Work Text:
Someone has, rather impolitely, liquified a porcupine in your lungs.
You had had a sense about this last night, but foolishly, you dismissed it like a coward. There was something just a little bit different. A scratch to your throat that wasn’t there, a little bit more exhaustion that had you sinking quickly into slumber.
But, hopes came to nothing. You had hoped that maybe through sheer willpower, it would turn out to be nothing. Maybe you could positive think this cold or flu, or what away.
Well, your immune system told you that positive thoughts were lies. Google told you that it was super mega ultra cancer and you would die in a day.
You elected to believe it was just the flu.
You roll out of bed, lurching as the world swayed for a moment. Feet braced, you took stock of the situation.
This was… fine, yeah? You could probably be fine with this. It wouldn’t be the first time you went into work a little less than tip top condition.
…normally you would shoot Carol a text and ask if they wanted a shift, and take a nap. Sometimes they were a bit flaky on getting their work done, but when it came to shift pick ups, you could almost always count on them. They took any excuse to get out of that house and away from their family.
Well. Carol wasn’t back yet. So, instead you stumbled through a passable attempt at your morning routine, ending it with choking down some hopefully not expired medicine. Ugh. Who was in charge of making pills that were just a bit too awkward to swallow comfortably? But you’d leave the syrup as a last resort.
The walk to the cafe felt twice as long as usual, your steps plodding against the sidewalk. And even worse, no sign of any clowns out today.
They were probably on another street- you were pretty sure Pierrot did everything in his power to align his schedule with yours, but you had been a little insistent that he still get his work done.
Which. Great for you, hurrah, make sure your friend doesn’t mess up their work, but also you could really maybe use someone to talk to. Or maybe use as a crutch. Your legs couldn’t quite decide if they remembered what balance was and that the ground wasn’t a ship deck.
You swept into the cafe with all the grace of a rhino wearing roller derby skates. You could almost feel the waves of exasperation coming off of your boss. “What happened to you?”
“Why are the lights so bright.” You mumble back. Shouldn’t somebody turn those down? It’s practically a public safety hazard at this point.
“Nobody’s touched the lights.” Your boss said. “Hungover or sick?”
“Neither!” You chirp, trying for energetic and peppy and instead landing on cartoonishly psychotic. You don’t have to look up to see that you’ve failed your boss’ check.
“Sick, then.” He said. “It’s- fine. Stock the back. You’re not going to work the front today.”
“You hate working register.” You mumble, but you don’t say no as you duck behind the counter. You’re not sure you have the ability not to just start biting people that aggravate you today. Like a feral raccoon. You might be a few feral raccoons in a jacket. Has anyone checked?
“Don’t like it, go home.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” You had to work this shift. Without Carol, you were floundering as it was. Hiring people took time, and without her, you and your boss had to cover everything between the two of you.
…huh. In hindsight, maybe it was less than surprising that you got sick. The last week or so, you’d been run off your feet, picking up shifts every day. And with crime came gossipers. Everyone in town seemed to want to visit the cafe where Carol used to work, ask if you knew anything. Not to mention, your sleep schedule was all kinds of messed up from visiting Pierrot late at night at his show.
You’d even worked through your lunch breaks, subsisting on cafe drinks, the occasional pastry, and the candy tips Pierrot gave you.
Well, the seeds were sown and now you were reaping it.
You spent the early part of your shift, ferrying clean cups from the dishwasher, and surveying the syrups with the eye of a newly crowned royal examining their domain. Hm. The country of brown sugar cinnamon was a tad low today. Perhaps it was time for peppermint to make a grand push onto the menu, their borders almost overflowing
You’re not sure where you’re going with this metaphor and you give up on it when you realize that you’ve started talking to the syrups.
Tink
You bounce up at the very familiar sound. “Pierrot-“
Your voice jerks to a stop.
And for a moment, the world spun. You teetered, staggering as your head twisted on its axis.
But before you hit the floor, something swept you up, lifting you up before you could touch it. You groan, reaching up to press your hands to your eyes.
“Are you okay?” The voice hisses into your ear. You blinked against the blurry wood.
“Pierro’?” You mumbled, looking up. You kept blinking the stars out of your eyes. Pierrot’s face was distressed, his pupils so dark they seemed to swallow the gold of his eyes as he stared down at you.
