𖧧 Safe Inside (Austin!Elvis x Reader)
Austin!Elvis x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 3220
Summary: Noticing that the Colonel has been overworking Elvis for some time, you are not surprised when Vernon approaches you for assistance in dragging a lethargic Elvis out of bed to prepare for his concert. However, you are far too worried for your beloved to even consider listening to Vernon or the Colonel, and instead, choose to spend your time caring for him and insuring his safety and well-being.
Note(s): I purely wrote this to comfort myself, I cannot lie, but I hope you all enjoy it, too! Thank you so much for all the love on my stories, I am forever appreciative for all of you!!! <3 As always, all feedback is appreciated, but please be nice! Thank you, El ᵕ̈
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You'd only been home from work for about five minutes before your phone started buzzing in its holster. When you pick it up, you expect to hear Elvis' silky voice asking you how work was and for advice on his pre-concert anxiousness, but instead you hear Vernon's voice greeting you.
Sitting against the counter, you wrap the phone cord around your fingers, "Yes, it's me. Is everything all right?"
"Yes, everything is fine—actually, no. Elvis is…" Vernon stutters his words, seemingly conflicted over something. "He's refusing to get out of bed, regardless of the fact that he has a performance in three hours. I was wondering if you could come over and help us in getting him up. He's not listening to me, let alone the Colonel, and he has a hell of a soft spot for you."
You lean against the counter, evidently anxious about your partner, "What's the matter with him? Why isn't he getting out of bed? Is he sick?"
Vernon sighs down the phone line, as if he is trying not to be heard by people nearby. "I-I'm not sure, Y/N, I'm not sure. The Colonel insists on him performing tonight, and you're our last chance; otherwise, I'm not sure what he'll do to him."
"Alright, alright," you say, straightening your back and running your fingers over your hair. "Tell Elvis I'm coming, okay? And, Vernon?"
"Don't let the Colonel touch him while I'm not there."
Vernon exhales a breath of relief, "Of course. Thank you, Y/N, thank you."
You re-holster the phone and reach for the car keys, which you had earlier flung to the table in your elation at being home. You collect your stuff from the floor and head for the door, beginning your descent to Graceland.
Vernon is waiting for you as you park your car in front of the house, watching as you race to the porch steps, where he waits nervously with a smile. As you approach him, he extends his hand and says, "Thank you so much for coming, Y/N."
"Vernon, if he's sick, I am not forcing him to get out of bed." You say this right away, knowing how overworked your poor boyfriend is by both his boss and his father. You had expressed your concerns to Elvis weeks earlier, anticipating that something like this might occur, but he had simply assured you that he could manage it and that you should not be worried about him. You clearly did not listen to or believe him. "So, please don't ask or expect me to."
He catches your wrist and glances behind him to make sure no one else is around. "I don't want to, Y/N, but the Colonel…he won't accept no for an answer. He just yells. I'm worried about Elvis; he's never been this bad."
"I would rather he yell at me than Elvis collapse on stage." With a sigh, you reach down to pat Vernon's hand. "I'm going to see him and if he's sick, he is not getting on that stage tonight, alright?"
"Alright," Vernon says reluctantly.
You enter the house, automatically heading for the staircase that would lead you to your lover. As you make your way to the top level, you can hear the Colonel scolding Elvis and telling him how disappointed all of his fans will be. The sound of miserable coughs and groans in response to his superiors' statements fills you with rage, and you are more than ready to confront his so-called boss as you approach Elvis' bedroom door, which is slightly ajar.
When you fully open it, you notice how dark the room is. The Colonel straightens up from his position leaning over a clump of blankets in the middle of the bed to face the door as it creaks open. His expression brightens but also darkens when he sees you, obviously expecting you to account for Elvis's appearance on stage, but not appreciating how he has been seen in such a compromising situation with his alleged son-figure.
"Ah, look at that! It's Y/N!" The Colonel applauds, extending his hands in a joyful gesture. "You don't want your girlfriend to see you acting so childishly now, do you? Come on, now. Up."
He snatches your boyfriend's robe-clad arm, which he uselessly holds in the air before Elvis drags it back under the covers, back in the safety of the blanket barricade.
You rush forward as the Colonel reaches for the blankets, presumably to take them from Elvis and strip him even more of his dignity, "Wait, give us some space for a minute. Let me speak to him."
"You…" The Colonel stares at you disapprovingly, as though you lack the power to move even your littlest finger. He looks between you and the huddle of blankets on the bed, "Yes, you will speak with him and we will get back on track. Don't be long now, boy, we are off schedule as it is."
The Colonel passes by you and pats your shoulder, leaning in and preventing you from getting any closer to Elvis while he has his claws on you. "The only thing that matters is he gets out of that bed and onto that stage tonight. We have whatever drugs are needed, just do your best."
You back away from him, looking at him in disbelief, but he ignores your horror, stepping out of the room and closing the door slightly behind him.
Unable to believe what you've just heard and seen from the man who is meant to be looking after your boyfriend, you're stunned for a little while, unable to imagine what he's been filling Elvis' mind with while the two were alone. You've been standing there for approximately a minute when you hear a hoarse voice call your name.
