For being such a big guy (as Stiles’d homoerotically christened him), Derek looked surprisingly small as he crouched over the toilet, limbs shaking and chapped lips parted in nausea-heavy pants, heart pounding with fulsome dread that mounted with his rising gorge. This was going to suck.
The panting hitched into a gag, and he instinctively clutched at the bowl with a rattling marble click of claws against porcelain. Spots danced in the blackness of his tunnel vision; he inhaled shakily, coughed hard enough to crack his chest, and then doubled over and vomited a violent torrent of black bile, gasping in the aftermath and blinking away a flood of burning tears, nostrils dripping charcoal grey.
Alone, sick, and suffering, Derek Hale spat into the bowl and whimpered like a little boy, wishing he was one again so his mother could comfort him.
Another wrenching heave surged out of him, leaving him trembling and panting in the aftermath, sweat prickling – or was that hair? The physical stress and panic of being sick was making him turn. Danger, screamed his amygdala, and his bestial hormones responded, the wolf uncurling with weary vengeance to face the unknown threat that was causing all the red-alert alarms to go off.
His pointed ears twitched as he heard soft footsteps pad down the carpeted hall, a knock at the door. “Derek? Honey, you okay in there?” Without waiting for a response, Scott’s mom Melissa turned the knob and stood there eyeballing him with nurselike proficiency that jolted into shocked sympathy when he turned around and she saw his face. “Oh, sweetie.”
As Derek suffered a momentary aneurysm trying to remember the last time anyone’d called him that, Melissa was already rubbing soft circles on his back, asking if it was something he ate, was it wolfsbane? Did he want some water? And all Derek’s short-circuiting brain could produce in response was a choked, quiet “it hurts.”
Hi! It says your ask box is open for Lucifer prompts, which makes me so incredibly happy, although if you don't want to write, that is totally fine! Tom Ellis wears glasses, right? What if Lucifer discovered that he needed glasses after meeting Chloe, but usually wore contacts b/c he's proud. Then, he gets sick and is too tired to put in contacts. Chloe comes to his house to work on a case, and finds him wearing glasses instead. I find this adorable, but understand if you don't! Just a thought.
Hey, nonnie! OKAY, SO - I APOLOGIZE FOR THE DELAY! I actually took off for New Orleans shortly after receiving this prompt, so that was distracting, and then upon my return I found myself preoccupied with work and other personal issues that inevitably delayed my ability to sit down and write a half-decent prompt reply :( So, the length of time between your ask and my response is entirely my fault, and not a reflection of my feelings for your prompt at all! I really need to get better at replying to these faster.
Anyway, I ended up writing about Chloe coming home to HER house to find Lucifer sitting at her kitchen table in his glasses. Short, but hopefully cute! Deckerstar, headache, H/C. Enjoy!
(image from here)
Chloe balanced the stack of manila case folders beneath one arm and jiggled her key in the knob with the other, swearing under her breath, hastily blowing a tuft of loose blonde hair away from her face. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip and forehead; it was hot, for April, and she was tired and irritated and pissed at her lack of discernible progress on this case. This guy was good, but so was she – she just had to keep telling herself that; look at it from a different angle, maybe go home, sleep on it, try again in the morning…
“Ha!” The key turned, the lock clicked, and she thrust the front door open with a triumphant huff, taking a moment to brush her hair out of her face and catch her breath, standing in the doorway and reveling in the air conditioning.
“Detective, you’re home early.”
She jumped and three of the folders slipped from her grasp, sending papers and crime scene photos raining down upon the foyer floor. “Dammit, Lucifer!” With a frantic double-take, while bending down to retrieve the fallen paperwork, she furrowed her brow. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in?” And then, “you’re wearing glasses.”
Lucifer, indeed donning a pair of contemporary black-framed eyeglasses, raised his own brow over the lenses. “Indeed. I let myself in. You said you needed help on this case, and I had the afternoon free.”
She quickly picked up her work detritus, shuffling it somewhat back into a organized pile, and straightened up with an irritated, resigned sigh. “So I see. Well, you can start by sorting through these while I use the bathroom.”
But, as she approached the kitchen table where he sat with a cup of tea and some paperwork of his own (the hell was he even looking at so intensely, she wondered), Chloe noticed that beneath the improbable eyeglasses were also some less improbable and seriously impressive dark circles, and that his cheeks seemed a little flushed in this light. She frowned. “You okay?”
“Hm?” Lucifer’s gaze flickered up to meet hers, and, yeah, she could see the tired dullness in his eyes more clearly now, and the mom in her recognized it as encroaching illness from a mile away. “Yes, I’m fine. Go, tend to your excretory needs.”
She pressed her mouth into a thin line, evaluating him with a more clinical eye. Without word or warning, she extended a hand and rested the back of it against his forehead (hot, yep, definitely getting sick). Lucifer made a comical expression beneath her hand, and a cheeky smirk pulled up the corner of his mouth. “Playing nurse, are we?”
