Chapter Text
Fizz is so used to weird things happening with his body. It’s kind of sad, actually, how he almost expects health issues to pop up without warning. But with close to half his life being spent in and out of hospitals and doctors’ offices, he figures it’s probably normal to have these things happen more often than not. Which is… Well, he’s used to it by now. Chronic pain of all kinds, heart problems, infections—even if the severity of some of his symptoms has lessened over time, he’s long since accepted that they’re just part of his life.
This isn’t something he’s dealt with before though. As his grip tightens on the rim of the toilet, he tries to recall if sudden nausea and vomiting were ever among the complications his doctors had warned him about. He doesn’t think so. It isn’t the first time he’s experienced it, but in the past it’s always been brought on by panic attacks if it wasn’t self-induced.
He’s relatively more concerned about it now. He’d gotten a burger for lunch and the smell of it wafting up from the greasy paper bag had turned his stomach so violently he’d made a break for the bathroom immediately. That…hasn’t happened before. He eats burgers all the time and this one was from his favorite restaurant, and they’ve never made him sick before.
Satan, he doesn’t want to have to go to the doctor again. He would do pretty much anything to avoid that.
His stomach contracts again and he heaves foamy bile into the toilet bowl, tears streaming down his face. He can’t remember the last time he was this ill. Maybe it’s food poisoning?
…He’ll go with that. It’ll probably go away on its own soon. As much as he wants to text Oz about not feeling well, he knows he’ll probably just get pushed to see a doctor. Oz worries too much sometimes. Not that Fizz hasn’t given him reason to, but…there’s no need to concern him with this. Not yet, at least.
He sits in front of the toilet for a while longer to make sure his stomach is finished throwing a fit, and then he stands slowly and carefully.
Huh. He feels…mostly fine. Shaky and a bit gross, but the nausea seems to have passed. Maybe he just needed to get whatever it was out of his system. He disinfects his hands, rinses his mouth out in the sink and splashes some water on his face before deciding it’s probably safe to leave the bathroom.
Quickly, he pokes his head out of the doorway to make sure there’s no staff in the bedroom before stepping out into it. If anyone heard him puking, they would definitely tell Oz and the more he sits on it, the more Fizz is sure there’s no reason to. Yeah, he’s felt oddly nauseated at weird times throughout the last couple of weeks, and he did throw up a couple mornings ago, but that was only because he’d had one too many sugary cocktails at the club. As was the time before that, even though he didn’t think he’d drunk enough to cause a hangover. The time before that…was probably some sort of fluke. And now, the weird smell from the food is definitely just his fucked up body being annoying again. Nothing new.
He discretely discards the burger into the trash in the kitchen before making himself some plain toast instead. He has a show tonight, anyway, so greasy food probably wasn’t the best idea in the first place.
Fuck…
He has a show tonight.
The thought hits him like a ton of bricks as he slides bread into the toaster oven.
He really doesn’t want to do a show tonight.
He’s been so tired recently, which is something else he’s been ignoring. Bouts of fatigue are another thing that he’s regrettably extremely familiar with, but they’d been easing off since quitting his work for Mammon. There isn’t a good reason for him to be feeling so lethargic now. And it’s really a shame, because under normal circumstances, he loves his nights being the emcee at Ozzie’s. There are a few other demons he rotates with during the week, and obviously they’re all top-notch performers, but Oz has told him those shows just never have the same energy as when Fizz runs them. He’s predictably become a huge draw for the club—especially now since it’s the only kind of public performing he does anymore—and while Oz has gone very far out of his way to make sure he never feels any kind of pressure to perform, he still can’t silence that nagging voice in the back of his mind that makes him feel guilty whenever he’s not up to working.
Oz would be more than happy to call in a replacement if he asked. For a brief moment, he entertains the possibility. The thought of crawling into that huge, comfy bed at two in the afternoon and sleeping until dinner is a siren song right now.
