The Soup

"Hello, macho man!" I pushed the door open with my foot and stepped inside the room, trying my best to balance the tray in my hands. "I brought your whiny ass some food so you can quit crying now."

"How can you speak to me like that! You have no idea what it feels like to be shot. It hurts!" Marco glared at me from his place in the bed where he was surrounded by a mountain of pillows on all sides. He looked incredibly comfy, but I knew it was all an act.

"I was stabbed at age nine and still didn't whine as much as you are right now. Get a grip!" He silently cursed me out and adjusted his position as I began to unload the contents of the tray to his bedside table. Seeing as it was seven in the evening and he hadn't come out of his room since lunch, I took it upon myself to create some soup and sandwiches for him to partake in. I wasn't very sure if soup and sandwiches was an Italian thing or not, so I just made gazpacho because it was the closest thing to Italian food that I knew how to make.

"What's this?" He looked down at the tray with a disgusted face, scooping up the soup and letting it fall back in. "This is cold."

"It's gazpacho. I made some cucumber onion and provolone sandwiches to accompany and added bean chips but those are for myself. There's mustard on the side if you like mustard on your sandwiches, I Don't know. You guys don't have yellow mustard anywhere in this house?" My right eyebrow was probably through the roof and my hands were on my hips. What kind of swines didn't have regular yellow mustard anywhere?

"Yellow mustard?"

"Yes, I could only find Dijon mustard, which is fine, considering it goes well with the cucumber, but no yellow mustard anywhere? Unseemly," I waved my hand and kicked off my sandals, crawling to get into bed with him whilst still being mindful of the soup in his tray.

"Katarina what the hell is this atrocity? This isn't food," he picked up the bowl of soup. "Isn't gazpacho a Spanish dish?"

"Yes, and it's very nutritious so eat it," my hands dove under the blankets in search of the remote, palpating around to find it. I knew it was around here somewhere because when I opened the door, I caught sight of him hiding it quickly. "Where's the remote?"

"Get your hand off my leg," he growled, moving his leg to shake my hand off his thigh. That's just how I knew he was faking preferential treatment. That should have hurt his side.

"Sorry, but I can't find it. Where'd you put it?" I brought my hand back out and pulled the blankets open, horrified to find him in a jockstrap under there. The blankets came back down and I slapped a hand over my mouth to hide my giggling. I thought he was more of a boxers type of person. Who would have known?

"What?" His eyebrows furrowed and he looked concerned. "Why are you laughing?" Tears were beginning to pool in my eyes from the effort to contain myself, but it was becoming near impossible. "What?"

"I saw your ass crack and you're smoother than me," my words came out shaky, and my lungs felt like they were about to cave in. "Do you wax?"

"Wha—" his face turned red. "Get out!" His pointer finger directed me towards the door, but the impulse to point seemed to have really done a number on him because he flinched and hissed in pain.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Don't exert yourself. Here," I took the bowl from him and adjusted the pillows behind his back to make sure his weight was properly supported. "Just eat and tell me where the remote is."

"Over there," he pointed towards the pillow behind me, and I grinned after producing the remote successfully. "Are you done with your victims?"

"I like to think of them as visitors. No I'm not done, but the rest can wait until tomorrow," the bowl of chips came onto my lap and I nibbled on one as I navigated the remote. "What's your vpn key?"

"We don't have a vpn," he denied, almost like he thought me a fool.

"Please, I've seen at least three streaming services that are restricted to the United States on the televisions in this house. What's your vpn key?"

"Four, eight, zero, four, one."

The app unlocked and I clicked on a random app to stream anything on there. The only thing that was heard in the room for a while was me laughing, Marco eating, and the show playing. Before I knew it, his spoon was clanging on the bowl, which signified he was done.

"It was good, wasn't it?" I asked without looking at him, still munching on my bean chips. "Go on, you can praise me. I deserve it after the month of hell you've put me through."

"It wasn't good, I just ate it because this bullet wound needs to heal as fast as possible," he leaned back with his arms behind his head, and I had the urge to push him off the bed. Ungrateful little son of a—

"Fantastic, are you full?" I picked up the tray and moved off the bed to take it back to the kitchen. "I can get you something else if you'd like."

"Bring me a lasagne." What?

"A whole lasagne? That could take hours," this was definitely abuse of power on his part. Lasagne? At this hour? He wanted nightmares, for sure.

"I have time. Go on," he shooed me away, which earned a scowl from me and a slam of the door for good measure, that little weasel.