“Maybe.” She lowered the hand, and her gaze softened. “Does your head hurt, Lucifer? Is that – the glasses?”
He squinted up at her, replying with a derisive little huff, and then suddenly deflated with a weary sigh. “Throbbing like an unsatisfied member.”
Chloe responded with an amused huff of her own, taken aback by the joke, but she reached back up to cup her palm across his forehead this time. His eyes closed, and she gently pressed her thumb and middle finger into his temples. It wasn’t quite the right angle, she’d need two separate hands for that, but he sighed with quiet relief nonetheless. Encouraged by his affirmations, she set down her work folders and used both hands to rub his temples, index and middle fingers applying correct and equal pressure to both sides of his forehead – little circles, gentle but firm, tenderly attentive. Enough to close his eyes and part his lips with a small breathy sigh. “’s amazing, Detective,” he mumbled, acquiescing fully to her ministrations with a final slump of his shoulders.
Chloe smiled, a real one, full of fondness, and leaned down to plant a little kiss into the fragrant crown of his soft hair. “Well, what are partners for?”
Lucifer’s eyes opened at that, expression openly surprised as a teenage boy’s, and he wordlessly tilted his chin up to meet her lips in a proper (if chaste) kiss. They stayed that way for a second longer than necessary, lingering, breaking the gentle seal of their lips and holding contact with their eyes. Through the headache, he smiled back at her. “Don’t need my bloody glasses to see this clearly,” he murmured. “Thank you, Detective.”
She smiled back again, paperwork forgotten. “Anytime, Lucifer.”
hi ilu so much but can i maybe humbly request a pneumonia/bronchitis lucifer with,,, like minimal emeto? i know it’s ur thing & i love ur writing just!!! idkd jfkfjf
Okay, here it is finally! A little late bc I actually spent this week working instead of lounging at home, but here's a short scene with lung infection!Lucifer and caretaking Chloe. Deckerstar, H/C, coughing, light emeto.
Also THANK YOU <3 <3 a;lsdkjf I love you guys.
‘Lucifer,” she breathed, eyes widening as she froze from panic. “What can I do?”
He cast aside the thick quilt and shakily pushed himself upright, still coughing horribly, to lean over the proffered trash can. One trembling hand reached up to grip the rim, and he lurched forward with a wrenching gag, eyes screwed shut as he threw up for the second time that day.
“Oh,” Chloe closed her own eyes, swallowing against sympathy nausea, still holding the can.
He panted wearily in the aftermath, ragged little gasps as wet with phlegm as the sweat that shone on his pale face. No “bollocks”, no “bloody hell”, not even an apology – words were a waste of the precious resource that was air, one which he still currently struggled to reobtain.
Chloe’s heart hammered beneath her ribs, but she took a shaky little breath herself (feeling a bit guilty as she did so) and summoned calm, pushing aside her discomfort and panic to assess the damage and determine what needed to be done next. Classic Mom slash homicide detective slash human-dating-a-celestial-being MO. As she lowered the trash can and reached out to rub his back, hoping the soothing contact would coerce him into fuller breathing, Chloe forced herself to think logically – his fever was still high, if the heat radiating from beneath the fabric of his shirt was any indication, and his cough, while expectorating the unseemly byproducts of bronchoalveolar infection nicely, was clearly causing him more grief than relief. So, his fever needed brought down, he needed rehydrated, and he needed to rest. She could do this.
“Okay,” she began, staring down at his dark hair as his head hung low. “It’s okay. Do you want me to run you a bath? It might help you feel better, loosen up your chest a little.”
Breathing audibly through serrated airways half caulked, Lucifer leaned wearily over to rest his elbows on his knees – tripod position, easier to breathe that way, although all he wanted to do was collapse backwards and submit to Chloe’s tender mothering. “’s plenty loose as is,” he mumbled, dissolving into a rattling round of dogged coughing, weakly raising a loose fist to catch it.
She frowned, continuing to rub his back, and paused only to reach up and feel his forehead. Clammy, with fresh beads of perspiration from his recent emesis, and too warm to the touch. “Your fever’s still high,” she murmured gravely. “And you need to drink something, babe. Can you keep some water down, do you think?”
“’m not a babe,” corrected Lucifer, eyelids drooping with woozy disorientation. “’m a billion.”
His eyes closed, and Chloe’s widened; she just managed to lower him back against the pillows before he collapsed backwards of his own accord, and his lips parted with a cracked, grateful sigh as her hand rested against his forehead once more, fingers stroking back stray pieces of damp dark hair, a gesture of comfort this time.
She knew she ought to get up, dampen a washcloth for his forehead, get some tea brewing, maybe (probably) call Linda since she couldn’t call human paramedics to come retrieve her Devil. But, seeing Lucifer so unguarded, so vulnerable (if sweating and shivering and wracked with pneumonia) rooted her to the spot, and she gently cupped the side of his face with her cool hand, just taking this extra moment and committing it to memory before continuing into action.
