#sick!gabriel

Lucifer always takes a while to show up in the mornings. There hasn’t yet been a morning he doesn’t show his face, even if it’s only for a few minutes that end with whatever new fight with Michael he can pick and him stalking off to cool down again. There’s a sort of rhythm here that Gabriel’s tentatively falling into. She wakes up, usually from Fen trying to sit on her head, and goes to eat breakfast. Detours halfway there to the bathroom because she gets bodily signals loud and clear, a rarity in the apartment and really annoying when they clash between hungry-eat something-eat a bagel-eat twenty bagels and hey, it’s me, your bladder, and if you don’t go piss right now, I’m making it everyone’s problem.

And once that’s taken care of, she’ll always find Raphael already awake. Their eyes track her the minute she steps into the room. Sometimes Michael’s also there, which means he didn’t actually sleep that night, and sometimes he’s not, which means Gabriel can glance over and see him passed out on the couch, sleeping like he read how to in a manual. Fen needs feeding before Gabriel does, no matter how much her stomach is growling.

(“Why do you even keep a dog?” Michael asked, in that tone he used when he was trying to hide how judgmental he was being. But not trying that hard.

“I’m a good mom,” Gabriel snapped. Michael just blinked at him and didn’t ask any more questions.)

And then it’s a waiting game as Gabriel makes breakfast, and Raphael doesn’t eat it, and Michael either snoozes on or paces around the kitchen with nothing to do. It doesn’t matter how much he stares at the utensils cabinet, Gabriel is not letting him spend a day reorganizing the kitchen. Everything, or what little there is, is right where Gabriel wants it.

Lucifer’s record for not coming up is about two hours and seventeen minutes. Not that Gabriel is counting.

It’s been three. The sun is well over the horizon. Gabriel might have had too much coffee. Her fingers are all jittery over this week’s bills, and for once, it isn’t because they might not be able to pay them. (Most of Gabriel’s money is... not gone. It’s definitely still floating around out there, locked up tight, but she can’t get at it. She got access to one or two accounts, plus what Lucifer could pull with some vessel identity fraud. Michael couldn’t do much on that front, and Raphael... Whatever they could have contributed was all tangled up in the account their vessel shared with her husband, and it had been unanimously agreed that they not touch that situation.

Someone out there is waiting for Raphael- for the face Raphael wears to come home.

Yeah. Not with a ten-foot pole.)

Gabriel glances over at the key bowl. The minivan key is laying there, easily picked out from the rest because of the metal yellow smiley face attached to it. A little keepsake from the 70s, older than the minivan it now heralded but not the bowl it lived in. If it’s there, Lucifer can’t have gone anywhere. The van is unlocked for him to sleep in, but he doesn’t know how to hotwire a car. He didn’t even know how to load a dishwasher.

Gabriel looks back at Michael and Raphael. Neither of them are making any move to go find out what the hold up is. They don’t even look worried that Lucifer isn’t here.

There’s a very cruel part of Gabriel that goes of course they don’t. They’re used to it.

They wouldn’t notice if you took off either.

It’s a lie and an obvious one. Raphael’s first panic attack happened after Gabriel went to the grocery store without leaving a note. Gabriel presses her fingers into where Raphael had bruised her arm by holding on too tight. The ache is gone. She misses it, not for the pain, but the easy reminder. Maybe it doesn’t occur to Raphael and Michael the way it does Gabriel. That Lucifer can leave. For centuries, they’ve all known exactly where he was, even if he was out of reach. Locked up in his tower, singing to the demons that pass by, until Sam Winchester called out for Lucifer to let down his hair. (Or threw his own up? It was long enough.) Lucifer’s got both feet on the ground now, and boots made for walking, and why the hell does he stick around?

It’s not even his apartment. Which is the only reason Gabriel stays.

She rubs the unbruised spot on her arm. “I’m going to go fetch Lucifer,” she announces.

Gabriel throws on a shirt and pants. She’s 80% sure they’re both hers. She takes the stairs. The elevator might be mandated by law, but apparently its care and keeping isn’t as strongly regulated. On a good day, six floors up and down isn’t a problem (and Gabriel doesn’t think about bad days. If she can’t see them, they can’t see her.) There’s no one around, but she’d slide down the banister the last few flights even if there was. Her butt stings from a bump in the rail. The brief rush is worth it. The parking under the building is dark and damp, all enclosed in rusted bars that the daylight hardly peeks through and stone. Gabriel shivers when she steps out. Her foot goes right into a puddle left from last night’s rainstorm, and she jumps.

