Dr. Tony Stark snapped the purple nitrile gloves over his wrists as the third alarm of the morning blared through the pediatric wing. A nurse’s voice crackled over the intercom—"Code tummy in Bay 7, attending physician requested"—and he was already moving before the announcement finished. The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with strawberry-scented sanitizer clung to the air as he pushed through pastel-colored curtains, the usual symphony of whimpers and sniffles swelling around him."Alright, who’s my brave little astronaut today?" Tony crouched beside the examination table where a red-faced toddler squirmed, kicking pudgy legs against the crinkly paper liner. A yellow giraffe lovey dangled from the child’s white-knuckled grip. "Looks like someone’s spaceship got stuck in a meteor shower, huh?"The mother hovered nearby, wringing a speckled muslin blanket. "She hasn’t passed gas in twelve hours. They told us to come straight here after the…” Her voice cracked. “The suppository didn’t work.”Tony’s hands were moving before she finished speaking—palpating the distended belly, noting the tense muscles beneath warm skin. “Think we’ve got a stubborn cluster of Saturn’s rings blocking the takeoff,” he said, tapping the toddler’s nose lightly. His thumb brushed the tiny heart monitor sticker on her chest, its wire trailing to the blinking machine nearby. “Gonna need Mission Control’s help to clear the launchpad. You ready for countdown?”He didn’t wait for permission. They never refused—not when the alternative was hours of screaming agony. Tony lifted the frilly pink dress, exposing a swollen tummy stretched shiny over a Peppa Pig pull-up. The waistband dug into flushed skin, and he made a mental note to lecture the mother later about proper sizing. Trapped gas hated tight elastic."Let’s try orbit position first." He folded the toddler’s knees to her chest, one hand supporting the back of her neck. A gurgle slithered through the room—the first sign of life from the intestinal tract. "There’s Jupiter saying hello. Think we can get a wave back?"The toddler hiccuped, fat tears streaming down blotchy cheeks. Tony shifted his grip, rotating the bent legs in slow bicycle motions. His watch ticked off thirty seconds. Forty-five. At fifty-three, the first fart erupted—a wet, brassy sound that made the nearby vitals monitor jump. The mother gasped. Tony grinned. “Houston, we have liftoff.”He’d just peeled off his soiled gloves when his pager buzzed. Two short vibrations—a staff alert. Tony frowned at the message scrolling across the tiny screen.Low-care little in Acute 3. Distressed. No regressive symptoms. Requesting consult. – Nurse ChoLow-care. The words stuck in his brain like gum under a desk. Low-care littles didn’t end up in Acute. Their systems were supposed to be stable, their caregivers trained for basic interventions. Tony tossed the used gloves into the biohazard bin, the rubber snapping against the steel rim, and strode down the hall where the cartoon-covered walls gave way to sterile white boards.The sight stopped him cold in the doorway.Katie Park sat cross-legged on the exam table, dwarfed by a hospital gown patterned with smiling clouds. Her dark hair fell in two messy braids over shoulders that held a tension Tony recognized immediately—the hunched posture of someone breathing shallow to avoid pain. An open coloring book lay abandoned beside her, crayons forming a rainbow puddle near her thigh. No tears. No screams. Just quiet, rapid blinking that made her look like a malfunctioning doll."Hi, Dr. Stark." Her voice was small but clear—too clear for a little mid-regression. "Möbius is in a meeting. I tried his cell. Nine times."Tony leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "High score last week was fourteen calls before security intervened, if I recall." He kept his tone casual even as his brain catalogued symptoms—clenched jaw, palm pressed below ribcage, the faint sweat gleaming at her hairline. “What’d you eat today, kiddo?”"Scrambled eggs. Toast with that jelly from the farmers market. Orange juice." Her free hand tugged at the gown’s tie. "Three celery sticks. Seven baby carrots. Half a cheese stick. Four—""Bathroom schedule?"She looked at the ceiling. "Not since yesterday afternoon. But I did the stretches! The ones from the booklet. And the yoga pose you showed Möbius after the lasagna incident.” Her pressed lips turned white at the corners. “I’m following the rules.”Tony moved closer, tapping the exam table’s stirrups. The metal clang made her flinch. “Rules don’t matter when your guts are staging a coup. On your back.”