It’s only when he glances up at the shop, the click happens. He can’t keep talking. “‘M fine! Fit as a fiddle. I could probably go run a marathon right now.” You said, trying to stand.
His arms tightened around you, keeping you down. He doesn’t speak but you can read the worry in his gaze like an open book, how his eyes linger on your face. “Everything good?”
“He’s probably looking at you, you’re as pale as he is.” Your boss drawled. You winced as he stands over you, Pierrot hunching over you, his face unseen as he stares at your boss above you. Your boss’ face twists. “Hands off my server.”
Pierrot looks down at you and you shake your head. “I’m all good, I can stand now.” You assured him. His arms pull away, taking a few lingering moments. Before either can offer help, you grab the edge of the counter, yanking yourself up on your feet.
Your head swims immediately, thoughts blurring and whirling. But this time, you breath through it and force an unsteady smile. “See? All good now.”
“Do you need a ride home?” Your boss asked, looking out the window and then back at you. “I can lock up and get you back.”
“‘Ll be fine.” You said. Your eyes slide to the window. It doesn’t look dark enough yet to close. But you’re not sure what time it is otherwise, the minutes passing by syrupy slow. “S’not that far of a walk.”
It was one of the reasons you loved working at the cafe so much. A walk long enough to clear your head but not so long it wasn’t easy for someone like you to do.
He glances out again and then back at you. “Sit in one of the booths. I’m not sending you out in the street like this.”
“Boss-“
“And take him with you!” Your boss calls over his shoulder, heading back to the espresso machine. You sigh, looking up to Pierrot. The way his eyes flicker over you, his hands braced like he’s ready to catch you again.
“Sorry about that.” You said, and his arms flying to your side. You greet it with a raised eyebrow before offering your arm to take, his hands taking it like it was made of glass. “I really am fine.”
He leans down, a gentle hand brushing over your ear. “You do not look fine. Is he being mean to you?”
“No, no. This is all me.” You flop down in the booth, a tad ungracefully. Especially when you compare yourself to Pierrot who folds himself into the seat with effortless grace. “I… might be a bit more under the weather than usual. Nothing I can’t handle though!”
Pierrot propped his chin on his hand, looking worried still.
“Okay, maybe I should’ve called out today.” You mumbled, slumping a little in your seat. “I just… hated calling out. And it’s not like I could let you know I was sick.”
For a moment, Pierrot’s face lightens like sunlight breaking over a shadow, his smile curling. “Hey, hey, we ARE friends.” You said, folding your arms and resting your chin on them. “How could I ever deprive you of my wondrous presence?”
Pierrot still looks worried. You sigh, looking back down at the wood grain. Hm. Distraction time. “Do you get sick a lot?”
“I do not, my dearest.” Pierrot said. He raises a rang tapping his finger to his chin. “I think the last time… hm. I don’t quite remember the date.”
“Luuuucky.” You said, resting your chin against the cool wood. You wheeze a little, voice scraping against your dry throat. “Ow.”
“Are you okay?” Pierrot asked, his hands fluttering like he’s not sure whether to call for help or check your temperature or an odd motion like he’s about to scoop you up. “I can try and help, if you let me.”
“Nah, ‘s fine.” You wince. The more you spoke, the more aware you were becoming of the porcupine that was steadily encroaching on your throat now. “I don’t think I’ll be great conversation today.”
You expect disappointment, maybe sadness. Instead, Pierrot simply nods once. “That’s okay.” He said. “I’m always happy with you.”
“Awwww.” You said. And then started hacking up a lung.
A rough hand shakes you awake, and you force a peppy look on your face, met with a raised eyebrow. It’s cool, it’s cool. Just your dignity at stake here.
“Ready to go?” Your boss said. You groan for a minute, brace yourself against the discomfort you knew was coming. With your head down, even if you got to relax, your threshold lowers.
Now, the light of the cafe feels like far too much. You almost flinch back, wobbling when you stand.
When you look up? You have to squint to see Pierrot’s face. They stare at your boss, pupils small and focused. Looking almost angry and accusing. Then their eyes meet yours and they’re relaxing again.
“Let’s hit the road.” Your boss said, swinging his keys. “I’ve got some errands after this.”
