, but he was very difficult to read. More time passed, and Norman began having difficulty coping physically with how much his pregnancy was stressing his entire body. He puffed, moaned, even – in an unprecedented move – let Madison try to massage the entire strained surface of his swelling belly to try to ease the strain. He looked not just due now, but maybe overdue, so fully expanded that every time he pulled a face of discomfort, he already looked like he must be in labor. Carey said he thought it would probably be safe to do the cesarean now, but that they had to wait a little bit longer, "because the gestational age is so hard to" – Madison didn't even care what the reason was, because she was so consumed by helping Norman do so much. All she heard was that he was going to get bigger, and heavier, and more awkward, and probably crankier. She wasn't even sure he'd heard that much; he never listened very well during the appointments.

Norman entered a period of such intense discomfort that he didn't care when Madison caught him trying to stretch on all fours, let her try to help by shoving pillows under him and rubbing his back in that position. He had to do it with his legs wide in order to manage it at all. Being on his hands and knees let his enormously mounded belly stretch outwards in directions that were unexpectedly more comfortable, even though it made his spine curve dramatically to let all of that heaviness hang straight down. Every time he stretched, it seemed like he was unable to straighten up a little bit less, as though his belly was forcing apart the bottom of his ribcage and the top of his pelvis. He was about fifty pounds up from his fighting weight, and the rest of his body was still thin enough that it was clear that almost all of those pounds were concentrated right in front of him – all baby, no hips, no breasts, no buttocks. That heavy bulge was so big it boggled his mind. He was bursting out of his clothes again, nearly bursting out of his skin, and all he could do was let it happen, sometimes groaning softly as he rubbed at his expanding sides.

He didn't really sit any more, he moved – with difficulty, and frequently, only with Madison's help – between standing up and lying down. He slept with five pillows, some of them helping his back, some of them helping keep his legs apart so his muscles didn't complain so badly. She tried to keep up her habit at night of keeping one hand spread around his heavy pregnancy to feel movement, and sometimes managed it. But he was genuinely restless at night now, as he'd originally claimed to be – had to get up to urinate often, woke at the emphatic movement from inside him, sometimes told her to keep her hands to her own goddamned self. His loose sweatpants were forcefully pushed so low now that only the pregnancy itself, swelling ponderously downwards, blocked a full view of his pubic bone.

He tried to sleep on his back on the sofa once, to shift the pressure on to different muscles. It made his tight belly rise up and out of him like a slowly bursting bubble. As he flinched underneath it, new things began aching sharply; he first ignored them as a different kind of unpleasantness, then he couldn't remember why they were hurting, then he was unconscious. He woke with vomit down his front and a panicking Madison pressing a bag of frozen corn to the back of his neck. He coughed. More stinging vomit left his mouth.

"Wake up, Norman," Madison said. She wiped at his face, frantically. "Stop screaming. Wake up. Where does it hurt?"

"My leg," he said, before he'd even consciously realized it was true. There was a sharp, piercing pain shooting straight through his right hip and thigh, which she'd painfully just rolled him over onto after he'd begun choking in his sleep. "Other side." She wrestled with his hips to help him turn over while he clutched at his right side; his leg hurt too much to move it.

"Okay," she said. "Look at me." He struggled to grimace into her face. "Hospital?"

"No," he said, grabbing at his thigh, which was now throbbing, but no longer felt like he was being stabbed. "I'm okay now. Did a dumb thing. It was hurting, but I kept doing it anyway. Jesus, I hope this is my puke."

"Tell me your birthday."

"August fourteenth. What the fuck is the corn for? Jesus Christ my leg hurts. I think I pinched a nerve or something."

"The corn is for waking you up, you asshole. I was improvising."