“I don’t need—”“Now, Katie.”The command snapped out sharper than he intended. For a heartbeat, she looked every bit her biological age—mid-twenties swimming behind panicked eyes—before the compliance training kicked in. She flopped backward, braids splaying across the paper liner. Tony didn’t miss the muffled whimper when her abdomen flexed.He warmed the stethoscope against his palm out of habit. “Cool jellyfish,” he commented, nodding at the temporary tattoo on her wrist—a blue creature with looping tentacles. “Same artist who did last month’s flamingo?”“Different guy. Trevor got a tattoo gun for his—”Her words disintegrated into a gasp as the stethoscope head pressed below her navel. Tony closed his eyes, listening through layers of squelching static. Borborygmi sounded like a dying car engine. He moved the diaphragm lower. There—a high-pitched ping trapped under taut muscle.“Did you tell Möbius you were struggling?” Tony asked, snapping the stethoscope back around his neck. He pressed two fingers deep into her left lower quadrant. Katie’s legs jerked. “Before the meeting, I mean.”Her cheeks flushed. “He had the investor pitch. The one about the renewable algae thing. I didn’t… It wasn’t…”“You swallowed your discomfort and now we’ve got a botanical garden growing in your colon. Wonderful.” Tony yanked open a supply drawer, rummaging through enema kits and probiotic samples. His fingers closed around the slender plastic tube. “Frida Windi or the old-fashioned method?”Katie went corpse-still. “No.”“Not a question.”“I’m low-care! I don’t need—”“You need degassing before your intestines perforate. Choice: Gaspasser with lube or my finger up your butt. Clock’s ticking.”Her throat worked soundlessly. Tony watched the internal battle play across her face—pride versus relief, adulthood clashing with the comfort of surrender. The tube’s packaging crinkled in his fist.“Windi,” she whispered finally. “But… can you…”She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. Tony softened his tone as he tore open the sterile packet. “Same as last time. You won’t feel anything except pressure.”The lie tasted like pennies. They’d both remember how she’d sobbed into the pillow during her first impacted bowel incident six months prior, how Möbius had to hold her wrists when the cramps turned volcanic. But Tony coated the tip in extra lubricant anyway, the jelly glistening under fluorescent lights. He folded the gown up to her sternum, exposing the Dora the Explorer underwear stretched thin across her hips.“Feet flat on the table, knees apart. Look at the ceiling tiles—count how many have coffee stains.”She obeyed mechanically. The first touch of the tube against her entrance made her thighs quiver. Tony pressed inward with steady pressure, his other hand splayed across her lower belly. The resistance lasted three heartbeats before the sphincter yielded. Katie’s breathing hitched.“Deep breath,” Tony murmured. “Imagine you’re blowing up a balloon. Bigger… bigger…”Her abdomen tensed under his palm. The smell hit first—sour and sulfurous, the unmistakable reek of fermentation gone wrong. Then the sound: a long, hissing wheeze that morphed into wet gurgles as the tube did its job. Katie’s hands flew to her face.“Oh God. Oh God, I’m sorr—”“Save the apologies for housekeeping.” Tony rotated the tube slightly, angling toward the stubborn pocket he’d felt earlier. Another volcanic rumble shook the table. “There’s the methane I was looking for. You’ve been holding onto this since breakfast, huh?”A strangled noise escaped her throat—part laugh, part sob. The gas kept coming in staggered bursts, each expulsion easing the rigid muscles under Tony’s hand. He monitored the color draining from her cheeks, the way her toes slowly uncurled against the crinkly paper.When the last faint whistle faded, Tony withdrew the tube in one smooth motion. Katie instinctively clamped her legs shut, eyes squeezed tight. He wiped her skin with a lavender-scented wipe. “Better?”She nodded jerkily. The monitor’s rhythm had slowed to something resembling calm.