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Suddenly, the dream shifts. He’s running – you should never run from a tiger, he knows that in his mind, but his body just wouldn’t obey – one look at that sleek striped body, and his legs had started pumping all on their own. Sheer panic, stupidity.
He’ll never make it, he knows he’ll never make it – and the tiger pounces, landing squarely on his back. He cries out, flailing his arms uselessly as he falls to the ground. The great claws tear him open, and then the teeth – the TEETH –
Dan sits bolt upright and screams. Pain shrieks at him, white-hot lightning shooting out from his side. Hot, greedy knives are carving him into pieces; entire bits of him scooped out and spilling onto the floor. His organs, they’re gone, there’s nothing left of him. The jagged, hollow remains are stapled together, festering, oozing – he places a hand on his side, and it’s tacky with blood. He’s dying –
“Ok, ok, calm down in here,” says a woman with salt-and-pepper hair, looking far less worried about his missing organs than she really ought to be.
“Please,” he gasps, “please, I can’t, I –” He holds his hand up, soaked in red. Blood, there’s so much blood –
The woman tsks at him. “Pulled your stitches, it looks like,” she says, more to herself than him. “You must thrash around a lot in your sleep. Let me take a look at you.”
Hospital, he realizes. He’s in a hospital. He thinks he can remember waking up in this room – his mother’s face swimming in front of his eyes – but earlier, he’d been wrapped in a thick blanket of fog, warm and safe. Where did the fog go?
The woman walks over to him at what feels like a meandering speed; she tugs up his hospital gown and presses her fingers lightly against his sutures. He bites his tongue viciously not to cry out, tasting blood, please, please, no more –
“Okay, you only popped a couple,” she sighs. “Looks worse than it is. Stitches bleed a lot. You gotta be more careful.”
She can’t tell, she doesn’t know, but he’s dying, he’s sure of it. He’s a jack-o’-lantern with all his innards removed. There’s a fake grin carved into what’s left of him, and she hasn’t even noticed. “Please,” he says again.
He was shot. The memory is filtering back in, piece by piece. The tiger ripping him to shreds, that was only a dream. But he can still feel it, can feel where the claws gouged deeply into him, where the great vicious teeth sliced through his insides like butter. Can feel where the animal made him into a meal.
He’s cold, and … he’s wet – oh, he’s drenched in sweat, shaking hopelessly. He can’t breathe, he can’t function, there’s nothing but agony, agony, and she’s fussing with his bandages.
A supernova, bursting to life in his abdomen, and it’s dying, he’s dying, he’s –
“How’s your pain level?” she asks, as calmly as she might have asked his name or birthday.
Twelve. Thirty-five. A billion. Numbers are utterly meaningless. His pain level is burgundy colored, his pain level is Iceland, his pain level is the tiger seizing his body in its uncaring, piercing jowls and shaking him like a rag doll as he whimpers and pleads. There is nothing but pain, and pain is.
“Ten,” he says, because that’s the right answer, isn’t it? But she huffs as she walks over to a computer stand and pulls out its keyboard.
She types for at least seven hours, not bothering to tell him what she’s doing. He’s bleeding. He’s dying. He’s going to die alone while she types up something like patient pulled his stitches, just to make my day more difficult.
“Welp, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” she announces.
Well, of course he is. He’s been mauled by a tiger, he’s been shot by a criminal, he’s here. No one having an especially good day ever wakes up in the hospital. “Why?” he asks. “Please, I just –”
“Your morphine drip,” she says, and he swears by all that is holy that the woman is pleased about it in some bitter, dark way. “You’re already on the maximum dosage.”
Morphine? Oh. The fog, the wonderful, beautiful substance that kept him safe earlier. There is no fog here; it has all dissipated under the heat of a thousand suns. This is a desert, and he’s dying of thirst. Vultures circle overhead. They know, they can tell his time is soon. They will feast on what little the tiger has left behind.
“So we can’t bump you up any,” she explains. “I suppose I can put in a request for some Tylenol if you’re having breakthrough pain.”
Tylenol? If? If he’s having breakthrough pain? Is she out of her fucking mind?
His guts are on fire! Every inch of his torso is engulfed in flames – he can’t breathe, he can’t think. If she scooped his guts out and jumped rope with them, it couldn’t possibly feel worse than he does right now! Hell, maybe she should – if she did, he might manage to finally pass out! That would be more helpful than fucking Tylenol!
… he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Did he say that out loud? The woman isn’t looking at him, and there’s an uncomfortable silence before she starts typing again.
When she does speak, her voice is even frostier than before. “Yelling at me isn’t going to help anything, sir.”
Oh, fuck. He didn’t mean to yell. He’s so sorry. He’s so sorry, please? Please, he’ll do anything, anything she could possibly want. Just please, make it stop. Make it stop.
