midnight miserable (lucifer, deckerstar AU, sick!lucifer, emeto h/c, vomiting)
Summary:
Chloe realizes, considerably past midnight on a stormy work night, that she enjoys taking care of Lucifer. H/C, Deckerstar, emeto.
Notes:
Wow! This is kind of old, posted on my tumblr (oshii@tumblr.com), and I forgot to post on on here! Enjoy :)
Posted Feb. 27, 2019.
Original link: https://oshii.tumblr.com/post/183086217554/midnight-miserable-mmm-boi-sicklucifer
Work Text:
Decker's apartment, interior. Around 1 am.
Thunder reverberated lowly, gently rattling the windowpanes in the master bedroom, the murmuring charge dissolving into pattering raindrops against the glass. Chloe tossed and turned fitfully, unable to find sleep. She told herself it was from the storm - they’d always made her uneasy, ever since childhood - but tonight, her focus was solely toward unpredicted guest on the living room couch.
With an exasperated sigh, she flopped onto her left side, staring at the digital numbers illuminated on her nightstand. 1:23 AM. Her alarm was set for 6. She could taste her much-needed soy latte already. Large. Extra whip.
Distantly, she heard stirring - blankets shuffling, the couch creaking - and what she swore was a low groan, although another peal of thunder might have drowned out her confirmations. However, the ensuing liquid retching into the provided trash can was certainly unmistakable, and it fully roused her from the bed.
She sat upright, heart pounding, and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, hating the sounds of sickness but trying to listen for Trixie (hoping fervently she hadn’t been woken, by the storm or otherwise).
The hallway pounded cold beneath her bare feet, and she hugged her robe closer to her body as she approached the living room threshold. She caught him as he was finishing, panting in the aftermath, and a flash of lightning through the living room window illuminated his lean figure indisposed with nausea. Clutching her robe, she steeled her resolve and went to him.
He reacted first, dark head jerking up with bleary-eyed mortification, spasmodically clutching the trash can. Before he could stammer out a croaking apology, Chloe reached out and began to gently rub his back.
“Lucifer,” she murmured, “it’s all right. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
All the will to fight left his body in one exhausted exhale, and he slumped beneath her hand, spitting into the trash can, fingers crinkling the plastic liner. His gasps were wet and heavy with ill-abated nausea.
Chloe reached over to turn on the lamp beside the couch, flooding the room with soft amber light. In the new illumination, Lucifer looked awful - pasty and shining with sweat, eyes swollen and rimmed with red. His chin was slick with bile, and Chloe wished immediately that there were tissues on the coffee table.
“I’m so sorry, Detective,” he whispered, head bowed in sickness and in embarrassment. His torso stiffened with a small gag, and he had to forgo the rest of his apology to abruptly choke up a mouthful of yellow bile. It was harsh, because his stomach was empty, and fresh tears sprang at the corners of his swollen eyes.
Pity swelled warmly within Chloe’s bosom, and she crooned soft noises of motherly sympathy, rubbing between his shoulderblades as he hacked dryly, struggling in the convulsive grip of illness. “I’ve got you,” she repeated, rubbing calm and steady patterns. “Just breathe. You’re okay…it’s okay…”
He surrendered with a shuddering sigh, breathing in shaky pants, his face still buried within the trash can. For the moment, it seemed he had regained control over the nausea, and Chloe herself sighed with relief. She did not relish the prospect, distant as it may have been, of hauling Lucifer to the emergency room.
“Mommy?”
Oh, hell.
Chloe bit her lip and looked up to see Trixie standing in the hallway, pajamas disheveled and hair mussed. She clutched Miss Alien tightly to her chest, her brown eyes wide with fear and distaste. “I can’t sleep.”
“It’s okay, Monkey,” Chloe reassured her, reluctantly lowering her hand from Lucifer’s back so that she could rise from the couch and go to her daughter. “Did the storm wake you?”
At her departure, she heard Lucifer utter the smallest and most piteous of noises from his trash can confinement.
Trixie glanced between her mother and Lucifer, and lowered her voice dramatically. “Is Lucifer sick?”
Over Lucifer’s moan of dire mortification, Chloe frantically rubbed her daughter’s shoulders, ushering her back down the hall. “C’mon, baby, let’s go back to bed.”
Trixie wrenched herself free from Chloe’s grip and whirled to face her. “I’m not a baby, Mommy. I know he’s sick. I wanna help!”