“Fuck!” That makes her feel better. Shoes! She forgot about shoes again. She doesn’t want to go all the way back up to get them. She pays more attention to where she’s walking instead, sidestepping puddles and loose rocks and weird stains on the floor, leaving one wet footprint in the wake of her stride. Thankfully, the minivan is parked close to the stairs. She braces herself, grabs the backdoor, and yanks it up, stepping out of the way so that the right corner of the car is between her and Lucifer. “Rise and shine, Luci!” She’s expecting a snarl and at least one arm or leg flailing out at her. Instead, Lucifer grunts and tugs his blanket further around himself.

“Go away,” he says into one of his... four pillows, now. One of those is probably the one Michael said had gone missing.

“It’s a beautiful day, and you’re going to waste it sleeping in?” Above them, the sky grumbles its disagreement and reminds them all that it can always shit out another few gallons on their roofs. Lucifer makes a very similar noise as he tries to curl away from Gabriel. Gabriel yanks on his blanket. It shouldn’t give. It does. Gabriel drops it in surprise, and it flutters to the ground and gets wet. She grimaces. Lucifer lets out a heavy, frustrated breath, but he doesn’t do anything. “Seriously, get up,” Gabriel says. “What’s wrong with you?”

Lucifer rolls over and glares blearily at the ceiling of the minivan. He looks like shit.

“I’m dying,” he says.

Gabriel’s heart stops for a moment. Then, she leans over and puts her palm against his forehead.

“You have a fever,” she tells him. Lucifer nods.

“I’m dying.”

“Shut up.” She needs him to stop saying that. Even if he’s just being dramatic, there’s a uncomfortable twist in her gut. She grabs him to haul him up, and Lucifer makes his first attempt at resistance. He pushes back against Gabriel, weakly, with hands that are far too warm wherever they settle on Gabriel’s skin. He’s exactly as heavy as he looks, but Gabriel can match that with stubbornness. She gets Lucifer on his feet, both of them stepping on the blanket resting in the dirty water, making it worse. “Hang on.” Gabriel makes sure he’s mostly steady and turns to close the backdoor of the minivan, vowing to come back for their stolen pillows later. As the door clicks closed, Lucifer makes an awful sound, and before Gabriel can fully turn around, he doubles over and starts retching.

This blanket isn’t going to be salvageable.

When Lucifer’s finished throwing up, (and Gabriel’s finished running her hand up and down his back, muttering, "Okay, fuck, you’re fine, you’re gonna be fine," without thinking about it) she pulls him back up. He’s leaning even more weight on her. Gabriel helps him across empty parking spaces to where the elevator is and hopes it’s at least functional today. She hits the button — It doesn’t light up, so she has no idea if the elevator is actually coming. — and waits. Lucifer doesn’t throw up again, if he has anything left in him. Did he eat dinner last night? Gabriel can’t remember.

The elevator comes. For one brief moment, Gabriel considers thanking their Father for that small mercy before Lucifer wobbles and nearly falls over and the urge disappears completely. Mercy would be Lucifer not having an immune system to compromise. Mercy would be Gabriel not having to worry about him, not like this. Fuck thanking Him for an elevator, especially one that doesn’t work on days when Gabriel’s bones all feel misaligned and her skin doesn’t fit right.

They stand side by side as the elevator rattles up the six floors towards their apartment. Lucifer can lean back against the wall rather than against Gabriel, tilting his head to the side to press his temple to cool glass. The walls of the elevator are mirrored on both sides, which Gabriel has heard other residents complain about for making them nauseous. She likes it. It makes the enclosed space seem expansive. Lucifer would appreciate it, too, if he wasn’t about to pass out.

“Just a little further,” Gabriel says, and she’s not sure which of them she’s reassuring. Lucifer manages it, barely.

“Welcome-” Raphael’s voice calls, distracted, but sharp with attention when they see Gabriel dragging Lucifer through the door. “What happened?”