“Yeah,” she agreed, softly. “You’re one in a billion, all right.”
Hashtag hump day (Lucifer, sick!dan, caring!lucifer, chloe, h/c, emeto, sickfic)
For @dbh-delicate, who requested stomach flu!Dan and caring Lucifer. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: any similarities to names of actual persons, living or dead, is unintentional
Also on AO3
It wasn’t particularly outside the realm of possibility for Dan to be late to work once in a while. Traffic, despite his early departure each morning, was usually the culprit in such an instance. Sometimes the line at Java Bean was longer than usual, or the baristas were short-staffed, causing his post-workout protein smoothie and tall black Costa Rican pour-over to take a little longer (he never minded, really; Dan was a nice guy, and always tipped, and at least two baristas always fluttered and smiled and drew little hearts on his cups for him). One time, he got caught up at the gym because some old dude had collapsed in the weight room and he’d assumed control of the scene until the paramedics arrived. That had earned him a few hearty back slaps and smiles once he’d arrived at the precinct; that had been a good day.
Today, however, was not a good day. Dan was late, traffic was mild, no Java Bean in his hand, and he’d plainly slept in his clothes. Actually, the dark circles beneath his red-rimmed icy eyes illustrated a night spent very much awake, and more than a little troubled.
“Not now, MacMillan,” he’d muttered when his former uni training buddy sidled up with a knowing grin, intent on busting his balls.
He got a mild chewing-out from the lieutenant before he was able to slide gratefully into his desk chair, only to be met with a little concerned frown from Chloe. With an acrid-tasting sigh of resignation, he closed his eyes and acknowledged her presence.
“Yeah, ‘m late. I know.”
Chloe sipped at her own coffee, eyes studying him over the rim of her mug, brow arching. “You look like hell.”
Dan sighed again, eyes still closed, and leaned back in his chair. “I feel like hell.”
“You hungover?”
“No.” His answer was quick, defensive, defeated. “Think that pollo asado I had for dinner was bad.” He opened his eyes to look up at her through weary, heavy lids. “I puked twice before my alarm went off.”
“Ew, Dan.” She lowered her coffee mug, clasping it with both hands and studying him seriously. “Are you okay? I can’t believe you still came in.”
“Ugh, me neither.” He rubbed a hand across his still-sore midsection, squinting against the office fluorescence. Fucking desk work; he’d much rather be chilling in his car somewhere, alone, catching a catnap and the new Body Bags Unzipped: Cast Reunion podcast. “My stomach’s killing me, and I could still yak a little if I felt like it.”
“Oh my God, Dan,” Chloe flushed and shuddered, glancing away briefly before turning back to level him with a serious wifely (ex-wifely) glare, one heavy with maternal concern. But, before she could begin a lecture on contagious gastrointestinal viruses and prioritizing one’s wellbeing over their work, Dan cut her off with a raised hand.
“I’m this close to solving the Rick Martinez case,” he insisted, though the audible croak in his ravaged throat somewhat lessened the severity of his tone. “There’s a stakeout at his apartment later today. We’re hoping to bring his roommate in for questioning. All evidence points to him as our prime suspect. He could be our guy, Chlo. I gotta be here.”
Chloe watched the expression on his face, and visibly deflated with an exasperated sigh. After nearly ten years of marriage, she knew when it was futile to try and convince Dan otherwise. “The job always comes first, huh?”
He pressed his mouth into a thin line, then huffed a derisive, humorless little chuckle. “Really?”
They shared a look, and the smallest of smiles curved up the corner of Chloe’s full lips, peering out over the rim of her coffee mug, and Dan was inclined to return her smile, only a sudden twisting cramp in his gut made his whole face contort with a pained hiss. Chloe’s face immediately fell as she watched him hiss through clenched teeth, double over, and blow out a nausea-heavy exhale, one that ended with a low groan. One hand snaked up to rub his stomach, and he slowly lowered his forehead to his desk blotter with a dull thump. “Oh, God…” he moaned. “Not again.”
“Dan.” It wasn’t a query. “You need to go home. We got this – Lucifer and I can swing by the apartment, see if the roommate’s there, bring some unis in for backup if necessary. You’re sick, hon.” Hon was reflexive, slipping out before she could catch it, but she decided not to amend it. They knew what they were. “You have to take care of yourself first, Dan. You promised Linda.”
Another chuckle, a little more mirthful. “Sure.”
Chloe lowered her coffee mug, observed him for a moment – small, doubled over, pitiful – and came up to stand beside him, rubbing his back in slow, even circles, feeling a warm fondness bloom within at his weak satisfied moan. She asked him, “want me to get you a 7-up?”
“Yes, please.”
She smiled for real, giving his back one last good rub before lowering her hand and leaving him to head in the direction of the vending machines. Tending to Dan still felt good, despite it all.