Chloe, utterly spent at two in the morning, exhausted further at the prospect of battling this child, heaved an explosive sigh, scrubbing her hands over her face. Maybe she could pull the bags right under her eyes.
“All right, Monkey,” she acquiesced, “go get a damp washcloth, wring it out, and bring it to me, and I’ll trade you some warm milk. Then you go back to bed. Deal?”
Trixie nodded, her small mouth set with the solemnity of duty. “Deal.”
As her daughter scampered down the hall, eager to fulfill the tasks she’d been given, Chloe turned back to Lucifer and wrung her hands apologetically. He’d procured his handkerchief from the discarded suit jacket flung over the back of the couch, and he held it to his mouth miserably as he hovered over the trash can. His eyes closed in dreadful anticipation, riding out the waves of impending sickness. He painted a perfect picture of early-morning miserable, one that Chloe was sure she’d yet to see in her life. She ached for him, and hurried to his side once more, wanting to help in any way she could.
“I’m sorry about that,” she murmured, gaze flickering back toward the hallway as she heard little footsteps. “Trixie’s bringing me a washcloth, and then she’ll go back to bed. Don’t worry about her, she’ll be fine.”
He lowered the handkerchief so that he might speak, although he had to take a few steadying breaths first. “I’m…” he began, eyelids fluttering, sweat beading. “…the one who should be apologizing, Detective.”
In the darkness of the living room, Chloe rolled her eyes at his continued martyrdom. She rubbed his back in a wordless offer of consolation, and looked up when she heard Trixie hurrying back with the washcloth.
“I got it, Mommy,” she proclaimed, her voice rasping a crude parody of a whisper, eyes flickering nervously over to an obviously indisposed Lucifer. She was mindful of his current state, and tried to be quiet, so as not to disturb him further.
Chloe got up and went to her daughter, retrieving the washcloth and ushering her into the kitchen for her promised glass of warm milk. Once that was taken care of, she gently escorted Trixie back down the hall and bade her a head-start into bed with her nightcap, promising a quick return for one (1) bedtime story.
“Good night, Lucifer,” called Trixie from down the hall, wanting to wish him well despite her reservations. “Hope your tummy feels better!”
Lucifer, indeed, did manage a weak wave in response, summoning what little strength he had reserved. “Godspeed, child,” he croaked, and Chloe spluttered a half-delirious chuckle at the unexpected humor.
“You must be exhausted,” she declared, coming up to him with the washcloth and settling in beside him once more. “The dehydration must be getting to you.”
He finally relinquished the trash can, reaching down to set it on the floor, albeit with a weak groan. “Something’s gotten t’me,” he murmured in reply, carefully settling himself back onto the cushions, one hand gravitating toward his stomach to cup the unsettled swell tenderly. His white undershirt was stained dark with sweat through the chest and underarms, and the first few buttons were undone, revealing dark hair and a sick sheen that glistened in the moonlight spilling in from the curtains. His trousers, too, were undone, but Chloe suspected that had more to do with personal discomfort than any attempts at seduction.
“Okay,” she began, to brace him as much as focus herself, washcloth brandished. “I’m just gonna…clean you up a bit. It’ll feel good, I promise.”
That, predictably, did bring a small feline smile to Lucifer’s face, though his eyes did not open. “If I had a nickel,” he sighed, voice gone light with a dreamlike haze.
Chloe reached out and gingerly began to sponge the sweat from his forehead, working her way with delicate indulgence down the sculptured planes of his face, the vulnerable cords of his neck, his broad and shining chest. He seemed to like it, indeed, and his lips parted ever so slightly, breathing a quiet and fluttering moan of relief, perhaps even pleasure, at her ministrations.
His reaction prompted that odd warmth to swell once again inside Chloe, deep within her bosom, fizzing like tingling champagne bubbles throughout her limbs. She was making Lucifer feel good - providing comfort and care in his time of need - and that, in turn, made her feel good. But was she getting off on this? She wasn’t, was she? No way.
“Ugh,” he crooned, and actually turned his head to meet Chloe’s washcloth-covered hand, relishing in the cool comfort, basking in the attention like a petted cat. “’s remarkable, Detective.”
Through the two-A.M. exhaustion, Chloe smiled, keeping her hand there on his forehead. “Glad I could help, Lucifer,” she whispered, and bent down to press the lightest of fleeting kisses on his brow.
