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For as long as he's been living with migraines, Pietro really should be better at recognising the warning signs. As it is, this one manages to catch him by surprise.
It's not his fault, really. Wanda has been so in tune with him for so long that she usually knows when one is coming before he does, always ready and able to help him get somewhere cool and dark and quiet, which, for a large portion of their life meant a dank, disgusting alleyway in an abandoned part of Sokovia.
Even when they were kept in separate cells, during the hard, painful months that neither of them like to speak of, Wanda always knew. He supposes that her powers helped with that, he knows they helped him deal with the pain. Wanda's own brand of mind magic was a million times more effective that any painkiller they had been able to get their hands on in the street. It's not that drugs weren't readily available, they were. Just not the right kind of drugs. The one time Wanda had been desperate enough to buy what the kind man with the knuckle tattoos had assured her was Vicodin, he'd ended up in the hospital for three days. It had definitely not been Vicodin.
He relies on Wanda. He relies on Wanda too much.
Wanda is away, on a training mission with Natasha and Maria that he's almost sure was code for shoe shopping (or knife shopping, knowing the women involved). For the first time ever, Pietro has to deal with his migraine alone.
He'd forgotten how bad they made him feel, he's just so used to Wanda taking him out of his mind at the first hint of pain. He'd forgotten how horrible it was to feel pain so strong that it made him want to be physically sick. He'd never been able to reconcile the feeling as plain nausea, it was more like his body was so completely incapable of handling this much pain that it just rebelled.
He'd forgotten the unwavering, constant nature of the pain. The hopeless prayers that the pain would just start throbbing or pounding because at least then he would have the relief of the brief moments when it was less. The babbled pleas that the pain would just move to a different spot on his head, even just shifting a little to the left, anything to just please relieve that one spot where the pain lingered, seemingly endless.
It's all coming back to him now as he staggers blindly through the corridors of the Avengers base, he's still learning his way around the cavernous building, trying to navigate the unfamiliar halls while all he wants to do is curl up on the ground and make it all go away is not helping with that and he eventually gives in and allows himself to huddle against the wall, curling in on himself, trying to give the pain a smaller target.
Of all the people to find him like this, it had to be Clint. At any other time, Pietro would be embarrassed, probably resorting to bratty comments and snide remarks to hide his shame at being seen so weak and vulnerable. There's no room for any of that now, no room for anything except pain and misery.
Clint's hands are all over him, searching for a non-existent injury that would explain his behaviour. Warm hands, strong hands, calloused hands are on his face, gently tugging his chin up until he can just make out the concerned creases of Clint's face through his half-shut eyes.
Clint's voice, normally a pleasant, sarcastic drawl that Pietro loves, is like fingers across a chalkboard to his ears. “Kid! Jesus, kid. What the hell is going on? C'mon we gotta get you to medical.”
The world lurches as Clint hauls him up off the floor and black spots dance across his eyes before the contents of his stomach splash all over the floor, himself and Clint. Panting heavily, he manages to grimace apologetically. “I'm sorry. S'fine. Just a migraine. I just need to lie down.”
“Just?!” Clint swears unbelievingly before starting to move with him down the corridor. Pietro tries his best to keep up but it's a losing battle and he barely even has the will to complain when Clint gives up, cursing and heaving Pietro over his shoulder.
Being upside down is not good for Pietro's head, or stomach, and he can't even appreciate the view it gives him of Clint's ass properly but at least it gets him to his room quickly.
Clint very gently places him on the unmade bed and continues to mutter to himself as he stalks about the room and Pietro just wishes that he would leave him to his misery.
Until, with a victorious “ha!” Clint does just that and Pietro is left alone. In a bright room. Groaning, he gingerly moves from the bed, stripping off his soiled clothes as he goes, groping for the nearest light switch that holds the promise of soothing dark.
“Jesus christ, kid. Get back in bed.”
Pietro blinks stupidly at Clint. “You left.”
“Yeah. To get you some stuff. Lavender oil, ice, and more importantly, painkillers. Now get your heavy ass back into bed.”
“Lavender oil?”
“Yeah. According to the web, a couple of drops in water can help. And ice to help numb the pain and apparently massaging the occipital nerve at the back of your head can help so...” Clint trailed off as he turned back from having drew Pietro's curtains closed to find him fast asleep and snoring on the bed.
“Or sleep helps too.”
*
Sleep did help. Pietro awoke blessedly pain-free, the previous day a blur of fuzzy images. Had Clint been here? Had Clint carried him?
Fully awake, Pietro soon realised that Clint was still here. “Hey, you feeling better? The internet said that sometimes migraines can last for days. Which is crazy. And...should I be being quiet?”
Pietro couldn't believe what he was seeing and hearing. “You researched migraines? Last night, with the ice and the lavender? You looked all that up?”
Clint blushes ever so slightly. “Well, yeah. You looked like you needed help.”
“You like me.” Pietro teases with a grin.
“Well, yeah. But I would have done that for anyone. You're not that special, you know.”
“Would you have let anyone throw up on you?”
“Ok, maybe you are that special.”
*
The lavender oil, they discovered much later, didn't do much to help with the migraines, but it was definitely still fun to play with.