“DeTECtive!” Lucifer’s resonant voice rang out above the usual mild din of the precinct workstation, and she glanced up to see his dark head and brilliant grin from across the room, smiling jubilantly and waving a hand in greeting.
She stopped, waited for him to excuse me and pardon me his way through the milling throng of uniformed officers and detectives to assume his rightful place by her side. “Morning, Lucifer.”
“Good morning, Detective.” He beamed, straightening his lapels and sighing with pleasure, squaring himself for a fresh start to a new day on Earth. “Fine day to catch a killer, eh?”
“Hm. Always a fine day to bring somebody to justice,” she agreed, continuing her trek, feeling Lucifer step into her stride without prompting. “Were you able to get ahold of Ricardo?” Ricardo Reyes was the deceased’s drug dealer, one with whom Lucifer had a personal connection. She’d learned to look past the questionable legality of Lucifer’s connections in favor of the investigative assistance they could usually offer at his behest. Lucifer was handy like that.
“Sadly, no, I’m afraid our dear Ricardo has flown the coop.”
They reached the vending machines. One uni was carefully musing over the multicolored selection with the glassy-eyed intensity of somebody coming off of a double shift. Chloe sighed. “Well, that sucks. I’ll put an APB out, and in the meantime we’ll have to find out if anyone else in the area’s had contact with him.”
“Indeed.” Lucifer sauntered up to the uni, aware that she might be in need of some assistance. “I think you want to go with the Teeny Tiny Donuts, my dear, they’re a delicious start to every morning. Go on, then, press the buttons…that’s it. Splendid.” He then waved her off with a charming smile before graciously stepping back and waving Chloe forward. “After you.”
“Detective Decker?” Another uni approached them. “Lieutenant’s asking for you.”
Chloe blinked, caught off guard. “Oh…okay. Uh, I’ll be right there.”
The uni walked away, and Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Somebody in trouble with principal?”
“Not likely,” she muttered. “Hey, can you do me a favor? Get Dan a 7-up and take it to him.”
Now Lucifer’s whole face shifted comically. “Why on Earth would I want to do that?”
“He’s sick, but being as stubborn as he is, refuses to go home and lie down in favor of suffering through the stomach flu here at work, around everybody else.”
“Ah,” conceded Lucifer, nodding sagely. “Sounds like Daniel. What a douche.”
“I agree. But, we do need him on the Martinez case, and Trixie needs her father to not die from dehydration. So, do me a favor and bring him the 7-up while I go talk to the Lieutenant, yeah?”
It was Lucifer’s turn to sigh, weary with the weight of the world (a weight he was by now accustomed to bearing). “Of course, Detective. Have to keep Sir Douche hydrated for optimal performance.”
She snickered, flashing a lovely white gleam of perfect teeth. “Say it just like that, it’ll lift his spirits. Sounds like an ad for a new sports drink,” she called over her shoulder, walking away.
Lucifer’s answering chuckle faded to a sigh of resignation as he slid the bill into the machine, watching the metal spiral unfurl and the green soda can clatter to the bottom, all shook up. Yep, he’d truly fallen hard for Chloe Decker. Not even the big bad Devil could say no to that smile.
“You’d better be dying, Douche,” he muttered to himself, straightening up with the can and a sigh and a wince as his back popped. “Or I’ll do you a favor and hasten the process.” To the can, this time.
He found Dan just as Chloe had left him – head down, at his desk, quietly pattern-breathing. The trash can was also pulled a little closer to his feet, Lucifer noticed, and that made his brow arch. “Morning, Daniel,” he greeted a little too loudly, holding aloft the can in solidarity. “The Detective sends her regards. She’s been called to duty, I’m afraid, so you’re stuck with me.”
Dan, blearily, lifted his head – wow, he was positively green beneath the whitish pallor – and cracked his parched lips to speak. “Huh? Lucifer?”
“Indeed.” Lucifer gave the can a little waggle. “Drink up. Detective’s orders. Can’t have you going all shocky so close to showtime, Huey.”
Dan sat, panting slightly as the nausea crested overhead and smothered him, eyed the 7-up can, and reached down for the trash can to pull it into his lap. “I’m gonna puke again.”
Urgency mounted. “Well, not here, Daniel, there’s designated areas for spewing one’s guts!”
Lucifer suddenly froze as Dan unceremoniously bent over and heaved up a mouthful of water and stomach acid, right there. It was not pretty.
“Oh,” murmured Lucifer, taken aback and slightly disgusted. “Dearie me.”
Sweat beaded visibly on Dan’s forehead, shining in the fluorescent overhead light. Inexplicably, Lucifer felt the sudden urge to shield the douche from all of the sudden gasps and murmurs. Shifting his six-foot-four frame to block most of Dan from view, he reached out to place a steadying hand on Dan’s back, studying him with morbid concern as he spat and coughed. “Okay?”
Dan, struggling to catch his breath, nodded and spat again. “Yeah.” Then, he cringed and groaned. “Everybody saw that, didn’t they?”