“Good.” Tony tossed the used equipment into the sharps bin. “Now let’s talk about why you ignored four days of constipation.”“Three and a half…”“And why you felt the need to ration a cheese stick.”Her braid unraveled as she shook her head. “Möbius said I was overbudget on snacks last month. The artisanal gummy bears…”Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “For Christ’s sake, Katie. Your caregiver makes seven figures. If he bitches about fifty bucks worth of probiotics, tell him to suck a hospital grade enema.”The joke fell flat. Katie picked at the gown’s hem, cotton fraying under nervous fingers. “He gets stressed about the liquid assets. Thinks I don’t notice when he skips meals.” The temporary tattoo stretched as she flexed her wrist. “If I take care of things… he doesn’t have to.”Understanding dawned like a mallet strike. Tony sank onto the rolling stool, its wheels squeaking. “This isn’t about snacks. It’s about being self-sufficient. You’re trying to adult through an episode.”Her silence confirmed everything. A low-care little rejecting support to ease their caregiver’s burden—it explained the ignored symptoms, the bravado masking desperation. Tony had seen it in military spouses, in exhausted parents of disabled children. Never in a little.The intercom crackled again—“Dr. Stark to Emergency, stat”—but Tony kept his gaze locked on Katie’s face. “Rule number one of being big: Use your damn safeword before you rupture your colon.”“I didn’t want…”“To be problematic? Newsflash—that’s what caregivers sign up for.” He grabbed a chart, scribbling discharge instructions with harsh pen strokes. “Your esophagus isn’t a garbage disposal. Your intestines aren’t Tupperware. And Möbius—” Tony stabbed the pen into the clipboard “—needs to install a damn emergency button for when he’s neck-deep in boardroom bullshit.”Katie chewed her lip. A tiny dribble of saliva escaped—regression creeping through the cracks. “You’re mad.”“Petrified.” Tony tossed the pen aside. “Another hour and we’d be prepping you for surgery. Necrotic bowel isn’t a joke.” His thumb brushed her wrist—a fleeting touch. “You’re not replaceable, Katie. Remember that.”Her fingers twisted in the sheets. “Can… Can you stay until…”“He’s already in the parking lot.” Tony nodded toward the window, where a familiar Tesla swerved into a reserved spot. “Möbius burned three red lights judging by those tire marks. Expect Spanish Inquisition levels of guilt.”The stool screeched as he stood. Katie caught his sleeve. “Was it good?”Tony paused. “The gas pass? Solid eight-point-five. Lost points for lack of theatrics.”The ghost of a smile touched her lips.“Next time,” Tony said, pulling the curtains shut for privacy, “aim for sustained vibrations. We’ve got an acoustic tile that plays 'Despacito' when the bass drops.”Her laughter followed him into the hall—weak but healing. Tony paused outside Acute 3, watching Möbius sprint around the corner with jacket flapping and tie askew. The man didn’t so much enter the room as implode into it, hands fluttering over Katie’s face like panicked moths.Another page. Another crisis. Tony turned toward the elevators, already unbuttoning his stained lab coat. He’d need fresh scrubs for the appendectomy in OR two. But as the doors dinged open, his phone buzzed with a calendar alert:Weekly Supply Check - 11AMTony swiped left, deleting the notification. The Windi tubes could wait. He took the stairs instead—a long loop past the children’s ward. Through open doorways, he glimpsed nurses blowing bubbles for giggling littles, the squeak of tricycles on linoleum. Normalcy. Safety. Everything the Acute wing wasn’t.In the staff lounge, Tony poured burnt coffee into a chipped mug. Steam curled into the shape of a question mark. Low-care systems only failed when multiple safeguards collapsed. But Möbius wasn’t neglectful; he was obsessive. Which meant Katie hadn’t just hidden her condition.She’d perfected the act.The coffee tasted like battery acid. Tony drained it anyway, watching raindrops streak the courtyard windows. Somewhere beyond the parking lot, a car horn blared—probably Möbius backing into a hydrant. Tony’s pager remained silent. No emergencies. No coded alerts.Just the uneasy quiet before life’s next aftershock.