Fizz shakes his head. He can’t do that. He’s worked through far worse than this before, and even if Oz wouldn’t be disappointed, he still feels like he’d be letting both him and their customers down. Besides, he loves the after-show celebrations on the weekends. Today is Friday, which means there will be a packed house late into the night, and Oz always has a special employees-only party after closing that’s even more fun than the ones the club throws for paying demons.
He’ll feel better once he gets to the club and is wrapped up in the thrumming, blood-pumping energy of Lust’s nightlife.
That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway.
He arrives at Ozzie’s a couple of hours later by car and enters through the back performers’ entrance as always, but the hustle and bustle of the near-hundred employees rushing around to prepare for opening doesn’t excite him as it normally does. Instead, he feels even more exhausted as he makes the trek to his dressing room.
With a sigh, he deposits his bag and large tumbler of coffee on the table and addresses his own reflection in the vanity mirror.
What is wrong with you?
His reflection only stares back, tired and haggard. Fuck, he looks like shit. He’s got a lot of work to do.
With a growing sense of dread, he turns on the speaker and starts his usual pre-show playlist before picking up the paper with the night’s schedule that’s been placed on his dresser. He already knows the lineup by heart since it’s always emailed in advance, and he’s nothing if not a professional, but he always takes some time first thing to make sure it’s lodged securely in his brain. His eyes skim over the list of bands and performers, the extra notes of things to highlight like the new menu items, and the VIP reservations. Lastly, he sees a handwritten bit at the bottom in blue ink.
Love you, Froggie. Knock ‘em dead tonight!
-Oz
The note is framed with X’s and O’s and little hearts.
Fizz smiles, but feels his stomach sink a little. Oz only leaves notes on his papers when he won’t have time to come to his dressing room before the show to see him in person. It’s a little cheesy since he could clearly just text instead, but Fizz really appreciates the notes.
He’d been hoping for the chance to see Oz before the show tonight, though. The Sin had left the penthouse early that morning for some meetings and to prepare for some big, important executives visiting the ring this weekend, so it’s not surprising, but Fizz hates the days that steal his boyfriend from him for so long. And today he could use a little extra encouragement.
At least it won’t be too much longer until he’s sitting by Oz’s side in their box.
Resigning himself to the long night ahead, he gets to work making himself show-ready. He changes from his street clothes and into his dressing gown, lays out his makeup on the vanity, and takes several large swallows of coffee.
He’s just putting the finishing touches on his makeup when he notices the swell of nausea growing in his gut again.
“Fuck.” He sets down the brush and places his hands on the edge of the dresser, pulling in deep, ragged gulps of air in hopes of making it go away. His eyes find their match in the mirror again and glare. “You’re not gonna throw up. You’re not gonna throw up. You’re—”
A knock at the door makes him jump.
He straightens, swallowing past a lump in his throat. “Come in!”
The succubus that enters is half-hidden behind a large bouquet of black and purple flowers, but Fizz recognizes her. She runs errands for Oz pretty often, especially around the club. Mandy is her name, if he remembers right. “Mister Fizzarolli? Lord Asmodeus asked to have these delivered to you.”
Fizz smiles despite the sick feeling in his stomach, silently begging for it to just go away. He’d be infinitely more touched if he weren’t so distracted by the fact that now he’s trying desperately not to puke in front of one of Oz’s assistants. “Aw, thank you. Can you put them on the table?”
He turns back around, a sour taste flooding his mouth. His eyes widen and he can almost feel himself turning green. This cannot be happening right now! He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, fighting desperately to keep the nausea at bay, but it’s rising fast.
“He also wanted to pass on the message that he’s sorry he can’t stop by before opening, but he—”
Fizz loses the short and futile battle with his stomach suddenly and violently. He barely has time to grab the trash can from next to the vanity before he’s coughing up his meager lunch of toast and coffee. This time mercifully doesn’t last as long as it had earlier that day, but he still has to wipe tears from his cheeks when it passes, certainly ruining all the makeup he just finished putting on.
When he catches his breath enough to lift his head, Mandy is hovering nearby with two partially outstretched hands, looking alarmed and uncertain and quite like she’d rather be anywhere else right now. Fizz relates.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“I’m fine.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and reaches for a bottle of water.
