Ancient Chinese Remedy (Miles)

If there was one thing that extensive online research had taught Miles, it was that healthy babies needed exposure to a broad range of foods.

Yet when he had sampled Ghosty's snacks for quality during knitting breaks, what he found was... whole grain crackers. Little baggies of carrots. Cheese that actually came from a cow, with only a step or two of processing in-between. Low-fat yogurt.

It had rapidly become apparent that Ms. Csendes was neglecting an entire section of the food pyramid, as established by the USDA itself. And worse: the part she had chopped off was the very apex.

This simply would not do. As a concerned friend and captor, he had taken immediate steps to remedy the situation: McGrease King's Double Bypass. Kentucky Fried Possum's Namesake six-pack. Burrito Gong's Artery Opacitating Wrap. At least once a week, Miles made sure to take Ghosty out for exercise and a proper oiling.

Today's special:

"Have you ever been to the Dragon Inn? They've got some of the best fried ice cream this side of Chinatown." The panther man said, sticking his black-furred face in the door with a fanning of whiskers.

"Nice muumuu," he added. The internet had taught him all about pregger apparel, too.

"Not a long walk at all!" The panther man assured his balloon-like ward, taking her arm like a true gentleman as he led her out of her cage. "A bit of a subway ride, but the station is really close to the restaurant."

Fairly close, anyway. Reasonably close. Besides, taking her for walks was part of his solemnly sworn duty: if even dogs deserved walks, then his Ghosty deserved extra walking.

The restaurant was over in—surprise!—China Town. He'd only been there once, but it had been good. Definitely memorable. Even if its exact location... wasn't. But it was totally all right: they asked around, and the timing really worked out—they ended up taking their seats after the lunch crowd had left, and before the dinner crowd had even started thinking about what they were in the mood for. Really, he couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried.

"I recommend the lomien," the panther said, his stubby fingers holding up a menu to his nose. Even with the glasses, there was some squinting required. Some of their ingredient lists were awfully fine-printy. "It comes out on a plate this big. Seriously, it's enough to feed four."

Or three, if they'd worked up a good appetite.

"A bus?" The panther man echoed, his whiskers brushing the menu as he tried to uncover the secrets of the Tofu Pheonix. Maybe he should look into bifocals... "Sure, we can take one on the way back, if that's what you want." It had peanuts, and seemed to be vegetarian. He could make that much out. Could he eat a purely vegetarian meal in this form? That was... a question he'd never considered before. His normal dietary habits did not generally include tofu.

Or oceans.

His furry face appeared over the top of the menu, following their waiter's gaze. Johnny, a part of his brain filled in; the teen's name was Johnny. He played chess. Calley couldn't remember where he'd picked up that trivia, but that hardly seemed important.

There was a whale, under that muumuu.

Rounded ears sprang to attention as black whiskers shied back. Blue eyes narrowed to slits—no, went round—no, back to slits—as the panther man's eyes tried to refocus behind their square lenses.

"Was it... something you ate?" He finally ventured, almost hopefully.

"This is true," the panther said, his voice neutrally dubious. She hadn't eaten anything. So maybe it was the reverse: maybe she'd just worked up an appetite on the way over. A healthy, stomach-rumbling, world-destroying appetite.

"Sweet and sour chicken for me, please." The vegetarian thing: he was not going to risk it. Indigestion... was suddenly something he could picture all too well.

With the waiter gone, and the restaurant mostly deserted, it was time for Mr. Awkward Silence to come visiting.

"I'm making a scarf now," he said, to break it. "It's a lot easier than the hat." The hat had been hard. But Cafas' head had needed more pink, and Calley had manned up and knitted him some. "I'm not entirely sure what colors I'm using, though." The color blindness: this form had it. "Maybe you can tell me lat—err, are you feeling okay? The table is turning white." Also, her knuckles. But the table would if it could.

Blue eyes dilated to galaxy-sized pools of black. Whiskers and ears both lay flat, trying to hide as deep in his short fur as they could. His heart beat hit cat levels of speed, in a human sized body.

He wasn't ready for this.

"Wait. Just... Wait. I'll call Lori." Ghost wasn't the only one standing, suddenly, nor the only one dizzily gripping the table for balance. Deep breaths: good to take. The panther man released the table, and started patting down his vest and pants for his phone. His cell phone. His wonderful, wonderful—

It was here somewhere he knew it was he always had his cell phone except when he didn't—

"Okay. Okay. Just... hold that thought. I'm going to go use their phone."

It was okay. There were a lot of times when he couldn't carry a phone; unlike most people his age, he actually remembered the numbers in his contact list. He just needed something to mash them into.

Johnny was back, with an oversized black plastic serving tray balanced precariously as he stood in the kitchen doorway, staring.

"Phone," the panther man said.

Wordlessly, the teen pointed to a faded, grease-spotted relic on the wall by the counter.

Years of childhood gaming came back to him, as he button-mashed like a Street Fighters champ: Combo! Faust Pharmaceuticals, Lori's direct line!

"Pick up pick up pick up—"

As every gamer knew, chanting was the key to ultimate victory.

The voicemail went something like this:

"Why hello, Lori," began a certain voice, its words carefully enunciated behind sharper-than-human teeth, its casual tone somewhat more forced than usual, "you know those buns you had in the oven? They're done."

Except less polite, from both the message leaver, and the voices in the background. In fact, there may have been quite a bit of impoliteness going on, from the time the message began to the time the phone was audibly fumbled back into place.

With the phone back on its hook, the panther man was left to face his fears.

...He hadn't known that watching a pregnant woman strangle a waiter with his own uniform shirt was a fear of his. It was good to learn these things about ourselves.

"Ghost, you need to calm down. Deep breaths." His own advice: he tried to take it.

Deep. Breaths. And a gentle, self-sacrificing attempt to loosen her grip on poor Johnny.

There were happy drunks, and sad drunks, and angry drunks, and sleep-with-your-brother drunks.

While Calley could not vouch for what kind of drunk Mrs. Maya Csendes was, she was clearly an angry birther. His schonz: it experienced its own contraction, towards his brain pan. The panther man stumbled back a step, more from surprise and oww and Ghosty had hit him than from pain. Ghosty was maybe not Sam's best student, in self defense class. Or maybe she'd just gotten a little behind on her daily pushups, when her belly had gotten yogaball-sized.

"Ghost, I—umm, I do not think that was very constructive, for the birth-giving process. Maybe we should find somewhere for you to just lie down and... breathe?" Breathing. Breathing always seemed important, in movies where someone gave birth.

Of course, in movies, the birth scene would be over by now, and a pair of perfectly groomed infants would be cooing in their happy mother's arms. Keeping her hands busy, so they couldn't make with the punching. And his schnoz.

Oww.

The panther man hovered just outside of further injury range, helpful advice from cinema and television tumbling from his mouth.