Lucifer glanced up, scanning the surroundings. There were lots of wrinkled noses, mouths open in little ‘o’s of surprise, phones pressed to chests as Dan’s coworkers decided their conversations were less important than watching his performance. “I’m afraid so,” he replied gently. “You’ll be the dankest new meme on Reddit by lunchtime. Hashtag hump day.”
“Ugh.” Dan lowered his head again, burning with shame, willing to face a basket full of vomit to avoid facing his newly alienated coworkers. “Chloe was right. I should go home.”
“Indeed, she usually is.” Lucifer gave Dan’s back a solid, rousing pat, offering a kind little rub. “Up you get, Douche. C’mon.” And, when Dan went to set the can back down on the floor, “no, no no, bring that with you. For one, leaving it for Consuela to clean up is just rude, and two, you’re not ruining my Italian leather with any more digestive pyrotechnics.”
This got Dan to look up. “Huh? Italian what?”
“Hold on to that receptacle, Daniel, and come with me.”
“Where?”
“To a holding cell, where you’ll be locked up for indecent exposure.” Nothing, Crickets. “I’m taking you home, Daniel, where you can vomit to your heart’s content in privacy. An act of mercy before the final bow.”
It was then that Chloe reappeared, approaching them with a neutral expression that quickly shifted to furrowed confusion and then wide-eyed horror when she saw Dan and the trash can. “Oh, no, Dan, not again.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” repeated Lucifer, keeping a steadying hand on Dan’s shoulder. Dan found he rather liked the warm weight of the Devil’s grip keeping him upright, so he said nothing to it, instead glancing sheepishly up at Chloe through nausea-heavy lids reddened from exertion.
Chloe reached for him, resting the back of her hand against his clammy forehead. “You’re burning up.” Her frown deepened, and she met his gaze with blue eyes full of concern, then turned to Lucifer. “Please tell me you’re taking him home.”
A beat of embarrassed silence on Dan’s end prompted Lucifer to sigh heroically. “I think that’s best for all involved,” he concluded. “I trust your little chat with the Lieutenant went well?”
She blinked, momentarily forgetting. “Uh, oh. Yes. Everything’s fine, we were just…going over some of my notes from the Gunderson case.” Before Lucifer could press onward, she reached for Dan again, this time rubbing his shoulder. “Dan, if you can’t keep any fluids down, you need to go to the ER. Promise me.”
Dan sighed, eyelids fluttering from defeated exhaustion. “Think I’m past that point.”
“Indeed,” agreed Lucifer, the corners of his mouth hardening as he gave his charge a more thorough once-over. “Perhaps the good doctor would be of some use here.”
“The good do—oh, Lucifer, no,” Chloe shook her head. “Stop bothering Linda with medical emergencies. She’s not that kind of doctor!”
“Yeah, man,” croaked Dan, the sudden surge of mortification at the thought of Linda’s owlish eyes peering at him beneath thick glasses enough to lend him a burst of strength to argue.
“Hush, Douche,” admonished Lucifer, throwing a quick glare at his burden before turning back to Chloe. “It’s all right, Detective, Dr. Linda knows me by know. She usually responds to my texts.”
Dan responded with an abrupt low oh, God, and lifted the trash can back up to his mouth.
“No,” grated Chloe, firm with disgust, and leveled a full glare at Lucifer. “Get him home in one piece, and I’ll owe you big time.”
“Oh, delightful.” Lucifer’s grin was back, devilish and rogue, as if all his worries had disappeared. “Come along, now, Daniel. Respite awaits!”
Ooh, an open askbox! What about… A very confused Lucifer with a broken nose and a concussion and Chloe trying her best to take him to the hospital without him bleeding all over/vomiting in her squadcar.
Here you go, nonnie! I usually prefer to write illness rather than injury, but this prompt sounded fun, so I did my best! Deckerstar, concussion, broken nose, disorientation, tw: vomit, lots of blood.
Chloe’s unmarked squad car flew down the empty dockland streets, lights flashing red and blue whirls, siren wailing insistently despite the dark solitude of the port area at 3 AM. The warehouses and shipping lanes of the San Perez Port were mostly empty tonight, save for the gangbangers and guest-starring explosives technician they’d just battled, the ones who had contributed to the major acts of structural and physical violence this evening. The explosives were nothing short of action movie material, and Lucifer had played the part of hero to a T – only, when he’d been caught off guard (at the EXACT moment she’d gotten too close to him), it hadn’t been a chiseled stunt double taking the punch to the face or the iron-pipe blow to the head. And Lucifer had been extremely, unfortunately vulnerable due to Chloe’s presence, and had suffered dearly.
Chloe gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles white and jaw rigid with resolve, fury, and worry. Her heart pounded to the beat of the arterial blood pulsing through (and dripping from) the formerly white handkerchief covering Lucifer’s broken nose. “Hang on, Lucifer,” she instructed, going for firm but landing at desperate. “No, don’t tip your head back!”
