Demi Lovato Imagines

Fever

Come to think of it, Demi's pale, sweaty appearance that morning made sense. 

Sitting at home, lounging on the sofa in an old baggy t-shirt and sweatpants, you remember the recent news bulletins warning about this virus going around. Some sort of sickness bug...or something. You hadn't really been paying much attention before you watched Demi haul herself clumsily out of bed, frowning as she stumbled around in the dark, moving tiredly to pull together her stuff for the studio. 

You didn't start work until later on a Tuesday. Or at least - you usually didn't. You got a phone call while you were still dozing in bed to say that your work was closed for the day because too many people had called in sick. Not enough staff left to run the place. Suits you. Means you can have a full day of loafing around and be home for Demi when she returns. Perfect. 

Maybe you should cook something special? Plan an impromptu date-night or something?

Before you had even begun to act on these suggestions, you hear the front door unlock. Keys clatter on some surface. A heavy thud on the floor. 

Looking at the clock, you realise you have totally lost track of time. That's what happens when you have no work to do. Seeing that it's 4 pm, you assume its Demi who has got back from the studio, maybe a bit earlier than usual? You don't over think it. Maybe she always gets back around now, you just don't know because you are usually still at work yourself. 

Noticing you haven't heard her move through into the house, you call out, 

"Dems? Is that you?"

No reply. The only thing you hear is the sound of heavy breathing. And maybe even some slight whimpers. 

Concerned, you unstick yourself from the sofa and walk through to the front door. And your chest fizzles at the sight. 

Demi is hunched over herself, kneeling in front of the closed door. Her legs are curled up beneath her as she holds onto the wall for support. Her face is drained of all colour, with strands of damp, sweaty hair plastered to her forehead. She looks awful.

She is taking slow, steady breaths through her nose as if trying to stop herself from throwing up. This alone gives you anxiety. Just the thought of someone being sick is enough to make you feel nauseous yourself. 

"Demi," you coo, immediately running over to her side. You can feel her body trembling under your touch as you rub her back soothingly. She doesn't even look like she's heard you. Placing the back of your hand on her cheek, you gasp internally at the scorching heat of her skin.

That's not normal.

And it's at this point that you realise that she's caught "the virus". The one on the news. The one that everyone is kind of freaking out about. Shit.

Deciding to leave all her stuff where she has dropped it, you circle your arms behind her and place your hands under each of her armpits, lifting her up with you as you stand. She lets out a pained gasp as she tries to straighten her legs and walk beside you, but you almost feel like you are dragging her. Without you directing her through the house, you have no idea where she would end up. 

By the time you arrive back at the sofa, you are supporting all of her body weight. Her arms are hanging limply at her sides and you can see her knees buckling right before you manage to lower her down. 

"Demi," you try again, "tell me what's wrong?"

Still, she doesn't respond. And it worries you because it's not the normal kind of silent treatment she gives you, like when you tell her you are going to work overtime. Or are not wanting to go to one of her A-list parties. It's one that makes you shudder as you see her eyes rolling aimlessly in their sockets. Patting her face to try and rouse her, you are only reminded of her clammy skin. Without a second thought, you decide you need to call for help. You've never been around someone this sick before, let alone be the only one to take care of them.