Just fucking great.
“Should I get Lord Asmodeus?”
“No.” He doesn’t mean to snap quite as brusquely as he does, but that’s the last thing he wants right now. Oz has too much going on, and Fizz knows he would drop everything in an instant if he thought something was wrong. And nothing is wrong.
Mandy flinches back a little and he instantly feels guilty.
“Sorry, I mean—no, it’s fine. It’s nothing. Just nerves.” He laughs and it sounds entirely unconvincing, even to himself.
“Well—” She takes a hesitant step forward, concern still clear on her face. “Is there anything I can get you? Maybe some—”
“Nope!” Fizz stands and puts on his best fake smile. What he needs is for her to get out. “I’m good, I promise! Thank you for the flowers, but I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll let you go.”
She doesn’t look like she’s buying it, but after regarding him for a second or two, she nods. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“Very sure! Thanks!”
He watches her cross the room to the door quickly, ponytail swinging behind.
“Oh. Mandy?” he calls just before she exits. “Don’t—don’t tell Oz about that, okay?”
From the frown that crosses her face, it’s obvious she doesn’t think it’s a good idea. “I won’t for now, but if you’re ignoring your health—”
“I’m not!” The smile falls suddenly. He just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. “Look, thanks for your concern, but it’s not a big deal. I’m not sick.” He really, really hopes that’s true. He can’t be sick again.
“Are you pregnant or something?”
Fizz rolls his eyes. “No.”
Mandy lifts her hands. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. And I won’t tell Asmodeus, but he would be very upset if he knew I kept this from him. I’m not trying to lose my job or anything. So…just take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will.” He tries one more time to smile genuinely, but it still falls flat. “Thanks again.”
When she’s finally gone, he sags in his dressing chair and rubs his fingers into his temples. He’ll have to be more careful if this keeps up. Vomiting twice in one day is…concerning. And it’s weird that he has no other symptoms aside from the fatigue. It has to be some kind of fluke. He’s so, so tired of health problems cropping up out of the blue, and he knows it’s always in the back of Oz’s mind too. Nothing more severe than the typical aches and pains has come to light recently, and quitting Mammon has definitely helped, but there have been enough incidents over the years that Oz does have reason to be on alert.
Fizz is so tired of this. He’s so tired in general. He just wants to be okay, to feel okay, for longer than a few months at a time.
He picks his makeup brush back up and gets to work fixing his foundation. As he works, something Mandy said nags at him.
Are you pregnant or something?
Hah. He could almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. Sure, he technically has the anatomy for it, but the doctors had told him a long time ago that those organs would never work after the accident. He and Oz have raw-dogged enough times to prove that to be true.
So why… Why is the idea eating at him?
He doesn’t know the first thing about pregnancy, but from everything he has heard, the symptoms line up.
It has to be a coincidence. Maybe his body is just slowly releasing stress after being Mammon’s fucking puppet for so long. Maybe he does have some sort of bug. Whatever it is, it can’t be a big deal.
“Get your shit together, Fizz,” he mutters as he raises a slightly trembling hand to touch up some eyeliner. “You’re fine. You need to be fine.”
As soon as the platform begins lowering him onto the stage, he wishes he’d called off tonight after all. He still deals with pre-performance jitters even after doing this shit his whole life, but the anxiety he’s currently experiencing is rare nowadays.
He’s not even sure why it’s happening. It isn’t the first time he’s performed while exhausted, or sick or in pain. There’s no reason to be all freaked out like this.
But the lights are so bright and the music is so loud and all these eyes on him…
It’s fine. Everything is fine. He just has to paste on a smile and say the things he’s memorized, crack some jokes, and hope that no one (Oz) can tell that he’s not himself tonight.
Easy peasy.
The intros go okay. By the time he’s announcing the first guest musician, he even feels somewhat back to normal. But as he releases the mic and looks up to Oz’s box, a wave of anxiety rolls through him again. It’s rivaled by the excitement of getting to see his boyfriend after a long day, but he has a terrible inkling the Sin is going to know, somehow, that something is off.
