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15. “This is the worst headache of my life.”
Neal rubbed at his temples while he watched the tiny surveillance screen in the van. He, Peter, Diana, and Jones were all crammed in the van while they waited out a guy they thought was selling art forgeries, and Neal wished he was anywhere else.
“You okay, cowboy?” Peter asked quietly, glancing over at his CI and seeing his discomfort.
Neal nodded, sighing.
“Headache?”
Neal nodded again.
“We’re almost done here and then you can go home and sleep it off.” Peter looked back at his screen while he dug into his coat pocket. “Shoot, I don’t have any on me. Diana, you got any Excedrin?”
Diana glanced up from her own screen, frowning when she saw Neal hunched over and rubbing at his head. She rifled through her purse and pulled out a bottle, tossing it to Peter.
“Thanks.” He cracked the lid and poured a dose out into Neal’s hand. “Drink some water, too, you might be dehydrated.”
Neal swallowed down the pills and kept slowly sipping at the water bottle until Peter called it quits for the day, his headache never growing any less severe.
“Alright, let’s call it. See you back here tomorrow morning.” Peter rolled his chair back from the counter. “Neal, stay here for a minute, would you?” It was concerning to Peter how little his CI had said in the past four hours. Actually, Peter reflected, the kid had been pretty quiet all day. He’d chalked it up to Neal’s hatred for the van, but maybe this was something more serious than a temper tantrum.
Neal folded his arms on the counter in front of him and let his head rest in the crook of his arm while he waited for Jones and Diana to clear out. His head was pounding in time with his heartbeat and he wished he were curled up in his bed. There was no way this wasn’t a migraine, he thought. It was just a matter of time before he started seeing auras, and then it wouldn’t be long until he couldn’t move without being in excruciating pain.
“Is your headache any better?” Peter asked softly. He knew it wasn’t, he just wanted to see what Neal said.
“No,” Neal replied in a whisper. Speaking at normal volumes made his ears ring.
“Is this a migraine?” Peter didn’t get migraines himself, but El had gotten them often enough that he knew the signs and symptoms.
“I think so. Worst headache of my life."
“Okay. Here’s the plan: you come home with me and let El look after you. Any objections?” Peter didn’t think there would be any, seeing as how Neal lived in a place that was more windows than it was walls, and had a recurring Mozzie problem.
“None.” Neal sat up slowly, wincing as the light hit his eyes.
Peter didn’t say much as he drove the van to Brooklyn, which Neal appreciated; it was bad enough he had to suffer while the van was moving—he didn’t think he could handle a conversation at the same time.
By the time Peter found a parking space on his block, Neal had turned an alarming shade of green, and Peter hustled to get him out of the van before things got messy. “Come on, kid, no barfing in the van. Too much expensive equipment.” Peter stood and slid open the side door, making room for Neal to get out.
Neal, while feeling somewhat nauseated, didn’t think he was going to vomit, but the faster he was inside lying down the better. Sleep was the only thing that helped his migraines and he’d done the math—there wasn’t enough time between right that second and when he was expected to be back in the van for him to sleep long enough to cure the migraine.
The thought of having to climb back into the van and repeat the day he’d just had made bile rise up in the back of his throat, and he realized he might be closer to throwing up than he’d originally thought.
Peter practically pulled Neal out of the van and onto the sidewalk, Neal’s legs barely catching him as he moved. His mouth was rapidly filling with saliva, and he looked at Peter frantically. They weren’t close enough to Peter’s house for him to make it to the bathroom, and there was nothing he hated more than throwing up in front of people, but he didn’t see any other options.
Deciding it would be best to crouch down, Neal staggered to the edge of the sidewalk and slowly sank down so that his butt was resting on the backs of his heels. He loosened his tie and closed his eyes, wishing that the throbbing would die down just for a few minutes so that he could get inside before whatever was about to happened, happened.
Peter rested his hand gently on the nape of Neal’s neck and squeezed lightly. “You’re okay, try to breathe through it.”
Neal tried. He really did. But after about 30 seconds of deep breathing, he pitched forward and vomited into the street. There wasn’t much in him to bring up, just some water and bile, but it made the pain in his head explode, and he cried out.
Peter was there, grabbing Neal around the shoulders to keep him upright and trying to sooth him. “I’ve gotcha, you’re okay.” After a minute, some of Neal’s color came back. “Want to go inside?”
Neal nodded, wiping at his eyes and nose. He let Peter haul him up, wincing at the movement, and kept his eyes shut as Peter led him into the house.
“Peter? You’re home early,” El said from the kitchen when she heard the front door open. She walked around the corner and was surprised to see Neal practically hanging off her husband. “Oh, my god, is he okay?”
“He’s got a migraine. Just barfed in the street,” Peter explained, not even pausing to take his shoes off. He pulled Neal up the stairs and into the guest room, maneuvering him around to sit on the bed once they were close enough to it. “Okay, I’m going to help you change. The shades are pulled and the door is closed, if you want to open your eyes.”
Neal hesitantly cracked an eye open. It was dim in the room, enough so that having his eyes open didn’t send spears of pain shooting into his skull. He helped Peter as much as he could, taking off his dress shirt and pants himself. Once he was down to his briefs and tank top he slowly lowered himself onto his side and curled up under the blankets.
“There’s water here, and more Excedrin, and a bucket. Need anything else?” Peter asked in a whisper. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and reached out to gently rub a knuckle over Neal’s brow.
Neal leaned into his touch, the slight pressure somehow relieving the pounding in his head. “That helps,” Neal whispered back.
Peter adjusted himself and pushed at Neal so that he was lying on his back, rubbing his head with both hands. He watched the pain lines get erased from Neal’s face and was glad he could do something to help his CI feel better.
A few minutes later, El walked in with a blue bundle in her hands. “Here’s my cold cap,” El said softly.
Neal peeled an eye open and looked at what she was holding out to him; he gently propped himself up on an elbow and let her slide the cap over his head, positioning the freezing cold gel pockets over his eyes and temples.
“Is that better?” she asked once Neal was lying down again.
“Much," Neal sighed. "Thank you guys.”
Peter could tell Neal would be asleep any second, the way his mouth was hanging just a little open.
“Get some rest. We’re here if you need us,” he said, squeezing Neal’s arm.
El did the same and they left the room, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.