You walk over to the bed and take a careful seat on the edge, remembering your initial plan, "Elvis, honey? You in there?"
You unwrap the blankets as if they are the most precious Christmas gifts, ultimately finding the man you love hiding beneath. His hair is slicked back, sweat drenching his forehead, and his eyes are sagged down with horrible purple bags. He looks you over pitifully before closing his eyes again, even the smallest amount of light making him feel miserable.
"Feel like shit, doll." he grimaces, a shudder running down his spine.
"I can see why," you say softly, leaning in to delicately press a palm over his forehead, which he first jerks away from. "Christ, you're like a furnace."
"I gotta perform." Elvis sighs, miserably turning over toward you and shivering.
"Elvis!" You almost exclaim, but then you recall his predicament. "I'm not going to watch you go out there like this, baby. You're barely conscious right now, and I bet you can barely stand. What if you collapse on stage?"
He lacks the strength to argue with you, his eyelashes fluttering every now and then as unconsciousness threatens to overpower him, so you carefully uncover him once more and lean over to kiss his burning forehead "Honey, you're sick, and the Colonel can say whatever he wants, but your true fans, those who genuinely care about you, will understand why you can't perform tonight. I'm not going to force you to stay in bed, but please don't put your body or yourself through anything more until you've recovered. I can't handle the thought of anything worse happening to you knowing I could have prevented it."
"'kay," he mumbles after listening to your emotional speech, reaching out blindly to wrap his arm around you in the hope of drawing you and your body heat closer to him. "Stay."
You sigh as his robe sticks to him as you massage your palm across his back, "I'm just going to talk to your Daddy and the Colonel, okay? Then I'll bring you some medicine and some tea, and I'll lay with you."
As your heat leaves him, he whines faintly, and you softly soothe him, pulling the covers around him again for the time being and stroking your hand through his hair.
As you prepare to rise, he calls out weakly, his voice heavy with sleep, "Promise you'll…you'll come back?"
You stroke his hair a couple more times before light snores emerge from beneath the blankets. You gradually remove your hand, automatically resting it on his forehead again to check on him, the searing heat hitting you once again, before sighing and rising from the bed.
There is no way he is going out there.
As you exit the bedroom, you quietly close the door before proceeding to the Colonel and Vernon, who are clustered at the end of the corridor by the staircase, presumably discussing something thoroughly.
"Y/N!" The Colonel says as he notices you walking over before his expression drops at the absence of presence alongside you. "My boy is just getting showered and dressed, I assume?"
Vernon can tell by the expression on your face what you're about to say, and he tenses up in anticipation.
"He's asleep. 'Your' boy is exhausted, Colonel." You say this while keeping your voice low so as not to wake Elvis. "He can't stay awake for more than a minute, and he has a terrible, terrible fever. You expect him to put on a good show in that state?"
"What are you saying?" asks the Colonel, agitated.
"Colonel, I'm saying he's not going with you tonight. You must cancel the event." You hold your ground, even as he stands over you, giving you the look he wants you to feel intimidated by. "He is not your own performing monkey; he's a human being and a sick one at that. He has to rest or you'll put him in the hospital for far longer than necessary. Just give him some time to rest, damnit!"
Vernon is shocked when you challenge Elvis' superior, but the Colonel appears even more surprised. He never perceived you as a fighter, or as particularly powerful, yet you never faltered in his presence. He would have been impressed if his ego hadn't gotten in the way of everything else.
"You tell that boy when he wakes," he brushes past you, frustration emanating from his body, taking a few steps down the staircase before looking back up in your and Vernon's direction, "that he and I need to have a conversation about his future in show business if he's gonna call off a once in a lifetime opportunity with a god-forsaken cold."
A meaningless argument bubbles up on your tongue, fizzling out as Vernon's hand rests on your arm to stop you, the two of you watching as the Colonel walks away. As he marches out and the house calms down after the front door slams, you cautiously turn to face Vernon, almost expecting him to be as upset with you as the Colonel was.
He wraps his arms around you, prompting you to tense up in surprise, as you are fully unprepared for the gesture. As he clings to you, his body trembles, and you carefully put your arms around him in return, "Thank you, Y/N, thank you, thank you, thank you. You did something for my son today that I could not. Gladys would be turning in her grave if Elvis performed like that tonight, but I wasn't brave enough to intervene. She would be extremely proud of you and grateful to have you here for our son."
"You called me, you knew what was right for him deep down." You gently remind him, drifting away when you hear Elvis coughing uncomfortably in the room down the hall. "Don't forget that he is your son before he is the Colonel's party trick. We are both here for Elvis, we gotta do right by him like he always does by us."
"He's lucky to have you, Y/N," Vernon says quietly.
You return a smile, shifting your gaze to the creaking bedroom door behind you. Elvis peeks out, still wrapped in dozens of blankets, his eyes squinted, a pale complexion with rosy cheeks making up the rest of his face, "Y/N?"
"Elvis," you gasp, rushing over to him as he staggers slightly and crashes against the wall. Sighing softly, you grasp his arm and wrap it around your shoulders, "C'mon, you can barely stand. Straight back to bed, mister."