“I’ll ask them about moving up your next dose,” she says, in a tone that conveys how very upset she is that she has to bother, “but I can tell you right now they won’t agree to anything. We have limits in place for your safety.”
So that’s it. She doesn’t care. She won’t help, she isn’t going to help, she is completely indifferent to his suffering, and he’s going to die like this. A choked sob leaves his lips.
She nods once at him. “Let me know if anything changes.”
And with that, his only hope of salvation turns on her heel and saunters out of the room.
Once Nurse Go-Fuck-Yourself is gone, the dam bursts. He has no shame, no pride; there is nothing in the world but him and the tortuous flames licking at his insides. He sobs, weeps, breaks down like he hasn’t since he was a child. He cries hard enough that it becomes difficult to breathe; snot clogs his throat, and his lungs burn.
With great effort, Dan makes a fist and jams it into his mouth as far back as it will go. Then he bites down, hard. He yelps, but this is helping, a very little; this pain is new and loud, it floods out his senses and makes it harder to feel the inferno. He can’t stop crying, and now he can taste blood filling his mouth. More. Can he bite harder? Oh, please –
There’s a polite rap at the open door. “Daniel?”
Oh, fuck. He knows that lanky silhouette, that put-upon accent.
A flicker of humiliation burns in him – of course it would be Lucifer Fancypants Morningstar to see him like this, crying like a little girl whose brother destroyed her favorite Barbie. But there’s no room for him to feel mortified, not in here. Here there is only the loud, excruciating torment and him, a small creature hiding under the table and praying for respite.
Lucifer’s face is calm as the door eases open. But when his eyes alight upon Dan, he pales, then hurries over to the man’s bedside. “Daniel!”
Oh, it’s such a relief to have someone else be concerned. Nurse Go-Fuck-Yourself seemed to think he was being a big baby, but Lucifer looks as frightened as Dan feels like someone should.
The so-called Devil ghosts a hand over Dan’s side, where the blood is now seeping through his cheap hospital gown. “I’ll get the nurse,” he says, “don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”
Dan shakes his head viciously. “Can’t,” he says. “They won’t. It’s the limit. I can’t, I can’t have it. I can’t.” And then he’s sobbing again, helplessly.
Lucifer stills for a moment, biting his lower lip. “Daniel,” he says, in a kinder voice than Dan’s ever heard from him, “I’m afraid I’m not following. Can you try that again, please?”
Dammit. Fuck. Words aren’t cooperating. His mouth won’t shape them. He focuses, with all his might.
“Maximum dose,” he manages. “Safety. So it’s. Not for hours.”
A vicious cramp tears through his ribs, cutting through the fire, and Daniel squeezes his eyes shut. Why, why did he move? If he sits perfectly still, the tiger can’t see him, can’t bite and gnaw and chew.
“Oh, Dad,” Lucifer breathes softly. “You’re having breakthrough pain.”
Dan nods, quickly.
“So, what, they’ve just cut you off?” the other man asks, rage coloring his voice. “That’s bloody barbaric.”
And now the club owner is standing over at the computer terminal, doing his own typing, for reasons Dan can’t possibly fathom. Maybe just I, Lucifer Morningstar, think you are all dickheads for not giving Dan more drugs. And then ASCII penises. If anyone can draw a decent ASCII penis, Lucifer certainly can.
Dan draws breath to ask but can’t – all of that snot is clogging his throat, and he coughs, wet and rough. “Sorry,” he says, abruptly, because this is so pathetic. He’s sitting in his bed jibbering, an incoherent mess –
“Don’t be,” Lucifer says crisply, not looking over from whatever it is he’s doing. “I loathe the machismo that states there’s some sort of virtue in having a high pain tolerance, or forcing stoicism to feign one. It’s bollocks. It hurts, Daniel. You’re in pain. There’s no sin in that.”
Dan’s vision blurs. Lucifer won’t mock him for this? That’s … unexpected, and all the more appreciated for it. He’s actually glad the consultant’s here, to be honest. It’s quiet, and it’s pitch black outside, and going through this alone was making him question his sanity.
Wait. Pitch black?
His eyes climb over the walls until he finds a clock – 1:57. That can’t be midafternoon, not unless there’s an unscheduled solar eclipse, which means – it’s 2 am? Why –
“How – are you here?” he asks. “Why?”
Not that he wants Lucifer to leave. Having a sympathetic friend seems to be helping, so long as Lucifer doesn’t expect much out of him by way of coherence. But visiting hours can’t possibly extend this late.
“Oh, you know me, I like to show up where I’m not wanted,” Lucifer says easily. He leaves the computer terminal and, instead, is now studying Dan’s IV bags. “The precinct has placed a number of the people responsible for your current condition behind bars, but most of the organization isn’t all of the organization. To be frank, I don’t trust hospital security to be equal to the task. It was distressingly easy for me to sneak in here, after all. So I decided to stick around in case I was needed.”
