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♡ Summary: You're fighting a war inside your uterus. Gen thinks you’re plotting revenge on him in silence. Turns out, it’s just your period.
Something is wrong. EXTREMELY wrong.
Gen doesn’t notice it at first, because he’s too busy trying to fish the last bite of a protein bar out of its wrapper with his tongue while balancing a lukewarm coffee on top of a classified folder. But, he's missed the monday morning briefing meeting, because he had an important date with his bed after gaming through almost the whole night. And somehow, there's wasn't an angry email, shouting or a lecture from you?!
Even he can tell: the vibe is off.
You’re at your desk—technically alive, physically present—but emotionally? Spiritually? You’re gone. There’s a glazed-over, hollow-eyed stare fixed on your monitor, fingers frozen above your keyboard like you’ve forgotten what typing is.
And most importantly: you’re silent.
Gen watches you from the doorway for a moment, waiting. Any second now, you should be tearing into him for being late. For missing the meeting. Or for the coffee stain already blooming across this morning’s intel packet. Or the suspicious tweets he drafted about Kaiju guts looking like abstract art.
But…nothing.
Not even a sigh.
Not even a glare!
You just sit there, curled slightly forward in your chair, cradling your stomach in a way that feels quietly tragic. You're in somewhat of a fetus position...if a fetus could sit. You remind Gen of a Victorian child that's eaten bread for the first time and is now dying from it.
Gen starts walking toward you. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a landmine.
“Hey,” he says, gently. “You good?”
You blink slowly, turn your head in his direction with the speed of someone who’s been hit over the head with a bat, and whisper, “Do I look good?”
Gen stares. “You look like you died three days ago and just now realized it.”
You hum in agreement. “That sounds about right.”
“You want me to get Medical?”
You shake your head once. Then add, quietly, “They’ll just give me water and pretend that’s helpful.”
He crouches a bit to look you in the eye, genuinely rattled. “You haven’t yelled at me all day, and it's already 10 am. I’m starting to think you’ve been replaced by a sad, sick clone.”
You lift your hand, giving him a vague “go away” wave, then let it drop onto your stomach again like it’s made of stone and too heavy to hold up for more than a second.
“Is this, like…” Gen searches your face. “You ate something bad? You got cursed by a Kaiju? Your appendix burst but you’re too proud to admit it?”
“I’m fine." you murmur.
Gen frowns, thoroughly unconvinced. “You said that in the tone of someone begging the void to take them.”
“I just need… a dark room. A heating pad. And possibly divine intervention.”
“…That sounds like dying.”
You sigh. Not dramatically. Just tired. “It’s just...one of those days.”
You press your forehead gently against your desk.
Gen looks around the room like someone might appear and help him. But there’s no instruction manual for this. And definitely no button labeled “Fix Your Secretary.”
Still crouched, he shifts awkwardly. “Is it, like…a girl thing?”
You go still. Slowly tilt your head, just enough to glance at him.
He raises his hands. “Not being weird, just—I grew up in a place with forty boys and no clue about the lives of girls. I’ve never been trained for this situation. I don’t know what this is, but I want to help."
You exhale, long and slow. “It’s fine. You don’t need to fix it. It’s just biology doing its monthly war crimes.”
Gen freezes. “…Is this a period thing?”
You stare at him for a long moment. Then give him the tiniest nod, like it physically hurts to admit it.
“Ohhh. Right. Okay. That’s... That explains. A lot.”
He stands back up, blinking like he’s just unlocked a new achievement. “You deal with this every month and still manage to yell at me? How??”
You don’t answer.
You’ve already returned to staring at your monitor like it personally betrayed you.
Gen watches you for another moment, then grabs a clean hoodie from the back of his chair, walks over, and gently drapes it over your lap like a blanket without saying anything.
You don’t react.
But you don’t throw it at him either.
He counts that as a win.
By lunchtime, Gen has tried everything.
He started by Googling “how to help someone on their period without sounding weird or dying” and went down a rabbit hole of blogs, forum posts, and suspicious Pinterest infographics. Unfortunately, they all contradicted each other.
Some said “chocolate is sacred.”
Others said “avoid sugar, give her soup.”
One ominous post just said, “RUN.”
