Mihawk/Shanks (6)
(A Different Kind Of Starvation)
Mihawk sighed as he heard his mate rush to sit up from their bed, once again, and then came the vomiting, right on cue.
He grunted, before pushing himself off the bed and walking over to Shank's side. He bent down on his knees beside the red head, and rubbed his back as the other dry heaved.
Once the spazzing in Shanks body stopped he put his hand around Shanks chest and pulled him back into him. Shanks closed his eyes and leaned back into his mate gratefully, too physically exhausted to attempt to hold himself up.
Shanks let his head fall back onto his mate's shoulder and sighed as his hand drifted up to cover his abdomen.
They just sat there a few seconds before Mihawk worked his arms under his mate and carefully lifted him up. Shanks groaned at the movement, as it set off sparks of nausea in his already empty stomach and spun their room like a top in front of his eyes.
Mihawk sighed as Shanks buried his head into the swordsman's chest with a slight whine, before he walked over to the bed and laid his mate onto it.
He exhaled as he stood to look down at Shanks, whose face, after a second, scrunched up, before he turned on his side with his arms around his stomach.
Mihawk grunted before turning around and walking out their bedroom.
It had been a week since Mihawk had come back to the Red Force, and Shanks was now 8 weeks along.
Shanks really loved his child already, but the nausea he could do without.
It had been bad. Shanks had thought it would pass so he hadn't tried to alert the ship doctor about it. That didn't mean his crew didn't see him occasionally with his head over the railing, but they only saw part of it because that was all he wanted them to see.
He loved his crew, but they really could be worry worts. Especially after Shanks figured out that the smell of oranges usually made him start running to the ship railing. Once the crew had figured it out, he still didn't know how they knew, the only one he told had been his mate, they had dumped all the oranges on board, into the sea.
It helped, for about two days or so, and then the sickness had returned with a vengeance, and nothing seemed to be the trigger.
Shanks was suffering. He was constantly waking up in the middle of the night to empty his stomach. Had to repeat the process at least three times a day, and again when he woke up in the mornings.
Mihawk seeing him suffer, wanted to drag the ship doctor to the captain, but Shanks had rebuffed the idea saying it'd probably pass in a couple days.
It didn't.
It got to the point where food had started to become unappetizing. Even more so when all he could think when he took a bite was that he would be tasting it again later. As gross as that thought was.
He was so tired, and exhausted. Constantly throwing his stomach out of his body was taking a lot out of him.
It was painful too. Especially since his body couldn't decide if it was hungry or nauseous. He knew he needed to eat, even had occasional sparks of strong hunger cramps before they turned to vicious nausea at the thought of food, if not for him at least for the baby. But he just couldn't bring himself to eat.
And it was taking its toll on him.
Shanks had drifted off slightly in his exhaustion, but hadn't been able to fall any deeper into sleep, when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and heard someone's voice above him. Even if he couldn't exactly make out the words.
He just grunted and let them do whatever. He didn't care at this point. He just wanted to sleep.
Mihawk, who had went and got the ship doctor, stood by the door watching as Shanks just later on his back, with his eyes still closed, and let the doctor do what he needed.
The doctor sighed before pulling out a needle from the small bag he had brung with him and placed it in his lap as he handled Shanks arm closer to him.
He watched the doctor rub his thumb over the crook in Shanks elbow for a few minutes before picking up the needle and placing it where his thumb had been. He drew some blood before extracting the needle, caping it, and putting it back into his bag.
Mihawk and the doctor though were briefly alarmed at how pale Shanks had turned from loosing such a small amount. "Ok. I'm assuming here, but how much has he truly eaten this past week, and how much of it has he kept down?" The doctor's voice came off a little panicked.
At the doctors tone, Mihawk clenched his fists. Something was wrong with his mate. "He tried to eat every day. He had trouble doing so. I think he was only able to eat about half of a normal portion and he usually ended up only keeping probably a third of that."
The doctor whipped his head around. "And you didn't think to come get me!?"
Mihawk's eyebrows furrowed and he growled. "I wanted to, but he kept refusing and insisted that he was fine. All I was able to do was make sure I could help him."
The doctor glared for a moment before reluctantly backing down with a sigh. "He's missing a lot of nutrients for himself and the baby. I'm surprised he hasn't passed out yet, and if this had gone on much longer one or both of them could have died." Mihawk swallowed hard. "I'll have to set up an IV and work on a formula that will help his nausea and vomiting. I'll be right back." The doctor quickly got up and ran out of the room towards the infirmary.
Mihawk swallowed before sighing and sitting on the edge of the bed to glide his hand through Shanks' hair.
The doctor came back and worked quickly to set up and IV in Shanks arm, before stepping back.
"He needs to sleep. The IV will give him what he needs and keep him asleep for a while. I'll work on the formula while he's like this, but if he wakes up before I'm finished he is not allowed to leave this bed. Got that."
Mihawk nodded and the doctor stood there for a second, watching his captain, and rubbing his hands though his hair in frustration.
He nodded once again before walking out of the captain's quarters.
Mihawk sighed. This was only the 8th week.
