a mother’s warmth (deckerstar, sick!lucifer, caring!chloe, emeto, stomach flu, H/C)
Anon requested stomach flu/fever!Lucifer and caring!Chloe, soft Deckerstar H/C
The back of the toilet lid thunked heavily against the tank, punctuated by a coughing heave that echoed throughout the bowl, the contents splashing quietly. A dull moan capped off the performance, and then Lucifer sank back down into his crumpled pile of misery on the floor, assuming the rest position once again. Vomit, rinse, and repeat. Not his most favorite of trifectas.
The fluffy pink rug encircling Chloe’s toilet was surprisingly warm and comforting against his bare cheek (although, not quite so much as the cold porcelain of the toilet rim, bloody hell had that been nice during the intermissions between his traitorous body’s orchestrated rebellions). With another soft groan, Lucifer curled up tighter, fingers grasping the soft rug like a lifeline. His infernal heart pounded in the darkness, too fast, dehydrated, beating a rhythm to the throbbing in his fever-burned head that he tried to twist into a lullaby, squeezing his eyes shut and willing blissful sleep to return once more. He’d been savoring his thirty-minute increments all night.
Of all the times he’d cursed his supernatural metabolism (i.e. when it stymied the desirable utter oblivion of deep intoxication), tonight was one of the rarer times he lauded it, and longed for it. Irritably, he’d surmised that he should have paid more attention to the stirrings of uneasy malaise he’d inexplicably begun to feel earlier that evening while he and Chloe were going over the case. Trixie’s been home sick the last few days, he remembered her saying to him, her brow wrinkled with parental concern the likes of which he’d never personally known. Stomach flu. It’s going around the school pretty bad. I guess the news says it’s the biggest outbreak in ten years.
Oh, tenth anniversary, cause for celebration, he’d retorted like a fucking smartass, forcing a cheeky grin beneath the beginnings of churning within. Like he would succumb to something as fragile as the bloody stomach flu. He’d witnessed the rise and fall of the bubonic plague, tuberculosis, polio, smallpox, and syphilis (before penicillin); he’d certainly fare just fine against whatever Chloe’s little spawn brought home from school, he’d assured her as much.
“I get it, Dad,” he muttered into the fluffy pink rug on the bathroom floor, curled up in boxer briefs and haphazardly covered in a Disney beach towel for warmth, “you got me good. Bravo.”
Another vicious cramp seized his innards, and the Devil curled in tighter on his mortal shell and groaned, shuddering and broken on the bathroom floor, a whimpering echo of his true terror.
A soft knock at the door momentarily ceased his lamentations, and Lucifer panted shallowly, fresh sweat beading on his upper lip. No, he pleaded, not like this. Don’t let her see me—
He pulled himself up to lean on his elbow, halfway to the toilet bowl, at the same time Chloe eased open the door, hair still mussed from sleep, squinty-eyed, frowning down at him. “Lucifer? Are you sick?”
His manufactured reply got caught in a rising tide of bile, and abruptly he pushed himself up to lean over the toilet. It was a very decisive answer, and immediately afterwards, he felt the small warmth of Chloe’s hands on his shoulders, rubbing concerned circles on his back, reaching up to feel his clammy forehead. “My God, you’re burning up,” she murmured. “Oh, Lucifer. I’m here.”
I’m here, she whispered in his ear, tendrils of insidious intent tickling beneath his chin, enticing him to worship and adoration. Mother’s here, darling.
Eyes opening, streaming tears, he gasped for breath beneath long wet strings of bile on his lips. “Chloe,” he panted, trembling with chills he hadn’t noticed until just now. Wracking his frame.
“Lucifer,” she repeated, voice hushed and full of tenderness, and leaned over to wrap her arms around his shivering bare torso. “You’re shaking.”
Her touch undid him; in the wee hours of the predawn morning, huddled and exhausted and very, very sick, the Devil crumpled his face in surrender, and he wept quietly, fueled by fever and pain. The emotion knotted up in his throat and caught in a lurching gag, bending him into the basin, but Chloe was there to catch him and hold him steady. Her left hand pressed warmly into his back, and her right was there to cup his shoulder. Loose tresses of hair brushed against his bare skin, but the titillating tiny shudder at that contact was woefully lost to the surging shivering waves wracking his whole body – fatigue, exhaustion, nausea, and dehydration blending together into one cruel and terrible malady. Not even Lucifer could fight this; he could only endure now.
“Breathe,” she encouraged him as the trembling suddenly seized into a full-torso, wrenching dry-heave, bending him helplessly in half and squeezing all the air out of him with absolutely no remorse. “It’s okay…it’s okay. Shh. Okay.”
Her gentle support was dwarfed by the horrific strength of his body’s expulsions. He had no choice but to heave, to suffer as his ravaged stomach strained to expel every last ounce of liquid. An awful, almighty cough resounded at the end of each attempt, punctuated by a grievous sob. “Fuck,” he panted, gasping, throat swelling from misery, “oh, fuck…”
Chloe’s shushing provided a gentle background melody for him to follow, conducted by the soft steady rhythm she rubbed into his back. “I know, it hurts, I know. I’m sorry.” A gossamer-light kiss, lips tender as rose petals against the tip of his shoulderblade wing scar; honey whispered into his moistened skin. Everything’s gonna be all right, honey, I’ve got you.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, once he could hear her again. “I should have known better to invite you over when Trixie was still recovering.”
With a ragged sigh, he decided there was absolutely no more love to give the toilet tonight, and reached up to flush away his shame. As he felt Chloe pull the beach towel back up over his shoulders, a small smile tugged at the corner of his parched mouth. “Well,” he began hoarsely, “far be it from me to miss out on an anniversary.”
It took a moment for her to make the connection, but when she did, it was with a huge sigh. “Leave it to you, Lucifer,” she acquiesced, shaking her head. “Here, sit tight. I’m gonna get you some water, and change the sheets. I think you sweated through this set.”
Resting his forehead against the cold porcelain rim, he glanced up at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “…d’s that mean I can still spend the night?”
She smiled fondly, and leaned down to cup his head for an affectionate kiss atop his crown. “Yes, Lucifer. Stay, and I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
Through the aching hours of misery, Lucifer felt a pleased blush creeping up on his cheeks that had nothing to do with fever. “Lovely,” he murmured, closing his eyes and relinquishing gratefully to the tugging tides of exhaustion.