“Woo, errands.” You mumble. You brace your hands on the table before pushing yourself up. Your back makes a sound like crushing bubble wrap. It doesn’t seem promising.
You try for a smile. Pierrot looks incredibly worried still, one hand pressing down on top of yours. “Next time you see me, I’ll be back in normal condition.” You promise. “No sickness can keep me down for long!”
You hope.
Really, what’s the worst that can happen? Tonight will be rough but you’re certain that tomorrow you’ll wake up, perfectly normal and healthy again. Surely, that can’t go wrong.
You hiss as the shrill beep slams into the quiet, shaking hand reaching to check your head to make sure no one just drove a nail into it. And if that sucked- ugh. The thought of opening the microwave felt worse.
You hit the end button right away. Staring into the glass, you contemplate your choices. Your stomach lurches, saliva rising in your mouth.
After a moment, you abandon the microwave soup, your stomach promising revolt if anything enters. Humans could live three days without food. Or water? One of those.
Just to be sure, you fill up a big pitcher of water and leave it and a glass next to your bed. There. Now a shot of medicine, and you’d wake up bright and refreshed in the morning.
Why hello there body, how are we doing today? Bad your body replies. Really bad. The world has now become about one hundred degrees too hot, and we went five rounds with a luchador and lost. I didn’t fight a luchador, you think. Lies and slander, your body tells you.
You are ashamed of this. You would think you could at least win one round.
Upon your shoulders, a Herculean task. Someone should give you a medal for getting out of bed. Well. Sliding out, like someone sliding a fried egg out of a pan, all floppy and gross. You’d settle for a parade. Or cold medicine. Your kingdom for a DayQuil.
The world, very impolitely, spins when you get on your feet. That’s fine. You’ve trained for this. Baby you knew what they were doing, crawling is a far superior method. The fabric of the rug is rough against your knees as you make your way to your dresser.
What were you thinking last night? Cruelty, that’s what. Past you was a cruel cruel person, leaving medicine and making you crawl for it.
You don’t even bother measuring it, taking a swig you measure only in vibes. Probably right. Blearily, you squint at your phone screen.
Past you forgiven for now. At least you lowered the brightness.
A text blazed on the screen. “Don’t bother coming in, I got a temp in today. Sleep.”
As if given an invisible cue, you slump to the ground, the thankfully capped medicine bottle falling with you. Ah, we’re in this together now.
You roll over, eyeing your bed. Hm. Well. The floor is soft, right? That’s what rugs are for, after all. Just thin little floor mattresses. Probably right. Sleep time.
A soft thunk.
That didn’t sound right for a dream about fighting an angel in a coffee shop. Or talking to one at a circus? One of those? Your dream tries to fit it in with the idea of a door opening but too late, your anxiety grabs hold.
You put up a very valiant effort against the likely murderer. By pitifully smacking at them with your free hand, squinting against the light of the moved curtain.
Bleh. The sun. Who invented that? Just another way to kick you while you were down.
A cold hand presses against your forehead and you moan gracefully, slumping into it. Ooo, built in shade too.
There’s an odd wheezing sound. It could be your lungs but it came from above. Sky lungs.
Hey body, how big was that dose of cold medicine? You don’t want to know, your body tells you.
The cold hand pulls away and you whine, trying to chase after it. Someone hushes you and you are suddenly lifted, arms curling around you. Suspended! Captive!
Then set on a soft bed. Hm. You’re pretty sure you didn’t develop telekinesis. Blinking blearily against the light, you stare up at the red and black blur hovering over you.
Their lips are moving. But it crashes against the low level buzz in your head, and ultimately loses that fight. Reasonable, can’t win against bees in a fist fight.
“The snozzberries taste like snozzberries.” You whisper. “But they can’t keep me down.”
And then you pass out again.
You squint at Pierrot sitting at the foot of your bed.
Definitely not an illusion. You had almost kicked him by accident before realizing that was not in fact the nightmare that had been chasing you down long hallways, but instead your very nice new clown friend.
Who was suddenly sitting at the foot of your bed with a little tray next to him, like you had somehow conjured him up as a caretaker. The bed you remembered, vaguely, not falling asleep in after taking medicine. Not the floor. You squinted at him again.