“He’s sick. It’s not serious.” Lucifer does everything he can to prove Gabriel wrong by nearly falling over. “Shit!” Gabriel balances him at the last second. Lucifer’s eyes blink open, unfocused. Raphael stands, but they don’t move, only watching as Gabriel walks Lucifer over to the couch and drops him. Lucifer whimpers. It’s a horrible sound that Gabriel feels wrong hearing. She turns her head. Raphael is digging out the first aid kit. “Raphael, he’s being dramatic. He’ll be back on his feet tomorrow. It’s a cold.” Raphael does not believe her, carefully digging out supplies and laying them across the kitchen counter. Gabriel rolls her eyes. She can hear them filling something with water as she turns back to their brother.

Lucifer’s going to be fine. He rolls over and tries to hide his eyes from the lights, burying his face into the couch cushions. Gabriel’s stomach feels twisted up, and she jumps when Fen comes padding over and presses his cold nose to her leg. Lucifer flinches when Fen barks. Gabriel leans down and scoops him up, earning herself half a dozen doggy kisses.

“Move,” Raphael tells her brusquely. Gabriel does without thinking. Thousands of years, and she still knows when Raphael’s tone means life or death.

They’re overreacting, too. Lucifer’s-

Lucifer is easily rolled over onto his back again. He covers his eyes.

“What are-” Gabriel hears Michael’s voice from behind him, and she glances back over her shoulder.

“Hit the switch,” she says. Michael frowns, but he does. The window near the couch keeps the room lit, but Lucifer seems to relax. Raphael rests their hand over his forehead where Gabriel had earlier.

“Open your mouth,” they order Lucifer. Lucifer blinks at them and doesn’t. Undeterred, Raphael opens it for him, pinching his lips apart and pushing the tip of the thermometer in. They wiggle it under his tongue, made more difficult by Lucifer grimacing at the taste of the metallic tip and trying to push it away. Raphael slides their hand down to his jaw and holds his mouth closed, eyes fixed on the thermometer. Gabriel lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as the number stops on 100.1 degrees.

“I told you, he’s being dramatic. That’s barely a fever.” Michael steps up behind Raphael, his hand folding over their shoulder as he peers down at Lucifer. Raphael pulls the thermometer from his mouth, thumb gently petting along his jaw before they stop touching him.

“I’m dying,” Lucifer mumbles, again. Michael’s alarmed expression is only soothed by Raphael shaking their head.

“He’s not in any danger.” Raphael lifts another component from the kit, something wrapped in a towel. They lay it across Lucifer’s forehead. He exhales in relief. They try to feed him a pill next, but he refuses it, stubbornly turning his head and clutching the cold compress against himself. Raphael gets even more frustrated when he won’t drink anything they offer him either. Fen has leapt up onto the couch, sensing that Lucifer is too weak to shove him off and cuddling against his legs. His tail wags weakly, clearly able to read the tension in the room as Lucifer turns away from the offered cold water a third time.

“Try it later,” Gabriel suggests. Raphael has this handled, as they always have, but she can’t bring herself to leave Lucifer alone.

“He needs fluids now,” Raphael snaps. There was a time once when no one, not even Lucifer, would have fought them when they were trying to heal. They aren’t used to resistant patients. Angels aren’t made that way. Humans, on the other hand, only seem able to make their situations worse.

“Raphael,” Michael says. Gabriel sees him squeeze Raphael’s shoulders. Their face screws up stubbornly before breaking. “It’s alright. He’ll-”

“Michael?” Lucifer interrupts.

He stares up at their oldest brother. Neither Gabriel or Raphael plan it, but the moment Lucifer looks to Michael, they do as well. Gabriel forces herself to look away first. Michael moves to kneel down beside Raphael instead of hovering over them and Lucifer. Lucifer squirms to the edge of the couch to be closer to him. Michael touches his cheek, fingers pulling back momentarily like he’s surprised by the heat before he lets them rest there. Gabriel’s cheek tingles and rubs her thumb against it roughly so that it’ll stop. “Raphael,” Michael whispers, “let me see the bottle.” Raphael hands it over, fists falling into their lap. “Sit up, Lucifer.” Michael’s voice has softened into one Gabriel hasn’t heard him use for Lucifer once in their whole stay in her apartment. Lucifer whines protest, but Michael insists, “up, little brother,” and Lucifer finally drinks when it’s Michael holding the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

Raphael has to leave the room. Gabriel watches them go, sighs, and goes to make lunch. It’s something she’s able to do, and eventually, the sound of her making dough lures Raphael back out to help. They fall into their clumsy still-learning rhythm, both of them ignoring what’s happening by the couch.