“Wha’sat bloody doise?” Lucifer mumbled, blinking unsteadily, trying to focus through newly blurred vision and the throbbing in his head. His voice was thick, congested; the handkerchief he pressed beneath his nose was saturated red with blood, more running in steady trickles down his chin to drip onto the lap of his several-thousand-dollar suit.
Chloe made a sharp left, accelerating even faster on the main road leading to downtown. “Just hang on, we’ll get you some help."
Lucifer’s breathing was audible, harsh and ragged, thick with clotted blood and phlegm. Abruptly, he choked on whatever fluids had been trickling down his throat, and blood sprayed the dashboard, not at all stymied by the limp wet handkerchief over his face. “Oh, bollocks,” he gasped, swollen face contorting further in an agonized groan.
“Shit,” Chloe hissed, taking her eyes off the road to fumble frantically with one hand through the console for anything – tissues, fast food napkins, insurance papers, fuck…”SHIT!”
Barely swerving out of the way in time to avoid a dark-clothed jaywalker who’d crossed in front of her, Chloe pushed aside fuming thoughts of that illegality and refocused on Lucifer. “Here,” she instructed, handing him a wad of napkins. “Don’t tip your head back – don’t move your neck at all, you probably have a concussion – you’re gonna be okay.” Inhaling and blowing out a firm breath to regain control, she repeated herself. “You’re gonna be okay. St. Mary’s is just a couple more blocks. Way better than County.”
“We ‘ave to catch ‘im…” mumbled Lucifer, who by now was beginning to look quite woozy, still struggling to contain the flow of blood running from his broken nose (and all down his chin and all over his hands). “’s Doughnut Day at the…doughnut day…”
“What?” Chloe looked over, fully, eyes off the road again. “Lucifer, stay with me. We’re almost to the hospital, I promise. Hang on!”
“I…” began Lucifer, struggling to form the basis of a coherent sentence, when suddenly his own eyes widened (both of them, together, indicating urgency) and his breathing sharply increased. A shoulder-wrenching gag doubled him over, and Chloe seized with panic. “No, nonononono—hang on hang on hang on, we’re here, we’re here, don’t—”
She just barely skidded to a stop in time beneath the arcing brightly-lit ER pavilion at St. Mary’s for Lucifer to thrust open the car door with all his remaining strength and cognizance and vomit an absolute torrent of blood and scotch all over the asphalt, drawing the attention of every single pair of eyes inside the glass-walled ER lobby.
As the double-doors to the entrance bay slid open for a pair of frantic nurses to come running outside towards them, Lucifer managed the faintest of chuckles, spitting out a mouthful of foul blood and grinning a broken visage scarier than his actual Devil face. “’ve proberly christened th’place dow!”
Poor Jimmy (True Blood, s1, whump/crack, doting!Arlene, sick!Rene, food poisoning)
True Blood. S1 (maybe pre-season/series?) Rene eats some bad shrimp. H/C, Rene x Arlene, good ol' deep fried food poisoning.
*Warning for some brief explicit/disturbing inner monologue from Drew Marshall towards the end. It adds a dash of flavor. Enjoy!
Also on AO3
Date night at Merlotte’s was a sacred occasion for Rene and Arlene. They liked to go out for drinks and dinner every Wednesday, when Sam usually ran two-for-one margarita specials to use up the old sour mix and pruny limes before placing his weekend order. This strategy never failed, and it was certainly a crowd-pleaser for all his finest regulars (read: raging alcoholics, inbreds, and corrupt law enforcement).
So, they called up Crystal (their usual sitter, and Rene did the calling-up, too, as the sixteen-year-old girl sometimes gave Arlene sass but was all flustered yesses when she heard that raspy Cajun devil on the line asking her just a little inappropriately wouldn’t she wanna get outta her momma’s house ‘n make a few bucks babysittin’ tonight, chere?) and put on their fanciest denim skirts and button-down church shirts (no, Rene, not that one, ‘s got a mustard stain on it, good Lord!) and away they went, whisked off into the hot Louisiana night, the air thick and perfumed with jasmine and skunk and heady hot lovin’. Arlene wore her most garish drugstore fuchsia lipstick, and Rene dabbed on his best good cologne and slipped a rubber in his pocket – just in case this white-hot heat burned too hot to handle on the ride home 😉
“Lord, Merlotte’s ain’t gonna know what hit it tonight,” Rene grinned as Arlene left a salty little hickey on his sunburned neck, the two of them canoodling in his truck in Merlotte’s parking lot like a couple of horny teenagers on a third date, very aware that everybody could see them and not caring a bit – let ‘em look, said Rene, wa’n’t nobody gonna come fuck wit ‘em, they was just workin’ up an appetite, them.
