Chapter Text
Conrad knows something's wrong the moment Belly goes quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet, the kind they've built together over the past year, where silence feels like its own language. This is different. Hollow. She's sitting on the couch beside him, phone face-down on her thigh, staring at nothing in particular. Her jaw's tight, and she's blinking too slowly, like her eyelids weigh more than they should.
"Hey," he says, keeping his voice low. "You good?"
"Yeah." But her hand drifts up to her temple, fingers pressing in like she's trying to hold something back. "Just a headache."
The words trigger something in him: muscle memory, maybe, or pattern recognition. He's heard himself say those exact words a hundred times, in that exact tone. Just a headache. The lie people tell when they're hoping if they don't acknowledge it, it won't get worse.
He sets his book down. "When'd it start?"
"I don't know. Like an hour ago?" She shifts, tucking her legs under herself, and winces. "It's fine. I took Advil."
"How much?"
"Two."
"When?"
"I don't—Conrad, it's just a headache." But her voice has gone thin, stretched tight over something she's trying not to show him. She rubs her right eye with the heel of her palm, and Conrad's stomach drops.
He knows that gesture. He's done that gesture, right before everything goes to hell.
"Belly." He reaches over, touches her knee gently. "Look at me."
She does, reluctantly, and he sees it immediately: the slight unfocus in her eyes, the way she's squinting even though the living room isn't that bright. The sun's starting to set outside, casting everything in soft amber, but she's looking at him like he's backlit by stadium lights.
"Is the light bothering you?"
She hesitates. Nods.
Fuck.
"Okay." He's already moving, standing up, crossing to the windows. He yanks the curtains closed, then flips off the overhead light. The room dims to twilight, and when he turns back, Belly's shoulders have dropped half an inch. "Better?"
"A little." She's still pressing her fingers to her temple, though, and her other hand is gripping the couch cushion like she needs to anchor herself. "I'm fine, really. It'll pass."
It won't. Conrad knows exactly where this is going, and the certainty of it makes his chest go tight. He sits back down beside her, close but not touching, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Have you eaten today?"
"Yeah, I—" She stops. Thinks. "I had toast this morning."
"That's it?"
"I wasn't hungry."
He bites back the urge to say you need to eat, because he knows how that sounds when you're nauseated and someone's lecturing you about nutrition. Instead, he just asks, "How much water?"
"I don't know, Conrad, I'm not tracking—" She breaks off with a sharp inhale, eyes squeezing shut. Her hand flies to her forehead, and she goes completely still, like moving might shatter something fragile. "Okay. Okay, it's—it's getting worse."
"Yeah." His voice comes out rougher than he means it to. "It's gonna."
Her eyes open, and there's something in them he's never seen before—fear, maybe, or the first edge of panic. "What do you mean?"
"I think you're getting a migraine."
"I don't get migraines."
"If I had to guess, you're getting one now."
She stares at him, and he watches the realization settle over her face. Watches her try to reject it, then accept it, then immediately start trying to calculate how bad it's going to get. He knows that progression intimately. He's lived it.
"How long—" She swallows. "How long does it usually last?"
"Depends. Couple hours if you're lucky. Longer if you're not." He shifts closer, careful to keep his movements slow and predictable. "But we're gonna handle it, okay? I know what to do."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"Belly." He cuts her off gently. "I've had probably hundreds of these. You've sat through half of them with me. Let me help."
She nods, but her breathing's gone shallow, and Conrad can see the exact moment the nausea kicks in - her face drains of color, and she presses her lips together hard.
"You feel sick?"
Another nod, tighter this time.
"Okay. Don't fight it. If you need to throw up, just—we'll deal with it." He stands again, offering his hand. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere more comfortable."
She takes his hand, and her fingers are cold. He helps her up slowly, and she sways a little when she's vertical, grabbing his arm for balance.
"Sorry," she whispers.
"Don't." He guides her toward the stairs, one arm around her waist because she's leaning into him now, and he can feel how much effort it's taking her just to stay upright. "You're fine. Just take it slow."
They make it to his room - their room, really, though neither of them has said it out loud yet - and he settles her on the bed, propping pillows behind her. She curls onto her side immediately, knees pulled up, face half-buried in the pillow.
"Light," she mumbles.
He's already moving, pulling the blackout curtains closed, flipping off the lamp. The room falls into near-total darkness, and he hears her exhale, just a little.
"Better?"
"Yeah." Her voice is barely there. "Conrad, I—I didn't know it was like this."
Something twists in his chest. "I know."
"How do you—" She breaks off with a small, choked sound, and Conrad's at the bedside in two steps, crouching down so he's at her eye level.
"Hey. You're okay. It's gonna suck for a while, but you're okay."
"I'm scared." The admission comes out so quietly he almost misses it, and it guts him.
"I know," he says again, and this time he smooths her hair back from her face, his touch feather-light. "But I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
She nods against the pillow, eyes shut tight, and Conrad presses a kiss to her forehead - soft, careful - before standing.
"I'm gonna get some stuff. Be right back."
He moves through the house on autopilot, grabbing everything he knows helps: ice pack from the freezer, ginger ale from the fridge, saltines from the pantry, a bottle of Excedrin, the bottle of his prescription Imitrex even though he knows he shouldn't give it to her. He fills a water bottle, grabs a damp washcloth, tucks a plastic bowl under his arm just in case.