Gabriel takes something for the headache that develops as she sits in front of the oven and waits for the timer to ring, the dough rising for the second time on the stovetop above. Raphael washes their hands thoroughly. Michael comes to fill the water bottle back up. “He’s asleep,” Michael says. His voice is so quiet it makes Gabriel want to bang the oven door as loud as she can to wake Lucifer back up. Only that would probably make her own headache worse. She rubs her ankle as it aches. Damn bones. Damn her for getting lazy enough with making this vessel that she couldn’t spend a few extra minutes making sure all of it fit together right. All she did was take a tibia from one guy and a try to line it up with tarsals from a girl a century earlier. It wasn’t supposed to hurt, wouldn’t if she still had her grace. At least everything holds together. Some parts dislocate easier than they should, but she hasn’t had to pop anything back into place for the past few weeks at least.

The timer rings, and she heaves herself to her feet. At least she can still make flatbread. Small luxuries. Raphael pokes at the one they’re handed, breaking off a small piece before the look Gabriel is giving them makes them take a bite. Bigger luxuries come in seeing Raphael’s eyes light up when they find food they can enjoy. Gabriel packs at least quarter of the flatbread into a container and puts it in a cupboard. Definitely not for Lucifer. She’s storing it for someone who isn’t sick. If he happens to get better and eat it, then that’s just a coincidence.

She glances over at her brother. Fen is watching him closely. Good boy.

Lucifer sleeps for most of the day, intermittently woken by Michael to drink more water or by Raphael when they take his temperature. Gabriel takes another pill before the day’s over, her head aching as she watches Michael bring up the pillows from the van she told him about. He props Lucifer up on one, and Lucifer murmurs something in response tiredly. It has the shape of Enochian, but what Lucifer says is incomprehensible through the haze of his own exhaustion, the limitations of human vocal cords, and his loose grasp on his own language. (They don’t speak in Enochian often, mostly to avoid straining their throats, but when they do, sometimes Lucifer gets completely lost, unable to follow what should be basic conversation, and when he speaks back, it never comes out right.)

“Michael is going to sleep on the floor if it’s his choice,” Raphael says. Gabriel hadn’t heard them sidle up next to her. She jolts hard, and it makes her chest and shoulders hurt.

“Then let him?” Gabriel says. She doesn’t see how it’s their problem if Michael wants to suffer. He’s tucking a blanket around Lucifer. Gabriel’s hand curls into a fist, and she waves it out. She can see Raphael watching her from the corner of her eye, and they’re easier to look at than Michael.

“We have a spare bed,” Raphael says.

“You have a spare bed,” Gabriel corrects, though calling the air mattress a bed is a stretch. “I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.” Raphael narrows their eyes, and Gabriel almost says, I’m older, I have to look out for you. She thinks better of it. It’s not really true, anyway. She just likes to imagine it is, sometimes. (And other times, selfishly, she wants Raphael to be older.)

“I’m trying to ask if I can sleep in your bed.” Gabriel’s mouth drops open a little. She shuts it quickly, licks her dry lips, and answers,

“Of course you can,” before she can talk herself out of it. Raphael looks a little surprised themself.

More difficult is convincing Michael to take the air mattress. He protests about taking Raphael’s space, but Lucifer isn’t moving from the couch and Gabriel’s pretty sure none of them would let him go back down to the van even if he could. In the end, they leave him in the other room, snoring off his fever, and the three of them try to make their nightly routines fit around each other when there’s even less space. Gabriel doesn’t do most of hers. Between finally passing out in bed and brushing her teeth, sleep wins by a landslide. She’s out before Raphael even has time to crawl under the covers with her.

Raphael is definitely there when Gabriel wakes up. She knows that because of the metal poking into her mouth. She tries to spit it out to no avail, and instead she whines. Her throat aches around the noise. Raphael’s hand smooths over her forehead, brushing back sweaty hair and then becoming an insistent press as Gabriel tries to sit up. She doubts she would have gotten anywhere even if Raphael didn’t make her stay still. Everything hurts, from head to toe, like someone took a hammer to her muscles and beat them to death. She makes a face around the thermometer again as Raphael draws it out.