Problem was, Sam had just hired a new cook, some wet-behind-the-ears kid who showed up on time and called him “sir” but had no real cooking experience, but Lafayette was missing (again) and Big John was in Shreveport visiting his mother in the hospital, so young Jimmy found himself abruptly promoted from peeling onions to working sauté in the course of one shift. It was not a smooth transition, and Sam found himself stuck on the line for all of dinner service rather than behind the bar or on the floor schmoozing his regulars like he liked. This left him irritated and sweaty and snappish, and Jimmy – already petrified and dissociating from the trauma of being yelled at for all his previous fuck-ups this evening – somehow neglected to notice that the batch of shrimp melting on ice in the cooler smelled funnier than it should have, and it didn’t get cooked properly, either, but once drenched in enough rice and roux and peppers, Sam sadly couldn’t tell the difference.
It got sent out to Arlene and Rene’s table along with a basket of cheddar biscuits and crawfish etouffee. (Sam had boiled the crawfish himself; he knew that was good, at least, and he’d trusted the good Lord to ensure that Rene’s gumbo was just as proper. Sam, though, had never been the pious sort, and he carried around a satchel a’sins bigger than his belt buckle, and the good Lord damn sure knew that. Everybody had some karma comin’ to ‘em tonight).
**~I wanna do bad thiiiiings with you~**
Arlene’s knock was soft against the bathroom door, her expression tense. “Rene, honey? You okay?”
The fulsome vomiting she received as an answer was right on par with her expectations.
Cringing, she raised a fist to knock again, only to tense up again at the next straining heave. She heard his ragged breathing, followed by some heavy pseudo-French invective she knew meant something like ‘fuck me hard’ (because she’d heard him pant it out in bed before), and it prompted her to stiffen her lip and jiggle the knob. To her surprise, it opened easily – Rene hadn’t locked the door after all. Whether this was intentional or purely an accident borne from his haste, she wasn’t sure, but she was in now, and the sight of her strong, scrappy, sexy man laid low was enough to halt her in the doorway, gaping. "Oh, hon," she breathed, flooded with sympathy. "You look terrible."
Date night again? Sookie had asked, grin widening in that coy schoolgirlish way of hers. Wow, you and Rene just might be the most romantic couple I’ve ever met!
Well, I’d hardly call the gumbo special and a watered-down margarita romantic, Arlene had muttered when Rene raised a hand to holler across the room at Jason. But thanks, hon. That’s real sweet.
Arlene knew somethin’ was off about that new kid, Jimmy – he’s a little slow, ain’t he, Sam? To which he had responded in typical genial fashion about how she’d been new too, once, four years and three failed relationships ago, so that’d shut her down real quick and she’d gone back to grumbling in the waitress station about Lafayette being missing and the plummeting food quality affecting her tips.
Turns out she’d been right in her suspicions, when Rene started making his wrinkled pensive face halfway through dinner, asking her if her food tasted funny too, his troubled expression gradually worsening until they’d had to cut date night short and bid the dining room a hasty farewell, Rene practically pulling her out of her heels in his haste to get the fuck outside and away from all that pleather upholstery.
They didn’t make it a mile down the road before Rene abruptly pulled the truck over with a skidding cloud of dust, shoved the creaking door open, and doubled over to violently expel all that nice dinner he’d just eaten. Arlene had squawked and fretted like a nervous hen, fumbling through her purse for a tissue or napkin or somethin’, reaching out with an armful of jangling bracelets to rub a few frantic circles on his back, reassure him everything was all right, asking him if it was his dinner, if he wanted to go back and kick Sam’s ass for givin’ him food poisoning -“I’ll kill him, baby, I swear I will!”
“Think you better drive,” was all Rene mumbled, wiping his mouth and dismounting from the driver’s side, palming his stomach with a groan. Bad things were yet to come, he knew. Between panting through sickening cramps, he brushed his fingertips against the rolled rim of the rubber in his pocket, bidding their best-laid plans adieu and praying to not shit himself before they reached home.
In the bare bathroom light, Rene looked awful – sweating, pale beneath his tan, shocky; tears streaked his face, and his reddened nose dripped. He spat into the bowl and looked up at her through lashes glittering with tears, and she hurriedly knelt beside him, crooning softly, brow knitting together in concern. “Oh, baby," she soothed, rubbing his back. "You poor thing. You best bet I’m gonna call Sam and set him straight right after I go punch that kid in his—”
“Easy, chere,” came the inexplicable croaking reply. “Ain’t gonna do nobody no good now.”
(Gonna kill that fuckin’ kid, seethed Drew Marshall, already rearranging his other plans he’d made for Thursday night. Gonna snap his goddamn neck and bleed him dry like a fuckin’ chicken. Gonna punch right through his throat and stick my dick in the hole and fuck him raw. Fucking mama’s boy cunt!).
She pressed her mouth into a thin line (creased slightly from the remnants of a former smoking habit) but sighed and decided to let it go for his sake. Instead of voicing all of her opinions on handwashing and hygiene and injustice, she focused on Rene – he really wasn’t looking so good, and that pitiful little moan she’d never heard him make before didn’t sound so good, either. “Poor thing,” she murmured, rubbing softly between his shoulderblades, reaching out with her other hand to feel his forehead. “Oh Lord, baby, you’re burnin’ up!” Removing her hands, she stood and began rifling through the cabinets. “Hang on, I’ll get you a nice cool washcloth and some aspirin to bring that fever down.”
