Work Text:
It hit her as she was walking back to her quarters, for which she would be grateful for. Later.
It was late enough that most everyone had gone to bed already, and she had just finished her rounds of the ship, when like a blackjack to the head, a wave of vertigo washed over her, sending her world tilting, blurring. She cursed, balanced with a hand on the wall, and squeezed her eyes shut, praying, hoping, willing that this wouldn’t be the start.
But then, just as she hoped it wouldn’t, the familiar ice pick slid into her skull, slow but steady, the throb of it growing with each passing heartbeat. She grit her teeth against it, no, no, no, and took in a deep, slow breath, maybe this time it wouldn’t happen, she’d had so many more migraines through the years of the project that maybe her body—
No, she couldn’t be so lucky. Nausea crawled through her belly, just the faintest tremor of it, but that’s how it always started when a migraine came on quickly like this — just a little quiver, a shiver, but it never stayed so small, always grew and grew and grew, and along with it, her panic.
She cracked her eyes, and the world still spun, her stomach lurching with it, and she slammed them shut again. “No,” she ground out through clenched teeth, and through sheer force she opened her eyes again, started walking through the vertigo, breathing harshly through her nose. She just had to make it to her room, to privacy. She just needed to be alone, alone, needed to crawl away out of the light and hide, hide away and maybe then the nausea would leave and she could breathe again without the iron bars around her chest, squeezing, pinching, trapping.
The nausea slid through her belly like oil, slick, sly, and she could feel it tightening her throat, spiking adrenaline, which only made her head throb worse, the ice pick becoming a cleaver that hacked at the side of her head. She moved faster, hide, hide, hide, until she was all but running, her door was in sight now, and she could cry with the relief of it if it wasn’t for the feeling lodged at the back of her throat, a delicacy there that made her tremble, already burned in anticipation.
She pushed her door open harshly, slamming it closed in her haste, and Ryland jumped from his position reclining in their bed, startled. “Oh— jeez, Stratt, what—”
She didn’t hear what else he said, just pushed her way into the bathroom, pushing that door closed harshly as well. Her breath was ragged, quick with panic, and with shaking hands she turned the tap to cold, splashing water on her face, her arms, her neck, anything to try and shock her system, clear her mind.
Cold water slipped down her neck, down her spine, making her gasp — but the nausea still rolled, twisted, and she realized with a dreaded finality that she wasn’t stopping this.
She turned, kneeled before the toilet, and the sight made her whimper lightly — she didn’t want to, she hated this, anything but this, please—
Saliva pooled in her mouth, fast, and she let out a small sob, squeezing her eyes shut as she lowered her head.
“Eva?” came Ryland’s voice through the door. “Are you—”
“Don’t,” she spat out, panting, pulling back her hair.
“What’s—”
She was sick, her head throbbing as she heaved, coughed, wanted to sob, but she clamped her jaw tight against the urge, breathing fast through her nose.
“Eva, I can help—”
“Out,” she ground out through her teeth, she needed to hide, be alone, he couldn’t see her like this, he didn’t want to, no one wanted to, she couldn’t put that burden on anyone.
She fell back on her haunches, leaning her arms against the toilet as saliva pooled again, her stomach roiled, her throat burned. She dimly heard his footsteps retreat, the door open. And when it closed, she was sick again.
A small noise escaped her throat when she finished, and the sound of her made her eyes burn. Why did this panic her so, why couldn’t she control her shaking, why did the mere thought of this make her whimper, want to cower and hide? She could stare down men and face the end of the world, and yet this she didn’t understand, could never understand, not when her mind raced, scattered, jumped like an animal trapped, not when she dug her nails hard enough into her palm to leave marks, anything to make the nausea stop, anything to bring her breathing back to normal.
When a new wave of nausea didn’t immediately overwhelm her, she staggered to her feet, grabbing a washcloth and managing to soak it in cold water before she fell back to her knees, panting through the next round, her chest sore by the end of it. Her head still hung, arms braced on the toilet, she managed to put the washcloth on the back of her neck, and the cold of it shocked her system enough that the nausea retreated, just an inch, enough so that she could move to kneel more comfortably, her legs kicked out to the side.
Her head throbbed, and she focused on that pain, trying to decide if it made the nausea better or worse. It was like bright, sickly neon light, pulsing, beat, beat, beating against her skull, she could count the rhythm, wondered what song would play at that tempo, one, two, three — and had a wild snatch of Vivaldi’s Summer 3 whirl through her mind.
It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, but Eva kept herself suspended there in that light, pulsing its vile tempo, one, two, three; one, two, three. Though her stomach still churned, her throat quivering with the nausea, she kept herself just out of its reach, one, two, three.
Her head fell to the edge of the toilet at some point, one, two, three; it was cool, felt good on her heated skin, and a half-mad thought crossed her mind that perhaps she would have to stay forever like this, one, two, three, locked in an endless battle with her body, one, two, three.