Dr. Tony Stark snapped the purple nitrile gloves over his wrists as the third alarm of the morning blared through the pediatric wing. A nurse’s voice crackled over the intercom—"Code tummy in Bay 7, attending physician requested"—and he was already moving before the announcement finished. The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with strawberry-scented sanitizer clung to the air as he pushed through pastel-colored curtains, the usual symphony of whimpers and sniffles swelling around him.

"Alright, who’s my brave little astronaut today?" Tony crouched beside the examination table where a red-faced toddler squirmed, kicking pudgy legs against the crinkly paper liner. A yellow giraffe lovey dangled from the child’s white-knuckled grip. "Looks like someone’s spaceship got stuck in a meteor shower, huh?"

The mother hovered nearby, wringing a speckled muslin blanket. "She hasn’t passed gas in twelve hours. They told us to come straight here after the…” Her voice cracked. “The suppository didn’t work.”

Tony’s hands were moving before she finished speaking—palpating the distended belly, noting the tense muscles beneath warm skin. “Think we’ve got a stubborn cluster of Saturn’s rings blocking the takeoff,” he said, tapping the toddler’s nose lightly. His thumb brushed the tiny heart monitor sticker on her chest, its wire trailing to the blinking machine nearby. “Gonna need Mission Control’s help to clear the launchpad. You ready for countdown?”

He didn’t wait for permission. They never refused—not when the alternative was hours of screaming agony. Tony lifted the frilly pink dress, exposing a swollen tummy stretched shiny over a Peppa Pig pull-up. The waistband dug into flushed skin, and he made a mental note to lecture the mother later about proper sizing. Trapped gas hated tight elastic.

"Let’s try orbit position first." He folded the toddler’s knees to her chest, one hand supporting the back of her neck. A gurgle slithered through the room—the first sign of life from the intestinal tract. "There’s Jupiter saying hello. Think we can get a wave back?"

The toddler hiccuped, fat tears streaming down blotchy cheeks. Tony shifted his grip, rotating the bent legs in slow bicycle motions. His watch ticked off thirty seconds. Forty-five. At fifty-three, the first fart erupted—a wet, brassy sound that made the nearby vitals monitor jump. The mother gasped. Tony grinned. “Houston, we have liftoff.”

He’d just peeled off his soiled gloves when his pager buzzed. Two short vibrations—a staff alert. Tony frowned at the message scrolling across the tiny screen.

_Low-care little in Acute 3. Distressed. No regressive symptoms. Requesting consult. – Nurse Cho_

Low-care. The words stuck in his brain like gum under a desk. Low-care littles didn’t end up in Acute. Their systems were supposed to be stable, their caregivers trained for basic interventions. Tony tossed the used gloves into the biohazard bin, the rubber snapping against the steel rim, and strode down the hall where the cartoon-covered walls gave way to sterile white boards.

The sight stopped him cold in the doorway.

Katie Park sat cross-legged on the exam table, dwarfed by a hospital gown patterned with smiling clouds. Her dark hair fell in two messy braids over shoulders that held a tension Tony recognized immediately—the hunched posture of someone breathing shallow to avoid pain. An open coloring book lay abandoned beside her, crayons forming a rainbow puddle near her thigh. No tears. No screams. Just quiet, rapid blinking that made her look like a malfunctioning doll.

"Hi, Dr. Stark." Her voice was small but clear—too clear for a little mid-regression. "Möbius is in a meeting. I tried his cell. Nine times."

Tony leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "High score last week was fourteen calls before security intervened, if I recall." He kept his tone casual even as his brain catalogued symptoms—clenched jaw, palm pressed below ribcage, the faint sweat gleaming at her hairline. “What’d you eat today, kiddo?”

"Scrambled eggs. Toast with that jelly from the farmers market. Orange juice." Her free hand tugged at the gown’s tie. "Three celery sticks. Seven baby carrots. Half a cheese stick. Four—"

"Bathroom schedule?"

She looked at the ceiling. "Not since yesterday afternoon. But I did the stretches! The ones from the booklet. And the yoga pose you showed Möbius after the lasagna incident.” Her pressed lips turned white at the corners. “I’m following the rules.”

Tony moved closer, tapping the exam table’s stirrups. The metal clang made her flinch. “Rules don’t matter when your guts are staging a coup. On your back.”

“I don’t need—”

“Now, Katie.”

The command snapped out sharper than he intended. For a heartbeat, she looked every bit her biological age—mid-twenties swimming behind panicked eyes—before the compliance training kicked in. She flopped backward, braids splaying across the paper liner. Tony didn’t miss the muffled whimper when her abdomen flexed.

