As promised, the next instalment in my Sense series is Migraine. It got way out of hand, so it's going to be a multi-chapter (I have 5 chapters fully written and it's not finished).
This is set about two-three months after the end of season one, and a few weeks after Taste, but you don't need to read that to understand. This chapter is mostly just the 'hurt' part, but you'll be getting plenty of Thunderblink comfort in the rest of the story.
Enjoy, and please tell me what you think!
John presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to get rid of the headache building up between his temples. It's one of those days that he knew would be awful before he even dragged himself out of bed, barely four hours after returning from his latest road trip with Marcos. He woke up already half-overloaded, and he's been tired and irritable all day, everything too loud and too bright.
After a twelve-hour trip in a an old car, exerting his ability to its fullest to catch even a hint of Lorna's presence, and realizing two hours in that he'd forgotten to bring sunglasses, John shouldn't be surprised that his body would make him pay. He might be near bulletproof, but he's far from invulnerable.
But he pushes through the fatigue and the headache to deal with the fallout of the latest raid on one of the Network's mutant hideouts while Clarice is out helping Lauren at the refugee shelter. He forgoes lunch because his stomach can't handle even the thought of food right now, but he doesn't listen to the voice in his head that tells him to go back to bed. He still needs to go down to the car shop to check on Marcos, who is more depressed after each time a lead on Lorna turns into a dead end.
John checks his watch. Marcos should be awake by now, though he doesn't always bother to get out of bed these days. He wonders for a minute−far too long, staring into space−whether it would be more tiring to use his powers to check whether his friend is down in the hangar first or just to head down there. The strain of extending his reach feels like too much to handle, so John stands up with a sigh.
Marcos is in the shop, loudly and angrily cutting through what seems like random bits of metal. John immediately wants to put his hands over his ears, but instead he walks over until Marcos notices him and stops. John sighs internally in relief.
"What are you doing?" he asks, when the echo of the noise dies down enough for words to come back into his mind.
Marcos is already looking past him, lost in his thoughts, but his gaze shifts back to John at his question.
"I don't know," he says. "Just needed to−"
He trails off. John nods sadly.
"We'll find her," he says. Even he hates the empty platitudes, but he still defaults to them when nothing seems to get through Marcos's despair. There's nothing he can give his friend beside hope, and that hope keeps turning into bitterness each time he loses another trail.
"We've been looking for over two months," Marcos says. "What if she's−"
"No, we can't think like this," John interrupts him. He's had these same thoughts too many times. They have no guarantee that Lorna is okay, or even alive, but they have no other choice than to assume she is.
"Then how am I supposed to think?" Marcos explodes, swiping at the metal scraps in front of him hard enough to send them flying.
John doesn't duck when some of the debris hits his body, barely hard enough for him to feel it, but he nearly whimpers at the echoing noise of metal hitting the concrete floor. He freezes instead and manages, somehow, to hide his wince. He feels more and more like throwing up.
It's not just the overload. Marcos's anguish, his accusative tone, all of this sends him right back into his own guilt over everything that's happened. Lorna's decision might not be on him, but he should have seen it coming, should have had defenses in place, should have stopped her from crashing that plane. He should have been there to fight off the Sentinel Services and defended the station, instead of leaving it to a bunch of kids and refugees. Pulse, Sonya...he should have been able to save them. It was his responsibility.
Marcos hasn't noticed him zoning out, because he keeps advancing toward John, almost menacing now.
"What am I supposed to think?" he nearly screams. John does his best not to recoil. "You can't find her! She could be on the other side of the country, for all the use you've been! She could be dead!"
"Marcos−" John starts.
"Don't tell me she's fine," Marcos spits. "You really have no idea."
He's still rational enough not to try to hit John, despite his rage. John still hasn't moved, paralyzed by the situation. He's usually good at resolving conflicts, but not right now, not when he can't think straight. And he's failed at helping Marcos from the beginning.