Gabriel glimpses the numbers. They look blurry, but she knows they’re higher than Lucifer’s temperature. The worry on Raphael’s face does nothing to reassure her.

And then, worse, Raphael leaves.

Gabriel can’t help the noise she makes, pitiful and high like a wounded animal. She wriggles to get the covers off of her. She’s too hot, everything is too hot, and her clothes and her hair stick to her skin. The sheets under her back are uncomfortably damp. She shakes her head and makes herself nauseously dizzy in the process. The whole world spins over her head, but squeezing her eyes shut again doesn’t help. She wants to go back to sleep. Nothing hurt when she was asleep.

The thought makes her panic and flail, knocking the covers completely off the bed.

“Gabriel,” it’s Michael’s voice, and then Michael’s hand gripping her arm, forcing her back to stillness. She curls into him. He doesn’t react to her pressing her sweaty body against his, keeping his voice calm. “That’s better. Don’t move so much. You’re very sick.” Michael’s hand smooths over her hair.

“I don’t want to go back,” she tells him. He’s Michael. He’s the oldest, the strongest, and if anyone can keep her here and not- “Don’t let me go back. I can’t do it again.” The darkness behind her eyelids is too much like that empty place, and she keeps them forced open, staring up at Michael. The light above his head makes an odd halo. He frowns.

“I don’t-”

“She needs to-” Raphael starts. The moment they’re in Gabriel’s line of sight again, Gabriel squirms towards them. “To drink,” Raphael finishes, once Gabriel has completely invaded her space. Gabriel presses her forehead into the cold plastic of the water bottle Raphael is holding and sighs.

“I can take care of it,” Michael offers. Raphael doesn’t hand over the bottle. Instead, Gabriel allows them to help her.

“You should check on Lucifer,” Raphael says, but there’s something more relaxed about their tone. Gabriel smiles. She can be a good patient.

The next few days are torture. Gabriel can’t sleep, but she’s never really awake either. She’s always drifting in the nauseous in-between, interrupted every once in a while by Raphael prompting her to drink or helping her to the bathroom. They take Gabriel’s temperature religiously, and Gabriel watches as the number creeps further and further up, the furrow in Raphael’s brow growing deeper.

Lucifer and Michael flit in and out of her world, too. Michael takes it upon himself to readjust her pillows and pull the sheets out from under her to wash when they get too gross. Lucifer recovers quicker than she did, and more than a few times, she finds him sitting beside her on the bed, pressing his cool hand against his forehead.

(She hears the three of them discussing whether or not to take her to a hospital, and yells as loud as she can - which isn’t very loud when her throat is so sore - for them to not do that. They can’t afford a hospital bill. Or random doctors seeing whatever horror show is going on inside Gabriel’s vessel. It must work, since she ends that night sweating in her own bed again and not in the ER.)

Finally, her fever breaks. Raphael hauls her out of bed and into a cold shower. Gabriel doesn’t have the energy to stand on her own in the shower for long. Raphael joins her. Gabriel rests her head against the shower's wall and lets Raphael wash out her hair. Gabriel’s muscles are still aching, and her throat isn’t much better, but her body isn’t actively trying to boil her alive anymore. She’ll take it.

“Why the long face?” she asks Raphael, catching her expression out of the corner of her eye before Raphael moves away again.

“What?” Raphael massages Gabriel’s scalp. She sighs, leaning back into them, despite the annoyed noise they make at how much harder it is to wash her hair like that.

“I’m not dying now-”

“You were never dying,” Raphael says.

“-so why aren’t you happy? You don’t have to take care of me anymore.” Raphael’s quiet for a minute.

“But I knew how to,” Raphael answers

Gabriel stares down at the dim reflection of her face in the wet shower tiles.

“Well,” she says, “we could always start poisoning Michael, if you need someone sickly to look after.” She thinks it’s a cough at first, but then Raphael gets louder, and it’s laughter, caught off-guard and unable to be restrained, flavored by exhaustion. Gabriel smiles and snuggles back into them, smearing shampoo all of their shoulder until they get annoyed again.