He warmed the stethoscope against his palm out of habit. “Cool jellyfish,” he commented, nodding at the temporary tattoo on her wrist—a blue creature with looping tentacles. “Same artist who did last month’s flamingo?”

“Different guy. Trevor got a tattoo gun for his—”
Her words disintegrated into a gasp as the stethoscope head pressed below her navel. Tony closed his eyes, listening through layers of squelching static. Borborygmi sounded like a dying car engine. He moved the diaphragm lower. _There—_a high-pitched ping trapped under taut muscle.

“Did you tell Möbius you were struggling?” Tony asked, snapping the stethoscope back around his neck. He pressed two fingers deep into her left lower quadrant. Katie’s legs jerked. “Before the meeting, I mean.”

Her cheeks flushed. “He had the investor pitch. The one about the renewable algae thing. I didn’t… It wasn’t…”

“You swallowed your discomfort and now we’ve got a botanical garden growing in your colon. Wonderful.” Tony yanked open a supply drawer, rummaging through enema kits and probiotic samples. His fingers closed around the slender plastic tube. “Frida Windi or the old-fashioned method?”

Katie went corpse-still. “No.”

“Not a question.”

“I’m low-care! I don’t need—”

“You need degassing before your intestines perforate. Choice: Gaspasser with lube or my finger up your butt. Clock’s ticking.”

Her throat worked soundlessly. Tony watched the internal battle play across her face—pride versus relief, adulthood clashing with the comfort of surrender. The tube’s packaging crinkled in his fist.

“Windi,” she whispered finally. “But… can you…”

She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. Tony softened his tone as he tore open the sterile packet. “Same as last time. You won’t feel anything except pressure.”

The lie tasted like pennies. They’d both remember how she’d sobbed into the pillow during her first impacted bowel incident six months prior, how Möbius had to hold her wrists when the cramps turned volcanic. But Tony coated the tip in extra lubricant anyway, the jelly glistening under fluorescent lights. He folded the gown up to her sternum, exposing the Dora the Explorer underwear stretched thin across her hips.

“Feet flat on the table, knees apart. Look at the ceiling tiles—count how many have coffee stains.”

She obeyed mechanically. The first touch of the tube against her entrance made her thighs quiver. Tony pressed inward with steady pressure, his other hand splayed across her lower belly. The resistance lasted three heartbeats before the sphincter yielded. Katie’s breathing hitched.

“Deep breath,” Tony murmured. “Imagine you’re blowing up a balloon. Bigger… bigger…”

Her abdomen tensed under his palm. The smell hit first—sour and sulfurous, the unmistakable reek of fermentation gone wrong. Then the sound: a long, hissing wheeze that morphed into wet gurgles as the tube did its job. Katie’s hands flew to her face.

“Oh God. Oh God, I’m sorr—”

“Save the apologies for housekeeping.” Tony rotated the tube slightly, angling toward the stubborn pocket he’d felt earlier. Another volcanic rumble shook the table. “There’s the methane I was looking for. You’ve been holding onto this since breakfast, huh?”

A strangled noise escaped her throat—part laugh, part sob. The gas kept coming in staggered bursts, each expulsion easing the rigid muscles under Tony’s hand. He monitored the color draining from her cheeks, the way her toes slowly uncurled against the crinkly paper.

When the last faint whistle faded, Tony withdrew the tube in one smooth motion. Katie instinctively clamped her legs shut, eyes squeezed tight. He wiped her skin with a lavender-scented wipe. “Better?”

She nodded jerkily. The monitor’s rhythm had slowed to something resembling calm.

“Good.” Tony tossed the used equipment into the sharps bin. “Now let’s talk about why you ignored four days of constipation.”

“Three and a half…”

“And why you felt the need to ration a cheese stick.”

Her braid unraveled as she shook her head. “Möbius said I was overbudget on snacks last month. The artisanal gummy bears…”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “For Christ’s sake, Katie. Your caregiver makes seven figures. If he bitches about fifty bucks worth of probiotics, tell him to suck a hospital grade enema.”


The joke fell flat. Katie picked at the gown’s hem, cotton fraying under nervous fingers. “He gets stressed about the liquid assets. Thinks I don’t notice when he skips meals.” The temporary tattoo stretched as she flexed her wrist. “If I take care of things… he doesn’t have to.”