Once Norman proved he could still make sense, Madison calmed down, helped him limp back to the bed so she could clean the sofa. He was such a mess from rolling back and forth in what he'd thrown up that she simply stripped him of his shirt and handed him a damp dishrag to clean himself up the rest of the way while she left to wash her hands. His half-naked body was freakishly startling, with the ever-larger globe distorting everything between his narrow chest and hips; even when he was lying so that his belly was settled to the side rather than downwards, his elastic-waisted pants were barely holding on to their grip. He looked like a garter snake that had swallowed a grapefruit.

"God, never again," he said, chucking the foul-smelling rag towards the hamper. "I promise. Jesus, why didn't that fucking doctor say anything about not sleeping on my back?"

"He –" It wasn't even worth it to argue that Carey had, Madison decided. That he'd even tried to propose sciatica as a reason for the increasing pain, during one of the sessions that Norman never listened to. With that in view, she also decided it wasn't worth it to try to drag him in to the hospital. "I'll get you some water."

Norman's mercilessly growing bulge ruled his life, everything about what he did. He was hungry all the time, but, frustratingly, his stomach was so increasingly pressed for space that he had trouble eating enough to satisfy himself.

Madison caught him actually eating spoonfuls of sugar out of the canister one day; he was furious when she started laughing, but it pretty much made her day. It didn't take much to make her day at this point – she'd seize on to anything.

"Oh, god, Norman," she giggled. "It's okay, don't be embarrassed. I'm sure you're hungry as hell, and you've got every right to be. It's just so weird. I guess it's probably not that good for you, either. I'll get you some candy the next time I go out. Or cookies. What do you want?"

He wiped angrily at his sticky mouth, admitted: "Snickers."

"Ooooo, good choice." He still looked like he wanted to stab her. "No, don't be mad." She wrapped him in her arms so quickly that he didn't have time to protest. It was a little difficult, with his overdue-sized bulge blocking access, but it would take more than that to stop her. "Remember how you're a human and everything? That's important. I love it. I love when you show me that you know you need things, because that tells me you're okay." She pulled back to look at his softening face, could tell he could feel her looking, though his eyes were on the floor now. "Do you think I'm going to hell and back for you because I think you're an asshole? I'm not that stupid. You're okay. You're a person. You're a good person. You. Are. Allowed. To want. Snickers."

He wouldn't answer her verbally, but he held her very close, for a very long time. He cried a little, and she squeezed him without mentioning it, knew it would embarrass him.

She could tell he wasn't finished being depressed for the day, but it felt so good at the moment to be the person who was taking care of him, she didn't question it. He was drooping badly by the end of that crying jag, and she helped him waddle back into bed without letting go of his wide expanse. She hugged him with as much love as her body could express, went out to invest money in full-size Snickers bars.

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She wouldn't tell him where she hid the candy, and he couldn't stay on track long enough to find them, but she frequently slipped him a few candy bars during the day. It was mostly when she decided she really needed someone to talk to; the sugar rush they gave him was consistently the thing most successful in giving him enough energy to focus through an entire conversation. They shared their stories comfortably now, more than Norman had ever shared in his life with any one person – not secret things, but the relatively mundane world of old friends, drinking stories, adventures, bad apartments, crazy families. Their universe of two was solidifying.

He constantly had to pee, did it sitting down, cracking his back, cautiously wrapping his hands around the belly that forced his legs apart on the seat.

His weight gain had slowed, though he was still ballooning outwards. He was putting on pounds, still rapidly, not as dramatically as during those first few weeks coming back from the brink of starvation. The new clothes Madison had got him began to squeeze even more tightly around his middle like a second skin, then began to creep away from it. She got him bigger ones; they hugged his belly, hung loosely off his arms and legs. The bulky grey hoodie still fit comfortably, but no longer served as camouflage to hide exactly what was happening to him. Nothing could have, bar a rain poncho. His body became chillingly alien to him, distorted, uncontrollable.

