Work Text:
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 flirted 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 doubled 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 elicited by his coworkers. 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!”