“Moooooommmy!” yelled Trixie impatiently from the hall. “Are you coming or not?!”
Chloe realizes, considerably past midnight on a stormy work night, that she enjoys taking care of Lucifer. H/C, Deckerstar, emeto.
Notes:
Wow! This is kind of old, posted on my tumblr (oshii@tumblr.com), and I forgot to post on on here! Enjoy :)
Posted Feb. 27, 2019.
Original link: https://oshii.tumblr.com/post/183086217554/midnight-miserable-mmm-boi-sicklucifer
Work Text:
Decker's apartment, interior. Around 1 am.
Thunder reverberated lowly, gently rattling the windowpanes in the master bedroom, the murmuring charge dissolving into pattering raindrops against the glass. Chloe tossed and turned fitfully, unable to find sleep. She told herself it was from the storm - they’d always made her uneasy, ever since childhood - but tonight, her focus was solely toward unpredicted guest on the living room couch.
With an exasperated sigh, she flopped onto her left side, staring at the digital numbers illuminated on her nightstand. 1:23 AM. Her alarm was set for 6. She could taste her much-needed soy latte already. Large. Extra whip.
Distantly, she heard stirring - blankets shuffling, the couch creaking - and what she swore was a low groan, although another peal of thunder might have drowned out her confirmations. However, the ensuing liquid retching into the provided trash can was certainly unmistakable, and it fully roused her from the bed.
She sat upright, heart pounding, and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, hating the sounds of sickness but trying to listen for Trixie (hoping fervently she hadn’t been woken, by the storm or otherwise).
The hallway pounded cold beneath her bare feet, and she hugged her robe closer to her body as she approached the living room threshold. She caught him as he was finishing, panting in the aftermath, and a flash of lightning through the living room window illuminated his lean figure indisposed with nausea. Clutching her robe, she steeled her resolve and went to him.
He reacted first, dark head jerking up with bleary-eyed mortification, spasmodically clutching the trash can. Before he could stammer out a croaking apology, Chloe reached out and began to gently rub his back.
“Lucifer,” she murmured, “it’s all right. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
All the will to fight left his body in one exhausted exhale, and he slumped beneath her hand, spitting into the trash can, fingers crinkling the plastic liner. His gasps were wet and heavy with ill-abated nausea.
Chloe reached over to turn on the lamp beside the couch, flooding the room with soft amber light. In the new illumination, Lucifer looked awful - pasty and shining with sweat, eyes swollen and rimmed with red. His chin was slick with bile, and Chloe wished immediately that there were tissues on the coffee table.
“I’m so sorry, Detective,” he whispered, head bowed in sickness and in embarrassment. His torso stiffened with a small gag, and he had to forgo the rest of his apology to abruptly choke up a mouthful of yellow bile. It was harsh, because his stomach was empty, and fresh tears sprang at the corners of his swollen eyes.
Pity swelled warmly within Chloe’s bosom, and she crooned soft noises of motherly sympathy, rubbing between his shoulderblades as he hacked dryly, struggling in the convulsive grip of illness. “I’ve got you,” she repeated, rubbing calm and steady patterns. “Just breathe. You’re okay…it’s okay…”
He surrendered with a shuddering sigh, breathing in shaky pants, his face still buried within the trash can. For the moment, it seemed he had regained control over the nausea, and Chloe herself sighed with relief. She did not relish the prospect, distant as it may have been, of hauling Lucifer to the emergency room.
“Mommy?”
Oh, hell.
Chloe bit her lip and looked up to see Trixie standing in the hallway, pajamas disheveled and hair mussed. She clutched Miss Alien tightly to her chest, her brown eyes wide with fear and distaste. “I can’t sleep.”
“It’s okay, Monkey,” Chloe reassured her, reluctantly lowering her hand from Lucifer’s back so that she could rise from the couch and go to her daughter. “Did the storm wake you?”
At her departure, she heard Lucifer utter the smallest and most piteous of noises from his trash can confinement.
Trixie glanced between her mother and Lucifer, and lowered her voice dramatically. “Is Lucifer sick?”
Over Lucifer’s moan of dire mortification, Chloe frantically rubbed her daughter’s shoulders, ushering her back down the hall. “C’mon, baby, let’s go back to bed.”
Trixie wrenched herself free from Chloe’s grip and whirled to face her. “I’m not a baby, Mommy. I know he’s sick. I wanna help!”