"You don't even care, do you? Not really. You've finally found your perfect life with your little girlfriend and Lorna doesn't matter anymore, right?" Marcos screams.
John knows Marcos has just crossed over into the irrational, but it still feels like a knife in his chest. Another day, he would argue, try to make him see reason, to make him see how much of his accusation is just wrong, but he can't even open his mouth.
And Marcos isn't even missing his target. John can't help feeling guilty, that he's finding a kind of peace with Clarice, when his best friend is going through what he is. He can't help feeling bad about moving on so soon after Sonya's death, after Pulse−
Marcos seems to realize that he's gone over the line, and he steps back in horror.
"I didn't mean that," he murmurs, looking at the floor. "I didn't, I just−"
John doesn't move, still frozen, still speechless, still struggling against the onslaught of emotions and sensations pressing against his brain. He knows how he must appear to Marcos, standing there expressionless, but he's fairly sure any movement he makes now will result in him either bolting or throwing up.
"I miss her so much," Marcos says, anguish deforming his features. "I can't keep doing this."
He drops to his knees and lets out a deep, heart wrenching sob. John watches him without being able to do anything, though after a minute he manages to crouch down in front of his weeping friend and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Marcos−" he starts rasping, but he can't go any further.
It's the moment Marcos loses control and lets out his power, at full force. The ground under him starts smoking, and John is blinded by the sudden light emitting from his hands.
It feels like his head is exploding. John has been on the receiving end of Marcos's uncontrolled ability before, but rarely from this close and never when he was already on the verge of a meltdown. In spite of himself, he curls up and protects his eyes with his arms, but it's not enough to stop the intense light from coming through. He's completely unable to call his friend out, and he's not sure Marcos would hear him in any case.
It lasts for what feels like an eternity. John is pretty sure his boot soles are melting under him as the floor heats up, but he can't feel anything over the pain in his head, and he's more or less impervious to heat in any case. The pain, the light, has taken over his mind, chasing all other thoughts away until he can't even feel his body. Control is far out of his grasp right now, though when John lashes out, desperate to make the pain stop, he just knocks Marcos lightly to the ground. A small part of him is relieved at that.
The rest of him bolts the moment the light recedes. He doesn't check that Marcos is alright−he's not, clearly, but John doesn't think he's hurt him. He rushes over to his apartment, relying on his hearing and his abilities because his eyes are still firmly closed, and only barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up what little is in his stomach.
He stays there for long time, on his knees in front of the toilet, his head in his hands. He can't concentrate on anything beyond the pain in his head. The cold porcelain is almost soothing on his brow, though the bathroom is so small that the door digs into his back.
Getting up again feels like too much of an effort, but after a while the light coming through the small bathroom window wins and he drags himself to the bedroom, not bothering to flush the toilet−he can't handle the noise right now.
It's been a while since he had an overload that bad. He's not sure what brought this on, he's been in worse situations−no, that's not right, he does know. Getting the full brunt of Marcos's power in his face has certainly not helped, but it's not the sole cause of the migraine now pressing behind his eyes.
John draws the curtains closed, wincing at the hiss of the metal rings on their rod, and kicks off his shoes. There is little to do about the migraine beside waiting it out, so he might as well get comfortable.
The stress of the last few months is getting to him more than he's willing to admit even to himself. He hasn't had an episode like this since before he met Clarice, and God knows that Headquarters was louder and more eventful than their little apartment here.
He'd have thought it would be easier to sleep, here, but living in the city means it's never quiet. John doesn't know anymore if he really has too much on his mind to sleep or if his insomnia has just become a part of him that isn't going away. He doesn't remember the last time he slept through the night, but it must date back to before he enlisted.
With an internal sigh, he lets himself fall down on the bed, turning away from the window and pressing a hand to his exposed ear to tune out the background noise. The apartment is nothing if not badly insulated, and the streets are busy in the middle of the afternoon. It's enough to feel like his head is on fire.
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