A.N.: This is the result of crippling writer's block, and too much drama in one of my other fandoms. Apparently discourse makes me delve into crack ships. So here. Here's my first foray into CoLu.
The linoleum tiles are cool. A cold inviting wasteland against the bare skin of his cheek as he lays face down against it. An enchanting seductress that lures him away from the stifling dizzying atmosphere of standing that is the rest of the kitchen. A groan floods the kitchen, like a wave across the floor, and the Poison Dragonslayer decides that if he could somehow become one with the chilled tiles he would. He's going to marry the ground and it's steadying presence.
"It's nice to know I have some competition," calls a soft voice from the archway of the kitchen. "Though I wish you would have warned me before you asked me to marry you."
"Shh," he says, cracking his good eye open to glare at the blonde as she treads lightly into the room. Her footsteps are soft, a light tiptoe against the floor, and she slides to the ground next to him, laying with one arm pillowing her head.
"What are you doing on the floor?" she whispers, voice hushed to not further agitate his sensitive hearing.
Lucy's been home for hours now, having slipped out of the guildhall early, pleading exhaustion, and sleeping through what he knows is the least graceful entrance Cobra has ever made into their home. He remembers something about using one of his stronger poisons to melt the deadbolt.
And doorknob
And possibly the hinges.
Somehow he'd made it to the kitchen, only to have the world start spinning beneath his feet. The thud of his head hitting the floor must have been loud enough to wake her. Enough foiled kidnapping attempts had her stalking to the kitchen armed with her whip and keys, but the sight of her favorite dragonslayer shaped puddle finds her placing them on the counter on her way to join him on the floor. Cobra groans, and Lucy has to resist cooing at the sound.
"Mira," he manages to say and Lucy doesn't need his ability to read minds— souls he insists—to figure out what happened.
"Some great Poison Dragonslayer," she says, her voice teasing, barely masking a laugh. "I thought you couldn't get drunk, that the lacrima sees the alcohol as poison, and metabolizes it too fast to for you to feel anything."
His answer is a single finger barely lifted off from the floor and she giggles outright at the crude gesture. A quiet laugh, just barely more than a breath. Shirtless, face smushed against the floor, Cobra is definitely drunk. The most intoxicated that his fiancé has ever seen, and she can't help but pity the hangover he'll have in the morning.
"Demon figured it out." His speech is a broken and slurred and Lucy wants to giggle at his hiccuping snort. "Mixed extra strength floor cleaner and vodka. Slows down lacrima. Makes Cobra reeeeeeeeeal drunk."
Lucy does coo now. "You look worse than Natsu on a train," she says and Cobra groans, mind spinning at the thought of those death machines, and his current state, and is it possible to fall down when he's already on the floor? He breathes heavily in through his nose, trying to settle the roiling in his stomach. It doesn't stop the saliva from pooling in his mouth or his stomach from cramping, but the soothing scent of lavender, of Lucy and the bubble bath she saves for those nights when she takes extra long baths, settles his stomach just enough to keep from vomiting.
"Erik," Lucy whispers when she thinks he's fallen asleep.
He hasn't, but words are hard, and she smells nice and the floor is cool and not doing that spinning thing anymore. She brushes a hand over his bare back, and it finally dawns on him that he's not wearing a shirt. Lost somewhere to the drinks and the night and it wasn't one of his favorites, so maybe he'll track it down in the morning if the ground hasn't swallowed him. Maybe Gajeel grabbed it for him. At least he thinks Gajeel had been there. He remembers the vague scent of metal but maybe that's just the combination of bile and floor cleaner.
"Sweetie, you can't spend the night on the floor, and I can't lift you on my own."
She's right, Cobra's inebriated brain tells him, and he presses his palms to the floor to heave himself up. Lucy scrambles up next to him, to help steady him in case his wobbling sends him careening back to the ground. When she's sure he's not about to fall, she grabs his hand, lacing her fingers with his, and leads him to their bedroom. Fortunately it's a short walk, and she leaves him teetering in the doorway, ducking under his arm to slip back into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
"I would help you undress," she says a teasing tone lacing her voice, when she returns, "But you seem to have taken a page out of Gray's book."
Cobra looks down to see she's right. He's some how not only lost his shirt— and jacket he realizes— but also his pants. He rubs the hand not bracing himself against the doorway across his forehead, as the stark realization that he's probably wandered halfway across Magnolia in his lucky pair of boxers hits him.
Shrugging, he takes the offered glass and downs it, knowing he'll need it if tomorrow's hangover is anything like the one's Lucy nurses whenever Cana manages to talk her into drinking. He'll consider himself lucky in the morning that a nasty hangover is the worst of his problems for getting Lucy pregnant before they got married. Erza's less than casual threat to Cobra if he didn't make good on his plans to marry the celestial mage when they'd announced the second part of their good news that night notwithstanding. While the couple was less than secretive about their relationship and they'd been engaged for several months, they'd yet to tell their closest friends about the engagement until that night.
Not trusting himself to place the glass onto the table beside the bed, he hands it back to Lucy, who's pulled back the blanket on his side of the bed. He manages to ooze onto the bed, and burrow under the covers.
"Do you need anything?" she says.
Cobra wants to shake his head no. Wants to, but can't lest he make himself nauseous again. He manages a croaked no. Lucy crosses to her side of the bed, and climbs in, leaning on the stack of pillows propped up behind her. He shifts slowly, scooting closer to Lucy and pushing up the fabric of the t-shirt she's chosen to wear to bed underneath her breasts, so that he can lay his head onto the exposed skin of her stomach. It's still flat now, but won't be for much longer.
"Told you you couldn't get out of celebrating with the guild when we told them that we're pregnant and that you asked me to marry you." Lucy hums gently in reply, and brings a hand to his head, sifting fingers gently through sweat slicked hair.
"Fuck you, Bright Eyes," he growls.
"I would," she quips, "But whiskey dick isn't a myth."
He huffs a laugh, while Lucy continues to stroke her fingers through his hair. She doesn't have to remind him that that's the reason he's in this mess in the first place, the pregnancy a result of an enthusiastic reunion after his last danger-filled solo mission, and while they're neither one of them expected to become parents so soon, they were more than excited to meet the little blob now growing in Lucy's uterus.
"Next time," he says, "You're getting drunk, and I'm the one getting pregnant, 'k?"
Lucy hums and strokes a finger down his cheek. The soothing beat of her heart and the sound of her soul, it's gentle trills and cadences lulls him to sleep.