Chloe, utterly spent at two in the morning, exhausted further at the prospect of battling this child, heaved an explosive sigh, scrubbing her hands over her face. Maybe she could pull the bags right under her eyes.
“All right, Monkey,” she acquiesced, “go get a damp washcloth, wring it out, and bring it to me, and I’ll trade you some warm milk. Then you go back to bed. Deal?”
Trixie nodded, her small mouth set with the solemnity of duty. “Deal.”
As her daughter scampered down the hall, eager to fulfill the tasks she’d been given, Chloe turned back to Lucifer and wrung her hands apologetically. He’d procured his handkerchief from the discarded suit jacket flung over the back of the couch, and he held it to his mouth miserably as he hovered over the trash can. His eyes closed in dreadful anticipation, riding out the waves of impending sickness. He painted a perfect picture of early-morning miserable, one that Chloe was sure she’d yet to see in her life. She ached for him, and hurried to his side once more, wanting to help in any way she could.
“I’m sorry about that,” she murmured, gaze flickering back toward the hallway as she heard little footsteps. “Trixie’s bringing me a washcloth, and then she’ll go back to bed. Don’t worry about her, she’ll be fine.”
He lowered the handkerchief so that he might speak, although he had to take a few steadying breaths first. “I’m…” he began, eyelids fluttering, sweat beading. “…the one who should be apologizing, Detective.”
In the darkness of the living room, Chloe rolled her eyes at his continued martyrdom. She rubbed his back in a wordless offer of consolation, and looked up when she heard Trixie hurrying back with the washcloth.
“I got it, Mommy,” she proclaimed, her voice rasping a crude parody of a whisper, eyes flickering nervously over to an obviously indisposed Lucifer. She was mindful of his current state, and tried to be quiet, so as not to disturb him further.
Chloe got up and went to her daughter, retrieving the washcloth and ushering her into the kitchen for her promised glass of warm milk. Once that was taken care of, she gently escorted Trixie back down the hall and bade her a head-start into bed with her nightcap, promising a quick return for one (1) bedtime story.
“Good night, Lucifer,” called Trixie from down the hall, wanting to wish him well despite her reservations. “Hope your tummy feels better!”
Lucifer, indeed, did manage a weak wave in response, summoning what little strength he had reserved. “Godspeed, child,” he croaked, and Chloe spluttered a half-delirious chuckle at the unexpected humor.
“You must be exhausted,” she declared, coming up to him with the washcloth and settling in beside him once more. “The dehydration must be getting to you.”
He finally relinquished the trash can, reaching down to set it on the floor, albeit with a weak groan. “Something’s gotten t’me,” he murmured in reply, carefully settling himself back onto the cushions, one hand gravitating toward his stomach to cup the unsettled swell tenderly. His white undershirt was stained dark with sweat through the chest and underarms, and the first few buttons were undone, revealing dark hair and a sick sheen that glistened in the moonlight spilling in from the curtains. His trousers, too, were undone, but Chloe suspected that had more to do with personal discomfort than any attempts at seduction.
“Okay,” she began, to brace him as much as focus herself, washcloth brandished. “I’m just gonna…clean you up a bit. It’ll feel good, I promise.”
That, predictably, did bring a small feline smile to Lucifer’s face, though his eyes did not open. “If I had a nickel,” he sighed, voice gone light with a dreamlike haze.
Chloe reached out and gingerly began to sponge the sweat from his forehead, working her way with delicate indulgence down the sculptured planes of his face, the vulnerable cords of his neck, his broad and shining chest. He seemed to like it, indeed, and his lips parted ever so slightly, breathing a quiet and fluttering moan of relief, perhaps even pleasure, at her ministrations.
His reaction prompted that odd warmth to swell once again inside Chloe, deep within her bosom, fizzing like tingling champagne bubbles throughout her limbs. She was making Lucifer feel good - providing comfort and care in his time of need - and that, in turn, made her feel good. But was she getting off on this? She wasn’t, was she? No way.
“Ugh,” he crooned, and actually turned his head to meet Chloe’s washcloth-covered hand, relishing in the cool comfort, basking in the attention like a petted cat. “’s remarkable, Detective.”
Through the two-A.M. exhaustion, Chloe smiled, keeping her hand there on his forehead. “Glad I could help, Lucifer,” she whispered, and bent down to press the lightest of fleeting kisses on his brow.
“Moooooommmy!” yelled Trixie impatiently from the hall. “Are you coming or not?!”