Pain. It lanced through his skull, building up like steam pressure, like a boiler about to burst, like the place just behind his eyes had been put in a trash compactor and left to be squashed. Like something was trying to push his eyeballs out of the way and crush everything else into dust.
It wasn't Hartley's first rodeo. He'd had migraines before, worse ones and all, so he had his way of dealing with them. In this instance, that way was to lie in his bed with the lights off and the curtains drawn, an arm slung over his eyes, and hoping none of the other Rogues came bursting in, or that he didn't throw up. See, the problem with a migraine this bad was the accompanying overwhelming nausea rolling through him and the fact that any over the counter painkiller did jack shit to help.
It had been an issue for a long while. The stupid experimental implants he had in his skull caused plenty of them on their own. They'd pick up every sound with no filter, were difficult to adjust for volume, and sometimes just gave him a tinnitus-style shriek for ten minutes straight. Really, if his parents hadn't believed so intensely that his deafness had needed 'fixing', he was quite sure he'd be having a lot less problems.
At least it allowed him to listen to Queen, he supposed.
He took deep, steady breaths through his mouth, trying not to grit his teeth. He could feel the nausea clawing up his throat. He could hear the distant, muffled voices of the rest of the Rogues. Yelling. Probably drunk. Probably playing some card game. Probably cheating and getting into an argument over who's cheating worst or who started cheating first. He couldn't block it out or rip his focus away without practically tearing his hearing aids from his skull. He decided, somewhere in the back of his head, that once this migraine had well and truly run its course he would try tinkering with the stupid things to try and improve them. His parents and the doctor who made them didn't want there to be a way to turn them off when they drilled into his skull, but god did he want to turn them off.
Tinnitus, drunken laughter, his own breathing, too loud in his ears, footsteps, laughter, crushing pain, searing pain, something knocking on wood, the wind picking up outside, the pain, the pain, that electronic shriek, claws in his brain, like it was about to explode, breathing faster, breathing louder, too much sound, too much noise, too much pain, he felt sick, he was going to be sick, he hated being sick, his parents hated him being sick, the servants hated him being sick, it was too much.
The door slammed open and his stomach lurched. A voice, louder and closer than the others, spoke, no attempt to keep it down. Too loud. Like a jackhammer against his skull. "Man, Henry, you're missing a party-" James, he vaguely registered before focusing on the much more pressing fact that he was going to be sick and there was no way he could hold it back any more. Hartley lurched to his feet, staggering past his friend and shoving him to one side so he could get out the door and down to the bathroom. He didn't turn the lights on, just lunged for the toilet and emptied his stomach. James stepped in behind him a moment later and flicked the light on. It was like knives to his eyes and he managed a miserable groan before puking all over again. Somewhere in the background he heard receding feet, a call of "Len, Piper's sick!" and the bustle of the other men presumably packing up their card game for the night. Guess the vibe was ruined by the teenager dying a miserable death a few rooms away.
This was the first time since joining the Rogues that Hartley had had a migraine like this, he registered in the back of his head as he tried to resist the urge to shove his face too far into the toilet bowl, his entire body wanting to fold and crumple under the pressure. When the stream of vomit finally ended, he kept himself there, holding onto the toilet seat for dear life, knuckles turning white, breathing hard through his mouth, eyes pressed tight shut. The light still stabbed through. He could taste acid and bile, was pretty sure some of it had gotten into his nose and his hair, and he could feel a cold sweat settling over him. Someone knelt beside him, a hand on his back, rubbing up and down in awkward circles.
"Kid? Henry?" Hands on his shoulders, trying to coax him to sit up. He tightened his hold on the seat. It was too bright out there.
"Lights." He managed in a shaky, hoarse voice. "I n-need the lights off..."
They went out and the relief was immediate. Swallowing hard, he let Len pull him up and he all but slumped against the man's shoulders as he removed his gloves and pressed the back of his hand to Hartley's forehead. Checking for fever, he guessed. His head was still pounding like it was about to burst. After a moment, Len huffed, not finding any sign of fever, and turned to the others. "Someone get a tissue or something."
Digger pulled some toilet paper from the roll and handed it over, and Len wiped Hartley's mouth and nose like he was a child, more gentle than he expected, and he couldn't object. There was probably vomit still smeared on his face, the whole world smelled sour. The tinnitus was back. Everything hurt.
"Blow." Len ordered, holding tissue to Hartley's nose. He did as he was told, not having it in him to argue. He managed to blink his eyes open in time to see the Captain depositing the tissue into the toilet. Someone leaned into view. Mark?
"He seemed fine earlier."
"Maybe that takeout was too much for his rich boy palate." Digger teased from somewhere behind him.
"Nah," James interjected casually and a little too loud, "he didn't eat. Just went straight to our room."
Was the whole team here? Well...that was embarrassing.
"Migraine." He managed to bite out through gritted teeth.
He half expected to be made fun of, all this fuss over a glorified headache, but instead Len coaxed him to look at him and sighed. "Still feel like throwing up?"
"No." He felt better now he'd emptied his stomach at least.
Sam was in the cabinet above the sink. "We have painkillers-"
"They don't help."
Len nodded to Mark and they both took an arm. "We're helping you up and back to your room."
He nodded. They lifted. A wave of vertigo crashed over him and he gagged, dry heaved, but stayed standing. The other two waited a moment, making sure he would be all right before guiding him back to his bed. He vaguely heard Sam offering to get a bucket.
Next thing he knew, Hartley was tucked up back in bed with more care than he remembered getting from his parents or the servants when he'd been sick back home. It was almost soothing, if not really quite weird. James was standing on a chair, trying to make sure any light from the street lamps didn't shine through any gaps in the curtains. To that end, he was currently trying to fix his own cape over the rail on one side, where the worst of the glare peeked through. A moment later, Sam was tiptoeing in and setting a plastic tub next to the bed, presumably in case Hartley did in fact throw up again.
It was getting quieter. The wind outside was dying down remarkably quickly, almost as if a certain someone was making it stop, and the rest of the Rogues seemed to be making a concentrated effort to keep the noise down. It also helped that Roscoe offered him a pair of ear defenders that were supposedly kept around for loud tech work or drilling. They helped.
Len came back next. He was holding a small sack made of suspiciously boomerang patterned cloth that he pressed into Hartley's hand before pressing said hand to his forehead. It was obvious what this was the moment the cold hit his skin. An ice pack. "Hold that there. Hope it helps."
Hartley gave a slight, tight nod of thanks and was once again left to rest, at least for a few minutes. He closed his eyes, relief settling in. The group's efforts were helping.
The door nudged open again, one last time for the night. There was a strong, spiced, sweet smell, and the sound of a mug being placed gently on the nearest table. He cracked an eye open again just in time to see Mick stepping away. He clearly noticed Hartley watching him, because he gave a quiet explanation.
"Ginger tea. It's supposed to help with pain and nausea. Thought I'd leave it as an option."
And then he was gone. It was dark, it was quiet, the pain was receding, and Hartley felt...warm. Sure, the Rogues looked out for their own, but...it felt weird being fussed over like this, like he mattered, not just for his position, but as a person. As a member of a group. As a friend, a brother, even. Like he was someone who belonged, and like he was surrounded by people who genuinely cared and wanted him to be well. Perhaps, it seemed, life with this lot wouldn't be too bad at all. And for a moment there, as he drifted off to sleep, thinking about how cared for he seemed now, his heart almost felt like it was about to burst.
