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The lights were far too bright, the buzz of the AC was far too loud, and the smell of the disinfectant used by the cleaning crew each night was far too strong.
Tim tried to focus on the analytical report in front of him, but the lines on the charts were distorted and he was starting to feel lightheaded. He pressed the heal of his palm into his eye socket, willing the throbbing to stop, just for a moment. The pressure alleviated some of the pain, at least, and Tim leaned back in his office chair, exhaling deeply.
After a few moments, he checked his watch- 11:49am. He sighed and leaned back against his chair again; nearly 3 more hours before he could have more meds, but only 41 minutes before Bruce was supposed to meet him for lunch.
Perfect. He thought. Maybe if I just close my eyes, this will all go away.
He laughed ruefully, but the movement cause a sharp pain in his temple.
That’s new.
He pressed his thumb into his right eye and leaned his elbows on his desk, again attempting to focus on the report in front of him. Instead, he noticed the nauseated feeling growing in his stomach, and exhaled deeply.
He dug through his desk and popped two pepto tablets, scribbling down the time in his notepad- 11:56am. He had found that if he did not write down the time he took which medications, he would never remember when he could have more, and that would just never do.
Tim decided it was probably a good idea to text Bruce while his brain was still mostly functioning. He pulled out his phone and tapped out:
May miss lunch.
He was going to write more, but the brightness from his phone screen was already encouraging more stabs in his temple. He sighed and folded his hands on his desk, resting his head on them.
Maybe I can just sleep it off.
That worked for him sometimes; a quick nap seemed to reset his circuits and get him back on track. Maybe that was all he needed.
———
When Tim was awoken by his phone alarm giving him the 15-minute-warning for lunch, it was quite obvious that a nap was not, in fact, all he had needed.
His headache was now in full migraine-mode; his right eye was watering and his stomach was doing flips. He popped two more pepto tablets and jammed the palm of his hand into his right eye.
Feeling around his desk for where he set his phone, he cracked open his eyes just enough to see the screen. He had 4 unread messages. All from Bruce. Oops.
Ok. Why?
Is everything okay?
Tim? What’s wrong?
I’m on my way.
The last one was sent less than 12 minutes ago, which means Bruce would be here...crap. Tim forgot that math doesn’t play nice with migraines. Well, he’d be here...soon, at least.
He was yanked out of his thoughts by his stomach doing a somersault. He was considering whether he could make it to the bathroom when his stomach lurched.
He grabbed the trash can under his desk just in time to lose his breakfast in it.
Tim groaned and wrapped his arm around his middle, kneading his fingers into his dress shirt. He was about to reach for his phone again when there was a knock on the door,
“Tim?”
Bruce’s timing always was impeccable.
______
Tim could see it on Bruce's face- he was assessing, analyzing, taking in all the information presented to him with his brain then spitting out some special form of to-do list or something.
The first thing he did was dim the lights. He then walked over to Tim, his face still showing his mind working.
“Hey, Tim,” Bruce’s voice was low and soft, to which Tim was immensely grateful, “how’re we doing?”
We. Tim always loved how he would say ‘we’ when one of them was hurt, or sad, or- well, anything, really.
“My head h’rts,” Tim could hear that he was slurring, but couldn’t seem to stop, “an’ I threw up.” he admitted, somewhat bashfully.
Bruce nodded, “Okay,” he said, his eyes softening, “we can deal with that. Let’s get you home, okay?”
______
Tim didn’t really remember how they got downstairs, or how they got to the parking lot, or how they got home so fast, but suddenly (so it seemed) they were back home in the cave.
Tim was sitting up on one of the medical cots, being held upright by both shoulders with his eyes clenched tight. He heard the steady clip of footsteps descending the stairs into the cave, then coming to a stop just behind his right shoulder.
“Migraine, Master Bruce?” A familiar voice spoke with the same care and volume that Bruce had back at the office.
“Yes. For a while, I think.” Bruce answered, removing one hand from Tim’s shoulder as the older man came around the cot to examine him.
“Master Tim, could you open your eyes for me please?”
Tim cracked his eyes open at the request. Then, seeing that the lights in the cave had been dimmed substantially, opened them the rest of the way.
“Thank you.” Alfred smiled softly at him, “Just need to check your pupils,” he said, gently pulling up on Tim’s eyelids one at a time and staring intently into them.
“Alright, Master Tim, everything looks to be in order.” He said, moving over to the supply cabinet and already starting to set up Tim’s injection.
“Could you rate your pain for me, please” the man asked, his back turned as he gathered the alcohol swaps and cotton balls, gently setting them on a tray.
“Six.” Tim lied, his eyes still open just enough to see Bruce give him the you-tell-the-truth-right-now-or-so-help-me look.
“Maybe an eight.” He amended, starting to feel sick again.
Alfred nodded as he drew out the correct dosage. He fixed the air bubbles in the syringe, then moved back over to them with the prepared tray.
Tim gripped the sides of the cot as his stomach turned. Bruce must have noticed, because he grabbed a bin from under the cot and wordlessly held it in front of him.
Tim felt his cheeks flush, from embarrassment or pain or both, but didn’t have too long to think on it before he gagged and retched into the bin, grabbing at his right eye in pain.
“’m sorry.” He groaned faintly after a bit and tucked his head down. Bruce set the bin down and pushed the sweaty mess of hair out of Tim’s eyes.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said softly, “do you think you can lay down?”
Alfred snapped on a pair of gloves as Tim made a noncommittal “hmm” noise. Bruce helped him lay on his side and put pressure on Tim’s right temple with his thumb.
Alfred untucked Tim’s dress shirt and folded it up, slipping the waistline of his pants down two inches and exposing his hip. Tim flinched as Alfred prepped the skin with an alcohol swab, surprised by the cold.
Alfred positioned the syringe, “Alright sir, in 3, 2...”
Tim had always insisted he be told when things were happening during med procedures. In his experience, the anticipation was always worse than the actual act. Well, mostly always.
The meds that worked best for Tim when his migraines got like this was Toradol, and Toradol hurt. Well, to be more specific, Toradol burned.
It burned going in, it burned after, and it felt like you’d been punched in the hip the following day, but God was it worth it.
Compared to the pain behind his eye, the burning was absolutely heavenly, because it meant that this would all be over soon.
The pain behind his eye was already starting to melt away, leaving just a dull throb. Tim had started to fall asleep when Bruce returned with a change of clothes for him.
Tim sat up just long enough to slip on the sweatpants and ratty t-shirt Bruce had brought down for him, and drink a bit of electrolytes, at Alfred and Bruce’s demand.
Once they were both satisfied, Bruce had helped him lay back down and Alfred had brought him a blanket and dimmed the lights even more.
Now, finally, he could sleep.