Pardon The Way That I Stare

Soup

As the afternoon sun streamed through the windows, Alastor hummed softly to himself in the kitchen, his hands deftly chopping vegetables for the soup. The smell of simmering broth filled the air, mingling with the soft crackle of the stove as he stirred the pot. He glanced at the clock. Lucifer had been sleeping for a few hours now, and Alastor hoped the rest would help him recover.

The soup was nearly done when Alastor heard soft footsteps behind him. He turned just in time to see Lucifer, pale and unsteady, making his way down the stairs. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bleary, and he looked far worse than he had before.

"Lucifer!" Alastor quickly put down the ladle and hurried toward him. "You should be in bed, dear."

Lucifer waved a hand dismissively, though he looked barely strong enough to stand. "I'm fine," he croaked, his voice raspy and weak. "I just—wanted to see you."

Alastor frowned, his concern deepening as he noticed the slight tremor in Lucifer's hands. "You're clearly not fine. Go back upstairs and rest."

"I just... need to sit for a minute," Lucifer muttered, trying to make his way toward the parlor. But his steps faltered, and before he could take another step, his body swayed dangerously. Alastor moved to catch him, but it was too late—Lucifer collapsed, his knees buckling as he passed out.

"Lucifer!" Alastor's voice was sharp with worry as he rushed to his side, kneeling down and gently cradling his head. He checked his pulse—steady, though weak—and sighed in relief. "You're more stubborn than I thought," he muttered, his tone softening as he carefully lifted Lucifer into his arms.

Lucifer's body felt limp against him, his breathing shallow but even. Alastor carried him back up the stairs, his heart pounding with both fear and frustration. He knew Lucifer hated feeling vulnerable, but pushing himself like this only made things worse.

When they reached the bedroom, Alastor laid him back down on the bed, pulling the blankets up around him and tucking him in tightly. He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers gently through Lucifer's hair as he waited for him to stir.

After a few moments, Lucifer's eyes fluttered open again, his gaze unfocused. "What... happened?" he mumbled, blinking up at Alastor.

"You passed out," Alastor said, his voice laced with concern. "I told you to rest, but you just had to come downstairs, didn't you?"

Lucifer groaned, closing his eyes again. "I wanted to... help."

Alastor huffed softly, though there was no real anger behind it. "You help by staying in bed, dear. I'm making soup. I'll bring it up when it's ready. You don't have to do anything."

Lucifer weakly reached for Alastor's hand, squeezing it lightly. "Sorry."

Alastor's expression softened, and he leaned down to press a kiss to Lucifer's forehead. "Just rest. I'll take care of everything."

Lucifer nodded faintly, his eyes already closing again as exhaustion pulled him back into sleep. Alastor stayed by his side for a few more minutes, watching him to make sure he was stable before heading back to the kitchen.

The soup would be ready soon, and once Lucifer was awake again, he'd make sure his dear had a hot bowl waiting for him—whether he liked it or not.