A/N: I do not own Warehouse 13 nor the characters. A different kind of story for me, but I'm enjoying it nonetheless. This fandom really is amazing for my writing muscles!
The headaches crept up on her a week after she was de-bronzed. They were barely there, at first, H.G. only noticing them when she had time to slow down. Then they started increasing in intensity and duration, lasting an hour, then two, then half a day. Rationalizing them away as a reaction to something in the food, something she wasn't used to, something in the air, just something in this new time, she wasn't too concerned. She had quickly gotten her hands on some aspirin, and that had helped; at first.
But by the time she had been reinstated as a Warehouse agent, H.G. began to suffer from some other symptoms. She became more easily irritated, more easily provoked. She often vomited in the morning, sometimes five days a week. If she hadn't known better, H.G. would have suspected she was pregnant. However, the very idea was preposterous, as she had not taken any lovers in 120 years. Convinced it was her body still getting used to the new century and recovering from her imprisonment, she managed to hide it for two weeks before the secret came out.
It was early in the morning, the time H.G. liked to walk around the bed and breakfast. Twenty minutes passed before the sudden urge to vomit overtook her. Managing to make it behind a tree in time, she dropped to her hands and knees, stomach quickly purged.
Back out onto the path, forehead hot, stomach cramping, body trembling, she found Pete waiting for her. Barely pausing, H.G. tried to walk past him with a curt, "Morning," but he caught her arm, stopping her.
"Can't say I like walking by and hearing someone ralph first thing in the morning," Pete searched her face, his eyebrows drawing together, "But I can't walk past, either. H.G., you okay?"
H.G. reclaimed her arm, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. "I'm quite alright, Pete," she offered, hoping her face wasn't as pale as it felt. "I appreciate your concern, though I assure you it's not necessary."
When she didn't elaborate, Pete shifted most of his weight onto one foot, scratching his chin then moving his hand up to run it through his hair. "Well, okay then. …You sure?"
H.G. nodded, trying to smile through the gritting of her teeth, probably failing miserably. A pounding headache had moved in the second her stomach stopped rebelling.
"Because, hey, I wouldn't want to walk away thinking everything's okay and then find out that everything's not okay, and I could have done something to stop it from being not okay, and – H.G.!" Pete managed to catch her as she wavered and stumbled forward. Sliding his arm around her waist, he put his hand to her forehead. "Helena G. Wells," he admonished, "You're burning up. Way to be okay."
H.G. leaned on him, trying to gather her equilibrium. "I apologize," she forced out, the pain in her head making her cross eyed, "But it appears momentary dizziness has hit me. I should be fine in a few minutes."
"Oh no you don't." Pete tightened his arm, turning the two of them in the direction of the bed and breakfast, "You can be all stiff upper lip and British as you want to be, but I'm still going to take you back. I won't have Myka kick my ass if I abandon you. Because we both know she will." He tried to take a step forward, but H.G. stubbornly refused to move.
"I'm fine," she insisted. She was perfectly able to get around on her own cognizance. She just needed some time to collect herself. She could handle the pain. She knew it.
H.G. almost believed herself. But the dizziness came rushing back, and she gasped, swaying on her feet, clutching Pete's arm. After it passed, chagrinned and in too much pain, she steadied herself, whispering out, "Alright. Let's go."
"Thought so."
They made it halfway, H.G.'s arm slung over Pete's shoulder, his arm still around her waist, before another overwhelming urge to vomit almost brought her to her knees, Pete's quick reflexes keeping her from falling. Awkwardly holding her hair back as she retched up stomach acid and nothing else, Pete ignored her protestations and swept H.G. up into his arms. It was only after she promised to give him some of her secret stash of Lorna Doones that he let her ride piggyback. Though it was still embarrassing, H.G. knew she was in no shape to be walking. At least riding piggyback was slightly more dignified.
Leena met them at the door. Frowning when she saw H.G. rigid with pain on Pete's back, she quickly located the room key in her pocket. To his credit, Pete barely groaned on his way upstairs.
Curling up on her bed, the room as dark as they could make it after closing the shades on the windows, H.G. grabbed her head with both hands. Her headaches had never gotten this bad before. She dug her fingers into her scalp, trying to force the pain out.
Leena disappeared to find some aspirin and water to wash it down with, laying a damp washcloth onto her forehead. Fortunately, H.G.'s stomach decided to be nice and let her keep down the aspirin and leftover chicken soup from the night before Pete reheated for her.
H.G. was a proud woman, but she was in no position to stop them from doting on her. She was, however, able to kick Leena and Pete out of her room soon after the aspirin started to ease the pounding of the headache. She was no child, no invalid, and she should be able to deal with her body on her own.
Even if it felt like something was trying to force its way out of her head.