He stretches up anyway, bracing himself to feign an energy that he doesn’t really feel.
“Fizzie!”
Upon reaching the box, he’s immediately swept up into Oz’s strong arms and for a moment, the anxiety melts away. He squishes his face against the broad chest and loops his arms several times around Oz’s waist, breathing in the familiar scent of aphrodisiacal cologne. “Ozzie!”
“Ugh.” Oz peppers the top of his head with kisses. “I missed you today. I’m sorry I was gone so long.”
He always does this any time business keeps them apart, even though it’s a common occurrence, and Fizz can’t say he’s ever gotten tired of it.
“It’s okay.” He snuggles into Oz’s chest plumage. “I missed you too. How were your big important meetings?”
Oz sighs as they settle into their seats. “Long and boring. You’d think these yakkity-yaks were coming down from Heaven itself the way the staff was all wound up. Not that that’s a bad thing, but the deal is pretty much in the bag anyway.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s good.”
“It’ll bring some good publicity for the new toy line. Not that we need it, necessarily, but I ain’t complaining.”
“Mm.” Fizz crosses one leg over the other. “So when are these suits supposed to be in town, anyway?”
“Oh, they’re here. Right down there, actually.” Oz points down to a table by the stage where four stuffy-looking demons are sitting and sipping from wine glasses.
“That’s them?” Something turns in Fizz’s belly. “I didn’t see them on the VIP list.”
“They came a day early.” There’s a grunt in Oz’s voice that suggests he’s annoyed. “Didn’t have time to update it. But that’s okay, the serving staff is aware and that’s all that really matters.”
“I…see.” Beautiful fucking timing. Even if Oz doesn’t seem overly concerned, Fizz would rather have known. What a time to be having an off night.
He feels Oz’s attention shift to him before he even speaks again and only has a second to internally brace himself.
“You okay, Froggie?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Oz.” He grins sweetly and gestures down at the table with his thumb. “You want me to make a shoutout?”
Oz’s brow tightens almost imperceptibly. “No, don’t worry about it. They don’t seem like the type to want a spotlight put on ‘em in a nightclub.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” Fizz kicks back again in what he hopes is a dismissive manner and picks up his usual dirty Shirley that has already been brought to their table.
Oz’s gaze is still burning into him. He acts like he doesn’t notice and keeps his eyes trained on the band playing, sipping halfheartedly at his drink. Half a minute passes with nothing but silence between them.
Then Oz takes a breath. “Fizz—”
“I said I’m fine, Oz.”
In his periphery, Oz draws back just the slightest bit, snatching up a hand that had started to reach out.
Shit.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I really am fine. I just… I’m just a little tired today, that’s all.”
The look Oz gives him almost shatters his resolve. “Did you sleep okay last night?”
“Yeah.” He fidgets with his straw and wracks his brain for something to say that’ll put Oz’s mind at ease. “Just one of those days, I guess.”
“Are you in pain?”
“No.” He reaches over and gives his boyfriend’s hand a squeeze. “Just tired. I promise.”
That seems to do it. Oz smiles in relief and he tries not to feel guilty. “Okay. But, Fizz, please tell me if that changes? You know I can cover for you in a heartbeat if you need it.”
“You worry too much.” Fizz lifts the Sin’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “I. Am. Fine.”
It’s not a lie—it’s not. He doesn’t need to feel guilty because he isn’t lying.
Oz caresses his cheek and leans down to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. Then he moves his mouth against Fizz’s ear, letting his lips brush teasingly across the skin there, and whispers, “You look beautiful tonight.”
Fizz shivers, subconsciously turning his head to expose just a bit of his neck. “You say that every night.”
“Because it’s true every night.”
Fuck, he really doesn’t deserve this man. “Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”
Oz draws back into his seat and Fizz has to suppress a whine. “You’re welcome, baby. Wish I could’ve given them to you myself.”
“Next time.” The song starts wrapping up and Fizz sets his drink back down. “Well, that’s my cue.”
“Go get ‘em, Froggie.”
He stands, stretches, and—
His vision whites out.