His last month of growth was increasingly uncomfortable, on all levels. Madison began helping him more and more with little things – putting on socks, getting out of bed in the morning. Everything that wasn't his belly started to shrink and weaken again, as though he were back on his starvation diet, no matter how much he tried to eat, even after she gave up and handed over the bag of Snickers. At the last weigh-in before he started refusing them because he found them so depressing, he'd reached over sixty pounds up from his usual weight. He would crouch on all fours until his wrists ached, trying to keep all those pounds from putting so much pressure on his back, then let Madison help him arrange himself so he could sleep. Most of the time, after the protracted process of getting him into the most comfortable position in the bed, she would end up curled up asleep around his back or his front, her head breezing his spine or his clavicles. They'd grip each other in their sleep: like tree frogs, geckos, with clinging toes and fingers, finding stability in each other's warm bodies.

Three weeks before the scheduled cesarean, after the checkup he'd bitched his way to, Norman excused himself from Carey's office to go pee. Again. Both Carey and Madison silently observed the long, hard struggle Norman had to perform to get himself to his feet, and he waddled his way out with his hands pressing at that wicked curve in his back.

Madison looked at the doctor. "Should he be that big?" she asked. "That's . . . I mean, I've never been pregnant, but I feel like he shot way past looking due weeks ago. Even for twins. He just doesn't . . . look right."

"Not a lot of rules for just how this is supposed to go." But Carey's eyes had dropped to his desk, and Madison realized with sudden shock that he was lying to her. He was hiding something.

"Oh, no," she said, not in dismay, but fury. "No, no. What the fuck is going on?"

Carey was baring his teeth now. "You're right, Madison. Those babies are growing much more than I would have anticipated. I usually . . . look, I'd like to just even take care of this today. That man looks absolutely miserable. But I can't. We've got to wait for that due date."

"Why?"

"Because we do."

It was an intensely maddening response, and Madison probably would have started screaming at him if Norman hadn't waddled his way back in, now with both hands trying to give support to his jutting belly.

"Tell me we're almost done here," he announced, and Madison knew she had about thirty seconds to start towards the car before he got mean.

"This conversation," she shot at Carey, "Is not over."

But it was. Carey became very, very good at evading her when she tried to call him, and she was highly distracted almost all of the time helping Norman with extremely important things, like rolling over in bed, or picking up something he'd dropped.

His bursting belly kept bursting.

Madison offered to help him shower, but he was still ridiculously shy in front of her, furtive about the wide heft of his naked belly, preferred to confront it alone in the bathroom, even though he let her hug it at night, and even though the process of getting himself clean was becoming laborious. He slipped a few times in the shower, distressed his already-sore major muscles. The last straw was wrenching his back so badly Madison had to help him out of the bathtub. She was polite as hell about it once he reluctantly yelled for her: she'd been waiting anxiously just outside the bathroom door for the moment he admitted he needed a hand. That one took some serious immobilization and massage before he was even able to move around on his own again. After that, he started to shower sitting down, not happy about it, but at least his shame was his own.

"Jesus," he said, considering himself in the mirror one morning in nothing but his underwear. "So huge." He turned sideways to investigate his profile. He'd started leaning heavily back all the time he wasn't lying down, needed to in order to counterbalance the heavy globe he carried in front of him. The increasing bend in his spine made his belly jut out dramatically, its dimensions emphasized by the fact that the rest of him was so lean, a thinning runner's body, no ass to speak of. He'd long since passed the point where he looked like he was smuggling a basketball under his skin; his exploded middle looked overinflated, unnaturally distended, a heavy zeppelin. He laced his fingers beneath it for the moment, pulling up, trying to ease the strain on his back. He was no longer just undisguisably pregnant, he looked cruelly overdue. Though Carey had commented that Norman's hormones were definitely out of whack, his chest had remained flat, bony, was getting bonier now. It was as though his body needed to pour so much effort into letting his mysterious womb expand that it had simply given up entirely on the idea of breasts as well. He missed his penis. Oh, god, did he miss it. He knew it was still down there, somewhere, but hadn't actually seen it in ages.

He was nearly at the finish line, now, couldn't tell if that terrified or pleased him. Two and a half weeks to go.