“Did I let you in?” You mumble, squinting at him. You didn’t remember letting him in, but you must have because why else would he be here now? “I’m sorry, you probably came by expecting better than my lump-”
Pierrot lit up, eyes crinkling. “You did let me in, to care for you.” He said, speaking fast. It didn’t sound quite like something you would do, but you couldn’t argue when clearly you must have done it. “I- I wanted to do it.
He sounds so heartbreakingly earnest, that you feel yourself flush with more than the fever that had previously tried to kick you alive. “Probably, not a good idea, I’ll get you sick.” You mumble. You were a regular germ factory right now.
Instead, it earned you the tiniest little giggle. So faint, you almost thought you hallucinated it. “I don’t get sick much.” Pierrot told you. Oh, lucky. You were pretty jealous now. “I assure you, I can take care of you.”
“If you’re sure.” You said, a bit doubtfully. Pierrot nodded firmly.
“When you didn’t appear, I worried for you, after your collapse.” Pierrot said, looking at you. You wince.
“‘M sorry.” You said, coughing as the words aggravate a very sore throat. Pierrot presses the mug in your hands, and you go to lift it, only to find his hands guiding yours.
The flavor bursts into your mouth immediately, but even better is the instant relief to your throat. Not vanished, but muted. Softer now.
“Chá de Limão com Mel.” Pierrot said, his voice rolling through the words beautifully. “For your throat.”
“You didn’t have to make that for me.”
“I already had it prepared.” Pierrot assured you. “It’s helpful, with not speaking too much, to have tea for when I do.”
“I made your throat hurt.” Your eyes go wide. How could you hurt your friend? Your lip quivers.
“I would drink as much tea as I need to speak with you.” Pierrot said, setting the cup aside. His gaze flickers when he sees the worry spread across your face. “Jester insists as well. I speak to them too.”
Ah. That was a little better at least. You lean back into the pillow mound. He must’ve raided your extra pillows from the linen closet.
You don’t remember letting him in, but you must have, yeah? Otherwise, why would he be sitting here? Searching your memories, you find it just a delirious blur. You let the thought dissolve into the mist, the thread drifting free of your grasp. There was no other way Pierrot could’ve come in, and normally murderers didn’t come with delicious tea.
Pierrot beamed, reaching to the side to pick up a bowl. “I… also prepared soup! To help you feel better. Eating always makes me feel better.”
Oh, great scott. If you were dating Pierrot, you probably would have married him for this. Delicious tea and soup for when you were sick? It was like someone built the perfect partner. “You didn’t have to go that far, I know that I might have let you in but-“
“It’s fine! I wanted to. I want you to be better.” Pierrot fiddled nervously with the spoon. “Did I… offend you somehow? Making the soup? I didn’t mean to, I thought you would enjoy it.
“Oh, no, nooooo. Don’t make that face.” You said, wincing as your body reminded you every muscle hurt, including the ones used to frown. Thirty muscles or something to frown, you could remember the exact number, but you were sure all of them hurt right now. “I’ll take the soup. I love the soup.”
That got you a Pierrot Beaming Smile, the other leaning forward. “Canja de Galinha.” They said, the words rolling off their tongue beautifully as they… scooped you up a bite, making as if to feed you.
For a moment, you eyed the spoon. You should protest this. It was demeaning to make Pierrot feed you. But on the other hand, the soup smelled really good and your stomach was warning you that if soup wasn’t imminent, to expect revolution instead, and your arms were telling you someone snuck in to replace them with overcooked spaghetti.
Screw it. You took the bite.
And let your eyes close in bliss, a soft sound slipping out. There was an odd squeaking sound.
Oh. Oh wow. Rich and savory and salty, and everything was so tender and delectable with no signs of mushiness. It might have been simple but the flavors sang across your palate, the chicken tender and soft enough you barely had to chew.
After a pause, Pierrot offered you another bite, face tilted away.
Carefully, you sip at the Canja de Galinha, letting out a soft sigh. It’s superb. Insanely good. The flavors were dancing on your tongue. You’re pretty sure Pierrot is actually a cooking witch in real form.
You look up to find them staring at you, mouth slightly parted and eyes wide. “I said that out loud, didn't I.” You mumbled.