It only lasts a moment and then he’s blinking stars from his eyes, gripping the railing of the box. Oz stands up behind him, a large, looming presence he’s only vaguely aware of. His brain spits out two thoughts at once: do not go down to the stage or something bad will happen and get down there right now before something bad happens.
His body decides for him. Before he knows what he’s really doing, he’s zipping over to one of the stripper poles and twirling down to the platform.
Oh, shit.
Oh, fuck.
Upon landing, the blood drains from his head immediately. A cold sweat breaks out over his brow and his back. He knows what that means. Why is he doing this? Why did he come down here?
The only thing he can do is get the announcement done before he passes out. He can—he can do that.
His arm shakes as it takes the microphone from the stand.
“Let’s hear another round of applause for—” It takes half a second for him to recall the name of the band. “Pillow Talk! Weren’t they great, folks?”
The crowd erupts into cheering, but it sounds too far away and warped. His head feels light and his breath is starting to come in ragged pants as what little strength he had starts to drain from him rapidly. He has to get this over with—now.
“I hope everyone’s still feelin’ thirsty.” His voice is way more upbeat than he feels, thank Satan. He tugs at his ruffle collar, suddenly so uncomfortably warm and cold at the same time. “Because our next act—”
He stumbles. Ends up right next to the mic stand and tries to recover by pretending he’s snapping the microphone back into it, but he really just needs the support. His legs are going to give out. He has to get off the stage right now—
“Our next act is here to satisfy your most primal urges.”
Fizz could almost sob in relief at the sound of Oz’s booming, sultry voice. His view of the audience is blocked by a wall of curling blue flame, and not a moment too soon. Next thing he knows, he’s on his hand and knees and he can’t fucking see past the dizzying black and white pinpricks swirling in his vision.
Hands—whose, exactly, he isn’t sure—wrap around his back and upper arm and he’s hoisted up and forcefully led behind the curtains offstage.
It takes longer this time before he becomes fully aware of his surroundings again. Distantly, he knows he’s been sat down in a chair and his head drops between his knees. Fuck, he feels awful. He gasps in air like he’s drowning and what parts of his body he can feel are all cold and tingly like radio static. Pain throbs in his temples and his mechanical limbs spasm in their ports.
He…failed?
“Fizzarolli?” says a voice in front of him. “Can you hear me?”
Through sparks and flashes, he sees some imp stagehand staring at him intently. He can’t remember their name.
“Y-yeah,” he croaks.
“I need you to drink this, okay?”
A bottle is pressed into his hand, some orange sports drink. He tries to unscrew the cap but his fingers are shaking too badly. The imp gently does it for him and he can’t even thank them. He lifts it to his lips and manages to get down a few swallows without spilling too much before handing it back.
It still feels too hard to breathe, so he claws again at the neck ruff without much success. The imp wordlessly moves around to remove it for him, and the air hits his slick, clammy skin, revealing just how sweaty he is. He’s also relieved of his hidden mic and wire.
Then a cool, damp cloth is held up to his forehead and he has the faculty to take it himself and bury his face in it. This is so humiliating.
“Are you okay?” the stagehand asks. “Should I call the medic?”
“N—” he starts, but then the curtain is swept aside and Oz’s huge form slides from behind it.
“Yes.”
Fizz’s stomach drops. “Oz, I-I’m okay, I don’t need—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Fizz.” To the stagehand, he says, “Please call the medic.”
It’s easy to forget just how intimidating Oz can be sometimes. He towers over Fizz as he strides forward, blue and red flames licking at the floor and air around his fists. Without meaning to, Fizz shrinks back.
But then the Sin drops to one knee in front of him, the flames poofing out in little wisps of smoke, and he looks into his face with so much concern that Fizz almost bursts into tears. “What happened? You promised me you were okay.”
“I am!” It comes out more like a plea than a reassurance. “I just got a little lightheaded. It happens! You know it does!”
“Yes, but you’re supposed to tell me about it! Not go rushing onstage and giving me a heart attack while I have to cover for you!”