He tried the chocolate thing first, by sliding a king-size bar onto your desk like he was disarming a bomb. You blinked at it, murmured a weak “Thanks,” and placed it gently aside like you were too tired for even a singular bite of it.
He then tried tea. Warm, herbal, supposedly soothing. You sipped it once, gave a small hum of approval, and then went back to staring into the void, aggressively typing away at your computer.
He tried not breathing near you. That seems to have gotten the best results so far.
But you’re still pale, curled in your chair like a tired question mark, eyes glassy with pain, and Gen has run out of Google suggestions and emotional resilience.
So—against every stubborn instinct in his body—he calls in backup.
[2:24 PM] – Break Room, Emergency!!
Hasegawa doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking yet!” Gen hisses.
“I know that face,” Hasegawa says. “It’s the face you make right before you admit you’ve broken something or someone.”
Gen glances around, leans in. “Okay. Hypothetically. If someone you work with is on their period and clearly in pain and not acting like their usual scary self, what do you do?”
Hasegawa finally looks up. Blinks. “You’re asking me about periods?”
“You’ve got sisters! You’re emotionally competent! I have nothing!” Gen gestures wildly. “She looks like she’s about to ascend into another plane of existence. I tried tea and chocolate and not being annoying for once, which I thought was peak effort.”
“She didn’t throw anything at you?”
“No. It’s terrifying.”
Hasegawa sighs. “Alright. You seem to be doing something right. My sisters would usually scream at me, then cry before slamming the door. All seemingly unprompted. First: heat pack. Then a comfort item. Something soft, familiar. Also—do not downplay the pain. Just be present. Patient, although that's probably impossible for you...just be quietly useful.”
Gen stares like he’s just received divine revelation. “You’re like a period sensei.”
“Never call me that again. EVER. I'm simply an educated and responsible adult. You should try it.”
“Hard pass, no offense. But thank you.”
You’re not expecting anyone.
You’ve just managed to drag yourself into an oversized shirt and shorts combo, curled up on your bed, emotionally numb and crampy, watching an old Kaiju documentary you’ve seen five times.
A knock pulls you from your thoughts.
You groan softly, debating pretending to be dead.
“It’s me.”
You pause.
Gen?
You shuffle to the door and open it, expecting chaos. Is the office currently on fire? Perhaps another shitstorm on Twitter is the cause of his visit? Or maybe he needs your help with a last minute report?
He’s just standing there. Holding a bag. Dressed in casual clothes, a simple white shirt and grey joggers.
“Hey,” he says. “Permission to enter the war zone?”
You blink, confused, but you step aside.
“I brought stuff,” he adds, stepping in. “Heat pad. Those weird sour gummies you like. A hoodie I didn’t sweat in, promise. Some chocolate...Also, this thing,” he holds up a fuzzy, round stuffed Kaiju you joked about once, because it looks so goofy. “It’s squishy. I dunno. The internet said something about serotonin and comfort.”
You stare at him, baffled.
“You’ve been acting like someone’s stabbing you internally all day.” he explains. “So. I thought maybe... if I can’t punch your uterus as revenge, I can at least try... this.”
You blink again. “How do you know all this?”
Gen scratches the back of his neck. “Uh. I might’ve... Googled some things. A lot of things. And then called Hasegawa when Google started sounding like a minefield.”
Your eyes narrow. “You asked Hasegawa for help?”
“I was desperate, alright?” he grumbles. “I even almost texted Hoshina.”
You gasp theatrically.
“I didn’t! I stopped myself. Have some faith.”
You laugh, weak but real. “This is... surprisingly sweet.”
He shrugs. “Look. You save my ass daily. Least I can do is try to return the favor when your internal organs declare war.”
He sits beside you, not touching, but close enough to radiate warmth. Quietly present. Like Hasegawa said.
You sigh, lean slightly against his arm, and close your eyes. “...Thanks, Gen.”
He grins. “Don’t mention it. Or do. In a formal memo. With glitter.”
You swat him weakly.
You're wrapped up in Gen’s hoodie, heat pad tucked under the blanket like it’s your lifeline, when he glances over and says, way too casually,
“So… like. Does a back rub help with this?”
You squint at him. “Are you asking if a massage will fix my uterus?”