That’s … oddly thoughtful. Lucifer could be knee-deep in models in his club, but instead he’s here, in a boring LA hospital, keeping guard. Dan’s touched. And a little concerned that Lucifer thinks he’s capable of taking on gang members with machine guns, to be honest, but that’s another matter.
“Right, did they weigh you, or are they estimating?” Lucifer’s voice cuts off Dan’s train of thought. “I think they’re off by about ten pounds.”
“I … don’t know,” Dan admits. His weight? What the –
It’s the weirdest thing; Dan is fairly certain that Lucifer Morningstar, king of sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll, is currently doing math. His lips are moving and he’s staring at the ceiling and occasionally ticks on one of his fingers.
Lucifer knows math? Dan assumed that Lucifer paid accountants to cheat on his taxes and didn’t bother with anything else, intellectually speaking. Beyond the basics of addition – 1 Lucifer + 3 models = 4 people having an orgy.
“Right, then,” the man says finally. He fishes a container out of his pocket and starts sifting through pills, to – oh! Pills. Pills!
“Oh, please,” he says, and he sounds so weak, he sounds like a junkie. He’d be disgusted with himself if he had any dignity left to care about. But he doesn’t. Pills. Please, please, anything, anything to make this stop.
“I rounded down just in case,” Lucifer says, holding out three white pills (Pills! PILLS) and placing them on Dan’s palm. “Don’t swallow, just hold them under your tongue as they melt.”
He should ask what these pills are, he should, he’s a cop, but Dan doesn’t care. Meth, coke, heroin, Tic-Tacs, he’s up for anything. Nothing could be worse than how he feels right now. “Un-ah my tonh?” he confirms, trying to hold the tiny pills in place.
“Just like that,” Lucifer agrees. “Sublingual, hits your bloodstream faster. I went conservative with the estimates since you’re not accustomed to the hard stuff, but that should definitely be enough to take the edge off.”
As the bitter taste hits his tongue, Dan wants to weep. Pills, pills, pills, the tiger’s no match for pills. He feels a swell of gratitude towards his friend. He’ll buy Lucifer a round of drinks, when he’s on his feet again. He’ll donate a kidney if the man ever needs one (and with all his drinking, he certainly will sooner or later). He’ll name a future kid after Lucifer – er. He’ll let Lucifer name a future kid? ‘Lucifer’ is a hell of a name to saddle someone with. No offense.
“How oo you –” Dammit. It’s hard to talk without moving his tongue away, and it’s hard to think straight with the sheer relief flooding his system. The fire is already dimming – are the drugs working that fast? Placebo effect? Does it matter? “Why oo you know –”
He gestures, vaguely, as Lucifer clicks the pill container shut and places it into his pocket again. It’s an open secret why so much cocaine goes missing from the evidence locker. The so-called-Devil seems to have the tolerance of a small elephant. So … what was all that math? Does the man actually know, like, dosage levels? And if so, why?
Helpfully, Lucifer seems to catch on. “Oh, that,” he says. “Well, it’s handy information, Daniel. I’m certainly in no danger of hurting myself, but my guests don’t always know their own limits. I have to say, nothing ruins a good orgy like the paramedics arriving.”
Of course.
“Leaff it to oo,” he laughs. Because who else but Lucifer would be irresponsible in the most responsible manner possible? He throws orgies, sure, but they probably have condoms and lube all laid out on display tables, next to pamphlets about safe words. Plenty of drugs, but all in safe dosages, just enough to get you high without risking anyone ODing.
Lucifer’s a roller coaster, Dan realizes. Roller coasters are scary because they let you test your limits – you’re upside down, twisting and turning, going so, so fast – but the park won’t actually let you fall to your death. And neither would he.
That’s really thoughtful of the man. Lucifer’s such a good friend. Dan hopes he’s told him that, at some point. Because he used to think Lucifer was a douchebag and a complete sleazeball but he’s really not, underneath that veneer of smugness, it turns out he’s actually a decent guy. They’re friends, and friends are wonderful. Friends are the best thing in the world.
… shit. Is he saying things out loud again?
“Well, that certainly kicked in fast,” Lucifer grins. “Enjoy oblivion, Daniel. Do let me know if they cockblock your high again.”
Lucifer’s teasing, he knows, but he can’t be upset. Because the fog, the fog. The beautiful, amazing fog has returned in the midst of this dry desert heat. The fog has forgiven him. The fog loves him. The fog curls around him, soft and heavy, quenching the fire in his guts and dulling his senses.
Wait, he needs to say something. It might be important?
“Hey,” he manages, even as the fog blanket is nudging him back towards sleep. “Thanks, man. For –”
Saving his life? His sanity?
“Always happy to be of service, Daniel,” Lucifer smiles. “Now get some rest, won’t you?”
He’s asleep before the man even leaves the room.