“I’m flattered you enjoy it.” Pierrot said, face oddly red. They dipped the spoon in, holding it out to you. It’s childish but you throw embarrassment to the wind, your body screaming at you for more yummy food.
“I can feed myself you know.” You tell him after the fourth bite.
“Allow me to help.” Pierrot insists, lifting the spoon again. “I can help.”
You lock eyes with him, hesitating for a moment. A chill runs over you, despite the layers of blankets, at the fervent tone of his voice.
Silly. He just watched you collapse yesterday and then disappear today.
You manage to finish half the bowl before finally waving the spoon away. “I can’t do more.” You said. “Honestly, probably should have done a few bites less but I couldn’t resist.”
Pierrot pauses for a moment like he might argue before setting the bowl aside and reaching for something far more wretched. The medicine. Portioned out properly this time, in a cup that almost looks silly in Pierrot’s massive hands as he guides it to your lip.
Ughhhhhh. The things your stupid body needed.
You gulp the medicine, mouth curling into a grimace. As you shiver in disgust, a hand grabs yours, pressing something into your palm.
You look down, eyes brightening when you realize it was your favorite candy. “What a coincidence!” You said, unwrapping it and popping it in your mouth. For a moment, the taste wars against the bittersweet medicine before winning out.
Pierrot plucks the wrapper from your hand, sliding it away with a flick of his hand. “Wonderful.” He said, eyes crinkling with his hidden, real smile. “How about a story, my dear? I can tell you one that I know, to keep you comfortable.”
“Sure you don’t have to leave any time soon?” And you can see Pierrot flinch, slightly. “Pieerrrrrot. Tell me what’s up.”
Pierrot’s eyes slid to the door again, and you registered that the soft noise was their claws tapping against their legs.
“Everything okay?” You said, raising an eyebrow. It hurts. Why do all the muscles of your face hurt? That should be illegal. Illegal, you say. They should not be allowed to revolt. It was too much power.
Pierrot, however, is burdened by more than your musing on dubious legality. He pauses for a moment, and you can see his pupils shrink. There’s something hollow in the way he turns to you. “Dearest… I have a show tonight.” He says it like he almost expects recrimination and anger.
You blink. A show- oh! The circus! You remember him mentioning that before, that he would love to walk you home more often, but the circus had a curfew on show nights.
Normally, you got around that by going to the show and watching it, but… “Yeah, I dunno if I can be around crowds. I wouldn’t want to infect a bunch of your customers with this.”
“You could rest in my tent.” Pierrot offers. His hand curls around your leg. “In my area, no one would bother you. I could perhaps ask Doctor to look at you too.”
Oo. Oo. That was kinda tempting. Temptalicious. You had been wondering about what Pierrot’s place looked like. Normally when you visited, you stayed in the general grounds. Pierrot tried to give tours, but often Harlequin arrived and it quickly turned into some kind of demented game between the two of them.
Not to mention meeting another one of the circus people! Pierrot had been… cautious about you meeting them after Harlequin stumbled over you. You got the sense it was less worry about their reactions and more not wanting to share.
It was cute. But it didn’t stop you from being curious about the people in Pierrot’s life.
But on the other hand, your body was quite keen to remind you that existence itself was feeling pretty threatening today.
After a bowl of soup and tea, you were feeling ready to settle in for a good snooze. In an actual bed this time, something that didn’t make your spine warn you that if you tried that again, you’d be popping like Rice Krispies when you walked.
“Tempting, but let’s keep it for when I’m able to stand without help.” You said. Pierrot tilts his head, a shadow cast across his face. “Maybe come by afterwards? If I’m not asleep yet, you can tell me about the show?”
The shadow slips away like it was never there and Pierrot leans forward, his smile curling into something more real. “I would love to do so.” He said.
You watch as the shadows devour his form, screen door sliding open and then shut. The shadows linger. A moment. A breath.
“Let me know if you get sick.” You called, wincing at the feeling of sandpaper scraping your throat. “I’ll take care of you, to pay you back.”
You think golden eyes look back to yours through the window. There was the oddest crunching noise, like wood snapping.
And then he’s gone.
You lay back in your pillows, pulling your blanket up to your chin. At least it was nice to have people who cared about you.
But still, you really hoped you woke up healthy again tomorrow.