Fizz releases a shaky breath. Damn it, how did he fuck up so badly? Now Oz is angry and worried at the same time, and this night is important. He fucked it all up. He’s spent their entire relationship trying so hard not to fuck anything up for Oz.
The Sin sighs, pressing his index finger and thumb into his eyes. “We are going to talk about this later. But right now, are you okay? Tell me the truth.”
The jig, evidently, is up. It was probably a futile effort in the first place. Fizz squeezes his eyes shut. “I… I don’t know.”
Oz is silent. When Fizz peeks out of one eye, he tilts his head, wordlessly urging him to go on.
“I’ve just been…feeling a little off lately.” His fingers clench around the edge of his chair and he casts his gaze onto the floor. Shame and guilt make a nasty cocktail that churns in his stomach. “Nothing major. Just some nausea and vomiting and fatigue. I thought it was—I dunno, normal? For me, anyway. I don’t know why it’s been happening.”
“Fizz—”
“I know, I know I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want to worry you and then have it be nothing!” He wilts in the chair, one hand coming up to cradle his aching head. “I’m sorry, Oz. Really. I just…thought it would go away on its own.”
Oz’s hand snakes out to rest on his knee. “How long has this been going on?”
Fizz grimaces. “Uh… A week? Maybe two?”
He feels the Sin tense up. “So it’s obviously not ‘going away on its own.’”
“Well… It comes and goes. For the most part, I feel fine.”
Oz’s brow furrows deeply. “I want you to see a doctor.”
Almost instinctively, Fizz shakes his head. “No, no—Oz, please. You know how much I hate that. Can’t we just see what the medic says?”
The Sin sighs again, looking off to the side. He looks so sad, almost defeated, that Fizz nearly takes it back. He’s not trying to be difficult, but this is exactly why he wanted to hide it all in the first place. Oz always worries about him, and it isn’t fair. He has too much on his own plate all the time for Fizz—his boyfriend, his partner—to be one more thing he has to worry about. He hates feeling like a burden.
Which is simultaneously why he wants to give in to what Oz wants and also doesn’t want to see a doctor again. He shouldn’t need to see a doctor again, and a large part of his brain (admittedly probably the irrational part) is saying that if he just shrugs this off and toughs it out, he’ll be perfectly fine. He desperately wants to be fine.
…And he’s scared of what might happen if he’s not.
“Alright,” Oz says at last, though he’s clearly not happy about it. “We can wait and see what the medic says. But if she thinks you need to see a doctor, or if you don’t start feeling better soon, please promise me you’ll go.”
A weight instantly lifts off Fizz’s shoulders. “I promise. Thank you.”
Oz smiles, but it’s a worried thing. “You know I’d never force you to do anything you don’t wanna do. But just know you’re gonna drive me into an early grave—and I’m immortal.”
The laugh that bubbles up from his chest is maybe not entirely genuine, but it’s full of very real relief.
“I gotta get back out there,” Oz says, standing as the thumping music from outside the curtain begins to die down. He takes a moment to press a hand against Fizz’s cheek and smoothes a thumb across it. “Wait here for the medic and rest, okay? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
As soon as Oz is gone, Fizz’s face falls. Fuck his stupid body, his stupid brain. It seems like nothing in his life can be too good for too long. His and Oz’s relationship has been the best thing that’s ever happened to him, the one thing that hasn’t been taken away or ruined. The longer it goes on, the more terrified he gets that the rug will get pulled out from under him one day, and it’ll hurt all the more the longer it takes for that day to come.
Oz has never given him a reason to believe that will happen, of course. He’s basically the perfect partner. Sure, they have ups and downs just like everyone else, but Oz always makes sure that Fizz knows he’s safe and secure no matter what.
But Fizz… He’s sure there has to be a limit. How much of Fizz’s shit will Oz put up with before he’s had enough? Not knowing what might end up being the final straw keeps him up at night sometimes if he thinks about it too much. It’s stupid. He and Oz have talked about it before, and it’s not that he doesn’t believe the reassurances that Oz gives him, but his thoughts just won’t turn off. They’re always there, lurking under the surface, waiting to reach up and grab him if he gives them even an inch.