A soft knock came at the bathroom door, and she barely had the wherewithal to open her eyes, blink, register the sound.
“Eva?” came Ryland’s voice again, and tears filled her eyes, so quick she barely noticed. “I know you want to be alone, but I went and got some anti-nausea meds from medical for you.” There was a pause, the animal of her mind rearing against the trap of the sickly pulse of her head, trying to think. “I can leave it out here if you want, but I can bring it in, too. I don’t mind.”
She tried to think through the incoherent slide of thoughts through her mind — didn’t want him to see, he shouldn’t have to; nausea meds, she could feel better; wanted to hide, be safe, wanted comfort, be soothed.
“Door’s open,” she finally rasped, then closed her eyes — it would be easier not to look at him.
She heard the door slowly open, then she grit her teeth as another wave of nausea washed over her, and she panted harshly through it to keep her stomach from rising any further, throat convulsing as her body revolted.
She didn’t realize he’d come into the bathroom, then knelt beside her until she felt his hand on her back, warm, soothing, rubbing softly.
“Here, honey, take this,” he murmured, and she turned her head just an inch, cracked an eye to see him holding a small white pill on his palm out to her. “Just let it dissolve on your tongue,” he instructed as she reached out with trembling fingers, grasping it. “It doesn’t taste bad, I promise.”
He was right, it was mostly bland, with just a hint of a fruity flavor. She let it dissolve, then swallowed, but the action seemed to bring another wave of nausea forth, rising in her throat. She dimly thought she might have made a noise like a whimper, but she couldn’t think about it, couldn’t focus on anything but clenching her hands so hard they cracked, ached, using the pain of it to ground herself, distract, stop the wave.
Something cold on the back of her neck shocked her out of the nausea, and she realized Ryland had stood again to rewet her washcloth, and now had placed it gently on the back of her neck again.
“I’ve got your hair,” he murmured, and indeed he had gathered it up in one hand, smoothing it away from her face. “You’re okay.”
His presence at her side was a balm, a comfort she wanted to lean into, a feeling that warred dizzyingly with shame that burned in her chest, her desire to spare him from seeing this. It only made the vertigo worse, trying to parse out those emotions, and so she set it aside in her mind, closed her eyes and focused again on the throb of her head.
One, two, three; he’d wetted a second cloth, and now used it to wipe gently at her temples and forehead, using slow strokes that soothed her, bit by bit, until her muscles had loosened enough that she could shiver; one, two, three.
He felt the tremble and pulled the cloth away from her forehead. “Too cold? I can run it under hot water—”
“No,” she interrupted, voice ragged enough it sounded strange to her; one, two, three. “The cold helps.”
He was quiet, but the cloth returned to her brow and he resumed his calming strokes; one, two, three.
She fought back a few more waves of nausea as they sat there, panting through them, counting out in her head one, two, three, until the rise of her stomach receded, calmed. He stayed by her each time, murmuring to her in low, comforting tones, words she couldn’t comprehend in the moment, but she knew the tone, knew they spoke of love and safety and comfort.
Slowly, gently, the throbbing rhythm of her head slowed;
one,
two,
three,
until there was palpable space between the beats, the rhythm inexorably tied to the slow, methodical strokes of the cloth on her forehead, with the lazy, murmuring rhythm of Ryland’s voice, quiet and rolling in her ear.
Her heart no longer raced like a wild animal’s, didn’t hammer so hard she thought it would burst, and with the slowing, the medicine took its hold, until the roil of her stomach started to retreat and the rise of her throat relaxed, abated.
“There you go, honey,” she heard him murmur, the first words she’d understood in a while, and they made tears prick behind her eyes again. “You’re okay. Everything’s alright, you’re safe.”
Eva turned her head where it still rested against the edge of the toilet, buried her eyes in the crook of her elbow, hid the tears that overflowed, spilled, but she couldn’t stifle the small sob that slipped past her lips.
“Shh, baby, it’s alright, it’s okay.” The cloth left her forehead, and his hands came to smooth down her back, her waist, his head dropping to press kisses to her shoulder. “Crying’s just a regulation of hormones, it’s good for you. You’ll feel better with it.”
She let out a short, watery laugh, tears still spilling down her cheeks — only Ryland Grace could comfort with science, and make it work somehow.
Taking one slow, deep breath, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then picked up her head, slowly opening her eyes. The bathroom light was harsh, bright, the throb of her head worsening, and with it came the shame that she’d pushed down before, hot and sharp, a feeling of being weak that made her skin crawl.
Behind her, Ryland kissed her shoulder again, then stood, and she heard the tap run again before he returned to her side, holding out a cup of water for her. “Rinse your mouth?”
