Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: This one makes a little more sense if you've read Taste, but if you've seen the tag to Sweet Revenge it also makes sense.
I've always wondered why the smell of vomit always makes you want to puke? It's not a nice smell, it's true, but I've smelt worse things during my time as a detective and yet nothing makes me want to puke more than the smell of vomit. Although I don't need the smell right now to churn my insides.
It was the food.
The doctor gave me a little lecture this morning after the first round of vomiting, over the dangers of eating heavy food on top of painkillers. He even accused me of drinking wine, but I couldn't help smirking when he got the results back declaring no alcohol in my system. That didn't last long; I was all ready to throw some words of triumph at him when instead I threw up over my blanket.
I wish I were coming down with a cold. With the amount of water I got drenched with you'd think I'd come down with at least a case of the sniffles, but no, I get sick instead.
I wish Hutch were here, although I wouldn't be surprised if he's suffering through a hangover right now. He was drunk even before he turned up.
I don't regret what happened last night. It was the best night I'd had since the shooting. The whole atmosphere had helped me to envision myself somewhere else, sat in a restaurant with Hutch, savouring our meal. The smell of veal tickling our nostrils, tempting us to dig in. Other smells join our nasal platter; roasted potatoes, steamed cabbage and gravy.
I can almost smell then now, which is unfortunate. My meagre stomach contents tosses like a salad and I have to purse my lips so hard together that they hurt to prevent the dry heaves from starting up again.
That's the fortunate thing about hospitals, everything is so clean and sterilised it's hard for any bad smells to penetrate their defences. But the nurse hasn't come round to empty my emesis bowl after my recent round of vomiting and even turning away from it doesn't help. The smell is flying all around me, insulting my nostrils and leaving me begging for a can of air freshener.
If I had the energy I'd walk over to the window and let in some fresh spring air, but since turning onto my left side is tiring enough I doubt I'd make it out of bed before collapsing.
I guess I have little choice but lie here and endure.
I hear the door open behind me and I hope it's the nurse come to take away the horrid puke bowl. I can't really hear her footsteps, but I can smell her perfume. It's not very feminine, which makes me wonder if it's even a nurse. The intruder comes around to my side and I see its Hutch. He's giving me that sympathy smile.
"This is the thanks I get for making a wonderful meal," he says, stretching his smile out a little, before heading over to the window to let in some cleansing air.
"Wasn't the food," I lie. "It was the painkillers. Damn things don't like my choice of cuisine." Whether he's buying it I can't be sure, but he sits down on the edge of the bed and carefully lifts me into his arms.
"Guess I'll have to check with them first the next time I make you dinner." He says as he lies down on the bed, hitching me up so I can lay my head against his chest and breath in a lungful of his scent. He's shirt's been freshly washed, but it's spliced with his cologne. Put them both together and you get Hutch.
The smell is welcoming and if I focus enough I can't smell the vomit anymore.
"You smell good." I mutter. Hutch is silent, but I feel his hand rub along my shoulders.
"I do?"
"Yeah," I smile and inhale deeply, nuzzling my nose into his shirt. "Thanks"