“Aw, don’t bother, you,” Rene mumbled, sounding half-buried in the toilet bowl, his voice gravellier than usual. He shifted a little to look up at her, eyes wet and rimmed with red, dark hair curling around his temples. “Jus’ gonna come back up.”
(gonna kill him gonna fuckin’ kill him he’s dead he’s so dead fuckin’ kid god DAMMIT)
Arlene turned to disagree and try to persuade him, but her retort died as she watched him stiffen, swear, and abruptly heave forward to bring up another mouthful of bile, coughing and spitting. “Oh, Lord,” he panted, trembling helplessly. “Help me, chere…”
(this was your idea, bitch, fuckin’ date night my ass, fuck you)
((momma? Momma I don’t feel good it hurts make it stop))
Arlene quickly grabbed a washcloth from the cabinet and dampened it with cold water from the tap. She was kneeling beside him in a second, wiping his face, pressing the cool rag to his forehead, his temples, to the back of his sweaty neck. She kept rubbing his back, trying to calm his trembling. “Okay. It’s okay, baby. You just go 'head and let it all out.” Suffering a peek into the bowl, her face pinched in distaste, and she delicately reached up for the flusher. “Not like you got much of a choice.”
She held him through another brief round - a thinner, spastic wave that required more effort to bring up, his momentary gasp for air, and a couple of final dry heaves that arched his shoulders and ended in harsh, hacking coughs. After each one, he uttered a broken moan, shuddering involuntarily beneath her hands. Maternal instinct swarmed her; she eased into her comforting ministrations, rubbing soothing circles on his back, wiping his tears, catching herself as the shhhshes began – he’s not a baby, for chrissake, stop it.
((Momma?))
(all right she ain’t so bad, dumb as a goddamn box of rocks but it ain’t her fault, she didn’t cook the shit)
“Feels good,” he mumbled, cheek resting against the cold porcelain rim, sighing with muted relief. Another Oh, Lord, followed by a more blasphemous and pronounced fuck, and he seemed to be done at last. When he straightened up and sniffed and wiped his face with a hasty handful of toilet paper, Arlene finally sat back with a sigh, wondering how in the hell Sam could’ve let this happen, and if they could sue him for damages. She liked Sam, she did, but she really didn’t like seeing her Rene sick.
(Little did she know just how sick Rene really was).
I will no longer be writing prompts/fics for Lucifer. HOWEVER,
I'm on season 6 of Once Upon a Time, and once I finish the series, I will be ready to take prompts for Hook/Killian Jones, Captain Swan (Hook x Emma), Swan Queen (Emma x Regina), and Swanfire (Emma x Neal/Baelfire). This show is so aesthetically beautiful and compelling and delightfully nostalgic, and the actors are so fantastic, I cannot wait to start writing h/c & fluffy prompts once I finish the series!
I want to thank everybody who's followed and supported me throughout my time writing for Lucifer, and may you continue to do so as I forge my way into the massive web of OUAT material! (If not, that's okay. It's been a fun ride!)
(P.S. re. my updated fandom list - Terriers is a seriously good, woefully underrated show that originally aired on FX c. 2010 & is now found on Hulu. It's about two dudes who are best friends and also unlicensed PIs who, while gumshoeing around Southern California for quick cash in various attempts to rebuild their lives from shady pasts, end up finding themselves entangled in a dangerous land-grab conspiracy that threatens both them and everyone they hold dear. Sadly, the show got canceled after 1 season, but I promise you, those 13 episodes are well worth the watch. Plus, this show is what made me fall in love with MRJ and his entire acting repertoire 😍❤)
Thanks again, guys. I look forward to returning to writing for you soon!
idk how to ask for a fic but i've been obsessed with post-s4 lucifer returning from hell but the physical differences affect him- earth is much more bright than the darkness of hell and it hurts his eyes/causes headaches, time is much slower so he feels constantly fatigued/lagging, the ash from hell has settled in his lungs, he’s always cold bc earth isn’t hot like hell, that sort of thing or something? idk i’m just a whump hoe & i want lucifer to be suffering in more than one way upon arriving back
SPOILER ALERT***
Hey nonnie! I'm sorry to say this, but I'm really not feeling Lucifer right now - Dan's death in s5B really wrecked me, to the point where rewatching old episodes isn't even enjoyable anymore because I know what's coming:( So, I just haven't been in the mood to watch or write for Lucifer lately. Not your fault at all! I'm very sorry for the disappointment, but I'd rather write content deserving of your time and properly fulfilled rather than hurried and halfhearted!
This is still a really good prompt, though. I like the idea of it and I'm definitely open to receiving more headcanons like this one!