Everything good in his life has always ended one way or another. The circus, Mammon, clown performing, Blitzø… Even his own body. There’s something dark and awful that keeps telling him the same will be true of Oz, someday. He’ll end up on the streets again. This happiness—while it’s wonderful and overwhelming, he doesn’t know that he deserves it. Even after all this time. Especially after all this time.
And right now, he’s thinking that this whole thing could potentially be what finally ruins it. He’s going to get tired of all your issues. You’re just an imp and he’s a fucking Sin.
Hell. He should probably go back to therapy.
There isn’t more time to dwell on it, though, because he looks up to see the medic approaching with the stagehand in tow.
Oz keeps a few rotating medical professionals employed to be on call at the club, and while they’re usually not needed, the foresight has come in very handy a few times since Fizz started working there. Definitely after the time Blitzø’s employee had smashed a guitar over his head.
The one on call tonight is a baphomet named Lola. She hurries over to his chair with a first-aid bag. Behind her, the imp shoots Fizz a worried glance as if to make sure he hasn’t keeled over or something, and then scurries off to get back to work.
“Hi, Fizzarolli,” Lola says with a smile, setting the bag on a nearby table. “I heard you’re feeling a bit faint?”
He doesn’t love being treated like something breakable, but he knows she’s just trying to do her job. “Was. I’m feeling better now.”
“That’s good to hear.” She fishes a stethoscope out of her bag. “Do you have any idea what might’ve caused it?”
“Uh.” His hands fidget in his lap. “Probably the fact that I threw up twice earlier today and only had a piece of toast to eat.”
Lola frowns. “That…would definitely do it. Mind telling me what caused the vomiting?”
He lifts his shirt so that she can press the chestpiece of the stethoscope to his back. “I honestly have no idea.”
“Have you had any other symptoms? Fever? Deep breath in.”
He takes one. “No. I’ve been a little tired, but nothing major.”
She hums as she puts away the stethoscope and pulls out a thermometer next. “And you haven’t experienced this before?”
“Not exactly like this. Not for no real reason.”
“How long have these symptoms lasted so far?” She inserts the thermometer into his ear.
“A week or two, I think.”
He does his best to squash down the cold feeling of dread that sweeps over him. As used to medical exams as he is, they still freak him out. It helps that Lola isn’t an actual doctor, and he’s not in a hospital, but being looked at so closely always brings back memories and feelings he’d really rather not revisit.
Never mind the fact that he’s starting to get scared about whatever his diagnosis might be. If he ever ends up having to stay in the hospital again, he’s not sure what he’ll do.
She pulls the thermometer from his ear. “Your temperature is normal, and your heartbeat is a bit fast but nothing to worry about. I would like to take your blood pressure too, but I’m afraid I don’t have the equipment for that.”
He laughs sheepishly, but he’d known that already. Having no limbs complicates many, many things.
“Would you mind letting me feel around your belly for a second?”
Fizz shrugs. “Sure.”
He lifts his shirt again and her hoof-like fingers palpate his middle. “Hm. No swelling.” She stands and zips up the bag. “Well, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for you besides telling you to eat a meal and stay hydrated. I know I’m limited, but I don’t see anything concerning at the moment.”
Fizz releases a deep breath. “Oh, good, then I can tell Oz—”
“Can I ask you a question though?”
“Um. Shoot?”
Lola tilts her head and folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not trying to make assumptions, but… Is there any possibility you could be pregnant?”
He tries to ignore the way his blood suddenly turns to ice in his veins. “No, that’s…that’s impossible. They told me after my accident that I’m basically infertile.”
“I had to ask.” She hefts the bag off the table. “That’s the only thing that would make sense to me. In any case, since your symptoms have lasted for a while, I would highly encourage you to see a doctor. And for right now, eat if you can, get plenty of fluids, and take it easy, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks, Lola.”
She smiles. “Any time. Feel better, Fizzarolli.”
He watches her go, and his stomach begins to feel sick in an entirely different way than earlier.
There’s no fucking way he could be pregnant.
That’s absolutely absurd.