She nodded, taking the cup and did so a few times, until the acrid taste of bile cleared from her mouth, and that alone was such a relief that tears pricked her eyes again. Tentatively, she took another sip, swallowed it, and when her stomach stayed still, she sighed, then slowly twisted, maneuvered until she sat with her back against the wall, letting her head drop back too. Grace sat down too, cross legged in front of her, and he didn’t touch her now, but she could see the want to do so running through him like a current, his hands on his knees to stop himself.
“Did you eat something bad?” he asked, and she slowly shook her head, forcing her gaze to his face.
“If a migraine comes on me too suddenly, it brings dizziness, nausea, with it.” She took another small sip of water, fought the urge to fidget. “It happens so infrequently that I start to think it doesn’t happen to me anymore. But then on my way back here, it…” she trailed off, waved her hand to finish the story, and he nodded.
“Want ibuprofen?” he asked, starting to stand, and she gave a sharp, wry laugh.
“That won’t help now.” She waved her hand again to stop him, and he settled, his hands back on his knees.
“Is it a proper phobia?” he asked, his voice softer, and she felt the shame crawl on her skin again.
“It must be,” she forced the words out, looked down so she didn’t have to see him. “For the strength of my reaction.”
He reached out, slowly as though not to spook her, a thought that nearly made her laugh, and gently put his hands on her knees, thumbs stroking soothingly. “It’s alright. Phobias are largely out of your control.” She didn’t move or flinch away from his touch, and so he scooted closer, rubbing his hands in slow circles over her knees. “Women are much more likely to have emetophobia than men. So, I guess, you’re, you’re in good company, I suppose…”
He trailed off, sounding embarrassed, and she did laugh this time, a small, almost silent chuckle that made something loosen in her chest, let her breath come easier.
“I…” she started, her voice barely above a whisper, and she forced herself to look up into his eyes. “I didn’t want you to see me so… affected.”
He smiled softly at her, shook his head. “Don’t be scared of that, honey. You’ve seen me panic over elevator rides, and you still love me.” He laughed sheepishly, ducking his head briefly away from her gaze. “Though, now I feel bad for all the times you’ve seen me throw up on the flight deck.”
She gave a small smile, a little quicker, a little easier this time. “That doesn’t bother me as much. Other people, I mean. It’s my own nausea that makes me…” she waved a hand again, and he nodded.
“Okay. That’s good. Still — to my original point, I mean—” he shifted until he kneeled in front of her, then cupped her cheek tenderly, stroking his thumb. “For better or for worse, yeah? Every part of you, Eva, every side, every facet, I love. That doesn’t change with any anxiety or any phobia. And I want to help you through them all.”
She smiled softly, leaned into his touch — when he wanted to, he could make the world so simple. “For better or for worse? I didn’t think we were married.”
He smiled, chuckling lightly. “No, suppose not. Should I go grab the captain real quick?”
She furrowed her brow at him, gave him a flat look, and he laughed again, brighter. “There she is. Come on,” he gripped her forearms, supporting her as he began to move them to stand. “It’s time for bed.”
A wave of dizziness came over her again as they stood so that she had to lean against him, breathe through it as her head throbbed, but the nausea blessedly didn’t return, kept away by the medicine.
He sat her down on the edge of the bed, then fetched her sleep clothes, rifling through the drawer until he found his old Stanford shirt she had appropriated. Returning to her side, he knelt before her again and tenderly stripped off her shoes and socks, then reached up for the hem of her pullover, coaxing it over her head. As he dropped the clothing in the hamper, she undid her bra and pulled on his shirt, then undid the clasp of her trousers, pushing them down.
He knelt before her again, and this time he held out sleep shorts for her, holding them open for her to step into, then pulled them up her legs, settling them on her hips with a quick pat.
She had never been dressed by another person before — at least not that she could remember, and the experience was almost overwhelming in its tenderness, in the shock of devotion that crashed through her heart.
So when he looked up at her and gave her a crooked smile, his eyes warm and loving, she reached down and pulled him up until she could wrap her arms around his neck, press her face into his shoulder.
“Eva,” he whispered, and gathered her close, pulled her in until she was in his lap and they sat on the bed, his head pressed to hers as a hand roamed her back, tracing every curve of her. “I love you,” he whispered, and repeated it again and again until it sank into her bones, warmed her soul.
She started to doze there, drift in his arms, when he gently lifted her, rearranged them until she lay back on the pillows and he could pull the sheets up around her waist.
“Do you need anything else?” he asked. “I’ll run and get you ginger tea from the mess if you want it. Or a little food, your stomach might want that.”
She shook her head carefully, closed her eyes against the light of the room. “Just sleep.” She paused, cracked her eyes again to look at him. “And you.”
He grinned, smoothing a hand over her hair. “That I can supply.”
He turned off the lights, then crawled in next to her, and she again wrapped her arms around his neck, buried herself in his shoulder, returning to that place where she was still so amazed she could feel so loved.
His hand found the back of her neck, kneading, stroking in massage — and she thought that perhaps, all would be right in the world.