Waking up the next day, you feel exhausted yourself. The night had been long, very long, with Elvis waking up nearly every hour shivering and on the verge of tears from delirium, lack of sleep, and the intensity of the fever. Of course, you were comfortable being there for him during that, since you had battled for him to have time to rest, and hell if you weren't going to help him get through it given how hard the toll of being overworked had hit him, but how badly it pained you to see him that way.
When you eventually summon the will to look over at the clock on the wall, noting the time as nearing eleven, you let out a low sigh and look down at the weight on your chest, and you have no desire to move. Elvis is nearly completely on top of you, his unusually warm body resting over half of yours, his head snuggled into your neck as he lets out gentle, short breaths from his lips, his arms wrapped around your torso and waist like you're some giant, personal teddy-bear, and a leg crossing yours and keeping you slightly propped up. Regardless of how strange the arrangement seemed, you hadn't ever felt so at home, especially knowing that Elvis was getting the rest and recovery time that he deserved more than anybody or anything.
You realise, pressing a kiss to his head, that you should probably make him some food and tea to both fill his stomach and ease his throat after coughing all night; but, as you begin to move out of his clutches, he merely tightens his grip, nuzzling in deeper.
"I have to get up a second, honey." You mumble, carefully combing your fingers through his hair to soothe him back to sleep so you may escape his grasp. He makes a disagreeable noise, which you acknowledge with a smile. "We can cuddle more soon, baby, just let me go for a minute."
He huffs groggily, withdrawing his arms and allowing you to slip out of his embrace just long enough for him to reach for your hand in the spur of the moment. He leans over to kiss your fingers before slipping back under the blankets, drowsily muttering before falling back asleep, "Never leave me."
You frown and whisper, "I would never," before you walk out of the bedroom with your bare feet padding along the carpet.
When you walk into the kitchen a few moments later, your gaze is drawn to Vernon, who is sitting at the counter reading a newspaper. He is sipping on a mug of coffee and appears to be well rested. He senses your presence and turns to greet you, smiling, "Morning, Y/N."
"Morning," You yawn and make your way to the coffee jug on the counter, reaching into one of the cabinets for a mug. As you pour, you look around to see if there is anything you can make for Elvis, but your selections are rather limited.
"How is he doing?" Vernon asks, clearing his throat.
"He's not as hot today," you say, sipping the coffee from your mug. "He just needs lots of rest today, and some sort of food."
"Thank you for all this, Y/N, we are all truly grateful you're here." Vernon says as he rises from his chair.
You watch as he opens a cabinet and pulls out some canned soup, muttering softly, "You're welcome."
"Would this work?" he asks, holding out a can of chicken soup.
"Perfect." You grin, gladly accepting the tin and instinctively making your way to the stove. "Thank you."
As you begin to prepare the soup for your lover, you can't help but feel glad for the opportunity to care for him; out of everyone in the world, here you are doting on the Elvis Presley, and loving him is the finest thing you have in your life. Of course, you hated seeing him unwell, but having him in your arms and nursing him back to health is an opportunity you would not pass up. You loved and cared for him more than anything else in the world, and you would battle for his health and happiness at any cost.
A few hours later, around four o'clock in the afternoon, you and Elvis are tangled up in bed again, a movie playing on the television in front of his bed, merely relieving the silence as the two of you lie sleepily in the sheets. A damp flannel is draped across his forehead and part of your stomach, wetting your shirt and causing you to tremble, but you battle through it since that is what he requires.
You're on the verge of falling asleep, ready to drift away, but the practical side of you is aware that your lover might need you in some manner if you do. You glance down at the boy who is holding you, his head resting on your stomach, and watch as he dreams away his illness.
You move slightly to make yourself more comfortable, and he grumbles softly beneath you, "Stop movin' so much, doll."
"Sorry, honey," you giggle, leaning back against the pillow and transferring your gaze to the television screen, knowing you won't fall asleep while Elvis is still unwell.
As he settles back down, he raises his head, turning it to face you and looking up at you with sleepy, sparkling eyes. The flannel falls to the sheets below, and you reach down to grab it to prevent it from soaking the linens more. You look down at Elvis as you place the flannel on the bedside table, your hand on his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin. "You feel okay, sweetheart? Need me to get you anything?"
"I'm good, baby," he mumbles, his eyelids falling shut once again.
You nod, laying your head against the king-sized bed's headboard and resting your own eyes in tiredness. "I love y'so much," Elvis says as he removes your hand from his cheek and pulls it down to his lips, pressing sleepy kisses to your skin and each of your fingers.
"You do?" you ask, a smirk spreading over your lips. "I love you too, baby."
"Mm," he nuzzles higher along your body, his head now just below your chest, "y're the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. Don't deserve you."
"That's your fever talking, baby, you deserve the whole world and more," you say, rubbing your fingertips across his sweat-splattered brow.
He hums in dissent before two fingers brush across your face, prompting you to open your eyes lazily and glance down at your lover, who is considerably closer than you expected. You laugh as he puckers his lips pitifully, leaning down and kissing his chapped lips, feeling him smile against you.
"Now get some more rest, mister, the world is missing you already."
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