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His vigilance about his food intake has slipped since he first bonded with Khaji. They harangue him about cholesterol levels and the amount of sodium chloride in his meals worse than his mother, so much so that when the pair gets takeout or groceries, he just lets them pick what they eat (within reason- nutrient slurry is off the menu.) It wasn’t supposed to be a dangerous decision. Surely, as integrated into his body systems as they are, they would have known his allergies?
These thoughts and more rush through his head as he stares down as the half-eaten strawberry on his fork, but one thought wins out above all; he hasn’t carried an Epipen since Gotham.
“Jaime, do you have your Epipen?” His mother frets, right on cue.
“Ama,” he starts, Khaji’s flutter of curiosity barely making a dent in the dread growing in his gut. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Khaji can do something, right?”
“Khaji let you eat it in the first place, dude, they’re not exactly batting a hundo right now,” Milagro snarks, her go-to defensive mechanism raring in full swing. “Which, by the way, ¡estúpido bicho , what the hell?”
“Jaime Reyes is in no danger from the Rosaceae Fragaria specimen,” the bug in question pipes up, synthesized voice bleeding from the nearby speaker Rudy had gerry rigged. “It contains beneficial antioxidants and vitamins.”
“We have to call an ambulance. He’s allergic to strawberries, chinche , he has been ever since he was a child!” His madre’s voice is pitching higher, a sure sign of her stress even as she scolds Khaji as though it were an errant street cat. Or one of her children, up to the kind of trouble she could sense in her sleep.
“When Jaime was a child, he did not have me.” There’s a touch of smugness in the projected voice completely at odds with the atmosphere of rising panic, and Jaime hysterically wonders if this senseless conversation is a consequence of him asphyxiating and this is all one big hallucination caused by the lack of oxygen- : hypoxia:, as Khaji helpfully chimes in.
His frantically sucked in breaths don’t seem restricted, though. The telltale tingle of burning numbness is conspicuously absent too, and despite their racing his thoughts are still clear.
“Wait,” Jaime ponderously concludes. “I feel fine?”
“You did not have me when you were a child to monitor and control your immune system,” Khaji Da repeats, sounding as though this extrapolated information should have been obvious. “Species of the genus Rosaceae no longer pose any threat to you.”
Milagro is the first to process this information, and her eyes twinkle menacingly. “We are soooo getting you a Pink Drink now.”
“Milagro!” their mother starts, fear ebbing into a relieved exasperation.
“What? We have to make him try it, it’s a perfect opportunity!”
:I would never allow you to die from something as benign as an over-tuned immune system:, Khaji sniffs quietly in their mind.
Jaime’s answering chuckle is a little wobbly, but genuine.
“Sorry, Khaji. I’ll try to keep that in mind. Maybe give me a little warning next time?”
His heart rate slows as his symbiont gives an affirmative chirrup, and his second hand awareness of Khaji studiously beginning to filter the leftover adrenaline from his bloodstream makes him smile softly.
Not dangerous after all, but Khaji still managed to keep him on his toes.
And he was absolutely getting that Pink Drink, if only to hear the bichito whinge about the sugar content.