When he gets back, Belly hasn't moved. She's still curled on her side, but her breathing's gone uneven, and he can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand is clenched in the sheets.
"Belly." He keeps his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Can you sit up for a second? Need you to take something."
She makes a small sound of protest, but she shifts, pushing herself up slowly. Her face is completely drained of color now, and there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Conrad's hands are steady as he opens the pill bottle, shakes out one tablet, holds it out to her.
"This is gonna help. I know your stomach's probably shit right now, but try to keep it down, okay?"
She takes it with a shaking hand, swallows it with a tiny sip of water, and immediately gags.
"Easy." He's right there, one hand on her back, the other holding the bowl in front of her just in case. "Breathe through it. In through your nose."
She does, eyes streaming, and after a moment the nausea seems to pass. She slumps back against the pillows, and Conrad sets the bowl on the nightstand, within easy reach.
"Good," he murmurs. "You did good."
"Doesn't feel like it."
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. The ice pack goes on the back of her neck first - he remembers how much that used to help his mom, back when she'd get them during chemo - and Belly sighs, some of the tension leaving her body.
"Better?"
"Little bit." She's quiet for a moment, then: "This is what you go through?"
"Yeah."
"Conrad." Her voice cracks. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't." He smooths his thumb over her knuckles, slow and rhythmic. "You don't have to apologize for that."
"But you—you deal with this all the time, and I never—I didn't really get it." She's crying now, just a little, and Conrad knows it's partially the pain and partially the guilt, and he wishes he could take all of it away.
"Hey. You got it more than most people." He leans down, presses his forehead to hers gently. "You've been there for every single one of mine. You know exactly what to do. You taught me how to let someone take care of me, remember?"
"That's different."
"It's not."
She doesn't argue, but he can see she doesn't believe him. He shifts the ice pack, adjusting it so it covers more of her neck, and she shivers.
"Cold?"
"No. Feels good."
He grabs the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, drapes it over her carefully. Then he settles onto the bed beside her, close enough that she can feel him there but not touching, giving her space in case the physical contact is too much.
"You need anything else?"
"Just—stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
She's quiet after that, but Conrad can tell she's not sleeping - her breathing's still too deliberate, and every few minutes she shifts slightly, trying to find a position that doesn't make the pain worse. He knows there isn't one.
An hour passes. Then another. The medication should be kicking in by now, but Belly's still curled tight, still flinching at sounds he can barely hear. At one point she reaches for the bowl and dry-heaves into it, and Conrad holds her hair back with one hand and rubs slow circles on her back with the other, murmuring things he's not sure she can even hear.
When it passes, she's trembling.
"I hate this," she whispers.
"I know."
"How do you do this?"
"Mostly I just endure it." He helps her rinse her mouth with water, then settles her back against the pillows. "But it's easier when you're here."
She looks at him, and even in the dark he can see the guilt written all over her face. "I should've been better at helping you."
"You were perfect."
"Conrad—"
"Belly." He takes her hand, laces their fingers together. "You were. Every time. You never made me feel like a burden. You just—you were there. And that's all I needed."
She's quiet, and then she squeezes his hand, just once.
"Can you—" She stops, like she's not sure she's allowed to ask.
"What do you need?"
"Can you just talk? About anything. I don't care. I just—I need to focus on something else."
So he does.
He tells her about the first migraine he ever got, sophomore year of college, when he thought he was dying and called Jeremiah in a panic. He tells her about the time his mom made him lie down in the garden because she swore fresh air helped, and he ended up getting sunburned on top of everything else. He tells her about the neurologist he saw once who suggested he try yoga, and how he'd walked out halfway through the appointment.
He keeps his voice low and steady, a constant thread of sound in the darkness, and gradually - so gradually he almost doesn't notice - Belly starts to relax. Her breathing evens out. Her grip on his hand loosens.
"You still with me?" he asks softly.
"Yeah." Her voice is drowsy now, the sharp edge of pain finally starting to dull. "Medication's working."
"Good." He brushes his thumb over her knuckles again. "Think you can sleep?"
"Maybe." She shifts slightly, turning her face into the pillow. "Will you stay?"
"Already told you I would."
"I mean all night."
"Yeah, Belly. All night."
She sighs, and it sounds like relief. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do, though." Her words are starting to slur a little, exhaustion catching up with her. "You always take care of me. Even when you're the one who needs taking care of."
"That's what we do," he says simply. "We take care of each other."
She doesn't answer, and after a moment he realizes she's fallen asleep. Her face has finally smoothed out, the tension in her jaw gone, and Conrad lets himself exhale for the first time in hours.
He stays exactly where he is, hand still holding hers, watching the rise and fall of her breathing in the dark. His own head is starting to ache - tension, probably, or just the sympathetic echo of her pain - but he ignores it.
She's okay. That's all that matters.
And tomorrow, when she wakes up with the post-migraine hangover, foggy and wrung-out and probably still a little nauseated, he'll be right here to help her through that too. He'll bring her toast and ginger tea and sit with her while she recovers, and he won't let her apologize for any of it.
Because this is what love looks like, he thinks. Not the big gestures or the dramatic declarations. Just this: holding someone's hand in the dark, staying when they need you to stay, learning the particular shape of their suffering and meeting it with tenderness.
He smooths her hair back one more time, then settles in beside her, careful not to disturb her sleep.
"I got you," he whispers, even though she can't hear him.
And he means it.