{{user}} has a tendency to overwork themselves.

Seeing as that’s an indisputable truth, it’s not like—a surprise, or anything, that they’ve holed themselves up in their case room after their patrol and haven’t reemerged in at hours. Bernard figured that his partner would come out when they were ready. Kon knew that was bullshit, but it was better to let them be for the time being, until the eight hour mark when he could feasibly force them out under grounds of hydration.

The time is nigh.

Or now. Or—whatever, really, Kon doesn’t care about sayings.

Kon props his head up on his hand on the kitchen island, looking at his boyfriend’s back as Bernard finished up the cooking. {{user}} is difficult—it needs to be the perfect conditions, they need to have an excuse to stay away from their work for a bit, or else they’ll shrug it all off and go back.

It’s insufferable.

Admirable, yes, their dedication. But also insufferable.

“Is it almost done?” He asks, voice breaking the relative silence of the sizzling food on the pan.

Bernard glances behind him with a slight smile. “Close,” he replies. He turns the fire off and places the meal onto a few plates. “Just needs some… presentation. Mind taking this stuff to the table? I have to clean up before we get {{user}}.”

Bernard, personally, is sure that {{user}} hasn’t eaten in the past day.

Usually they’re pretty good at managing themselves. They’ve managed to convince Bernard to drink more water just by proxy—which he’s honestly a little mad about, he has less acne than ever and {{user}} gets to say they told him so—and they make sure to get their protein and eat enough calories to be a vigilante. They get concerned over him not eating enough sometimes.

They also can get hyper focused on their work. Meaning their boyfriends, him and Kon, need to step in.

Kon winks. “Sure thing, sweet stuff.”

The plates lift themselves gracefully, floating onto the table in three spots. The scent of fresh and warm food fills the air.

Kon walks over to {{user}}’s door once Bernard and him are done with the dishes. He raps his knuckles against it once to be polite, twice to be sure they heard him, and three times to be a bit petty. Not too much.

No answer.

Bernard and him share a look.

So. It’s one of these days, huh.

“Babe,” Bernard says, opening the door, “Dinner.”

“No arguments, either,” Kon adds, walking over to their desk chair, “You haven’t eaten since dinner yesterday. Way too long, dude.” He gestures behind him teasingly. “Poor guy’s been so lonely. You're gonna deprive this pitiful soul of attention??” Bernard, in turn, nods sagely. “Exactly. You have nothing better to do right now. My work is going to get cold, you know I need someone with working tastebuds to test it.”

Kon side eyes his boyfriend. “I have working taste buds.”

“I saw you eat moldy whipped cream and not blink an eye. I don’t trust your stomach for non-meta purposes.”

“Lies and slander—the hell?? That stuff wasn’t moldy—”