“Well, no, I mean—not directly,” he says, scrambling. “But like… I read somewhere that cramps can make your back tense? Or maybe it was legs? Or… your soul?”
You raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs, undeterred. “Point is, I’ve got decent hands. You’ve seen me reload a machine gun blindfolded.”
“I feel like this is different.”
“I’ll be gentle. Promise.”
You hesitate.
Your spine does feel like it’s been replaced with a metal rod, and honestly, your will to live is fading fast enough that letting Gen Narumi awkwardly try to massage your back doesn’t sound that bad.
“…Fine. But don’t get weird.”
He gives a dramatic salute. “Captain's honor.”
You lean forward just enough to turn away from him on the bed, and he carefully settles behind you. His hands hover for a moment—like he’s preparing to defuse a bomb—before gently pulling the hoodie up and resting them on your shoulders.
He starts slow, clearly guessing his way through this, but surprisingly... it doesn’t suck. His hands are warm, steady, and not nearly as rough as you expected. He finds a knot near your shoulder blade and pauses.
“Is this... pain, or just where your stress lives now?”
You hum sleepily. “Both. I think my body’s just made of rage and muscle knots.”
“Explains the yelling,” he murmurs, working the knot loose.
“Careful. I might fall asleep and drool on your hoodie.”
“It’s washable,” he says, like he already factored that in.
After a while, his hands slow, and you feel him shift slightly behind you, settling more comfortably. You lean back instinctively, head landing lightly against his chest.
He doesn’t move.
Neither do you.
“…This is fine, right?” he says eventually. “Just tactical support. Purely structural.”
“Obviously,” you mumble. “Platonic heat distribution.”
“Exactly.”
You both sit there for a beat, basking in the silent lie that this is not emotionally charged.
Then Gen, because he’s Gen, adds:
“I mean, if I cuddle you and you stop wanting to die, that’s technically a medical intervention...right?”
You laugh softly, curling further into the blanket, and him. “You’re unbelievable.”
You open one eye. “You trying to distract me with childlike joy?”
“I’m useful,” he corrects, reaching for the switch on the nightstand. “Now. Since you’re in pain and I’m being selfless—wanna play Mario Kart?”
“I’m trying to beat you while you’re weak. Obviously.”
You smirk. “Good luck with that, coward.”
Ten minutes later, you’re leaning fully against him, legs tangled under the blanket, controllers in hand, screaming at his Banana Peel treachery while he grins smugly into your hair.
Bonus:
Gen wins the third race in a row, thanks to a red shell and what you swear was controller sabotage. You threaten to stab him with a pen. He offers you more sour gummies as a peace offering, which you accept begrudgingly.
At some point, you both go quiet again. The screen goes to the idle menu. The room hums with warm, lazy quiet. Gens arm is still looped somewhere behind you, just in case you need to lean back again.
You do.
You don’t even remember when your head found its way to his shoulder.
Or when his fingers started lightly tracing along your arm—absent, idle, not even thinking about it.
Your eyes drift shut.
His breathing is steady, a low rhythm under your cheek.
You don’t plan to fall asleep.
You just… close your eyes for a moment.
When Gen wakes up, the screen is dark, the room is dim, and your body is still tucked lightly against his side.
Your hand is resting over his chest, like it wandered there in your sleep.
For a second, he panics—because he’s not good at handling soft things.
But you shift a little, murmuring something incoherent, and nudge your head against his collarbone.
He freezes.
Then relaxes.
He lets his head fall lightly against yours, eyes sliding shut again.
Just a nap.
Just for a few more minutes.
That’s all.
Tomorrow, you’ll both pretend it never happened.
You’ll snark at him like usual. He’ll call you terrifying again.
But tonight—just this once—there's only warmth. And quiet. And the gentle, dangerous weight of feelings between the two of you that are not solely platonic.
A/N: Gen would be so clueless, but don't worry, he's a quick learner ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ hope yall like this
This kinda gives me a theory that connects to Kinger and Queenie.
Queenie loved insects and Kinger learned to love insects too. If we base it off that Kinger was one of the creators of the circus, it’d be cool if he had programmed Caine to like bees after his wife (before they actually tested the circus and got stuck) :0