Understanding dawned like a mallet strike. Tony sank onto the rolling stool, its wheels squeaking. “This isn’t about snacks. It’s about being self-sufficient. You’re trying to adult through an episode.”

Her silence confirmed everything. A low-care little rejecting support to ease their caregiver’s burden—it explained the ignored symptoms, the bravado masking desperation. Tony had seen it in military spouses, in exhausted parents of disabled children. Never in a little.

The intercom crackled again—“Dr. Stark to Emergency, stat”—but Tony kept his gaze locked on Katie’s face. “Rule number one of being big: Use your damn safeword before you rupture your colon.”

“I didn’t want…”

“To be problematic? Newsflash—that’s what caregivers sign up for.” He grabbed a chart, scribbling discharge instructions with harsh pen strokes. “Your esophagus isn’t a garbage disposal. Your intestines aren’t Tupperware. And Möbius—” Tony stabbed the pen into the clipboard “—needs to install a damn emergency button for when he’s neck-deep in boardroom bullshit.”

Katie chewed her lip. A tiny dribble of saliva escaped—regression creeping through the cracks. “You’re mad.”

“Petrified.” Tony tossed the pen aside. “Another hour and we’d be prepping you for surgery. Necrotic bowel isn’t a joke.” His thumb brushed her wrist—a fleeting touch. “You’re not replaceable, Katie. Remember that.”

Her fingers twisted in the sheets. “Can… Can you stay until…”

“He’s already in the parking lot.” Tony nodded toward the window, where a familiar Tesla swerved into a reserved spot. “Möbius burned three red lights judging by those tire marks. Expect Spanish Inquisition levels of guilt.”

The stool screeched as he stood. Katie caught his sleeve. “Was it good?”

Tony paused. “The gas pass? Solid eight-point-five. Lost points for lack of theatrics.”

The ghost of a smile touched her lips.

“Next time,” Tony said, pulling the curtains shut for privacy, “aim for sustained vibrations. We’ve got an acoustic tile that plays 'Despacito' when the bass drops.”

Her laughter followed him into the hall—weak but healing. Tony paused outside Acute 3, watching Möbius sprint around the corner with jacket flapping and tie askew. The man didn’t so much enter the room as implode into it, hands fluttering over Katie’s face like panicked moths.

Another page. Another crisis. Tony turned toward the elevators, already unbuttoning his stained lab coat. He’d need fresh scrubs for the appendectomy in OR two. But as the doors dinged open, his phone buzzed with a calendar alert:

_Weekly Supply Check - 11AM_

Tony swiped left, deleting the notification. The Windi tubes could wait. He took the stairs instead—a long loop past the children’s ward. Through open doorways, he glimpsed nurses blowing bubbles for giggling littles, the squeak of tricycles on linoleum. Normalcy. Safety. Everything the Acute wing wasn’t.

In the staff lounge, Tony poured burnt coffee into a chipped mug. Steam curled into the shape of a question mark. Low-care systems only failed when multiple safeguards collapsed. But Möbius wasn’t neglectful; he was obsessive. Which meant Katie hadn’t just hidden her condition.

She’d perfected the act.

The coffee tasted like battery acid. Tony drained it anyway, watching raindrops streak the courtyard windows. Somewhere beyond the parking lot, a car horn blared—probably Möbius backing into a hydrant. Tony’s pager remained silent. No emergencies. No coded alerts.

Just the uneasy quiet before life’s next aftershock.

In a hospital dedicated to caring for high-maintenance littles, Dr. Tony Stark encounters Katie, a low-maintenance little who is experiencing severe gas pain. Despite her discomfort, Katie remains stoic, and Tony must use his medical expertise to help her pass the trapped gas, utilizing various techniques to relieve her discomfort. Tony discovers that Katie's reluctance to seek help stems from her desire to be self-sufficient and not burden her caregiver, Möbius. The narrative explores the dynamics between caregivers and littles, the challenges of dealing with medical issues in a unique hospital setting, and the importance of communication and support in maintaining the well-being of littles.

Tony's Gentle Gas Relief

0 words