AN: I have no real medical knowledge. I try to look things up, but please excuse any errors. Also, I do not own anything you recognize.

Migraine

He knew he should have seen it coming. The signs were there: the fatigue, the stiffness in his neck, the dizziness… he'd passed off the symptoms as results of stress, sleeping in a bad position, standing up too quickly… anything but the prodromal symptoms of a migraine. He'd dragged himself out of bed, taken a shower, and gotten ready for work, and when he'd still felt like curling up and sleeping for a week, he'd assumed he was coming down with a cold.

He'd driven to work at the usual time, encountered the usual traffic, and seen the usual people in the lobby and elevator on his way to his office. Once there he'd dug out the folders of background information several agents had given him with requests for profiles, pulled out his computer, and tried to get to work. He'd slowly but surely finished the first, and struggled through the second as his vision started to blur in front of him, but by the time he got to the third he found himself unable to come to any conclusions as the pounding in his head built to near unbearable levels, throbbing through the right side of his head and resulting in increasing nausea.

Having inevitably caught on by this point to the fact that he would have, or really was already in the midst of a bad migraine, Sweets stiffly pushed himself out of his chair, wincing at the fluorescent lighting that glinted into his eye, and walked over to his jacket to dig through the pockets, hoping desperately that he'd remembered his emergency medication, since he'd very belatedly realized he'd forgotten to replace the one he usually kept in his office, and berating himself all the while for not having recognized or acted on the symptoms sooner. He blamed the fact that it had been over a month since his last really bad headache, and that he'd been absolutely swamped with profiling for several high-profile cases with the bureau. Really though, he knew that it having been so long since his last headache should have, with his history, made him wary of an upcoming one – being 'due,' so to speak. He also knew that he should have kept that in mind when he realized he had several important and inevitably stressful cases to work on, being aware that stress was often a factor in the development of a migraine. But none of that was helpful in the slightest, because as it was, he hadn't caught it quickly enough, and he also, as he discovered with dismay, hadn't packed his medication.

Frustrated and very much in pain, Sweets turned off the lights in his office, revelling in the momentary relief the darkness brought, before stumbling over to the couch. Realizing that he didn't trust himself to keep his nausea in check, he pulled his trash can to him before lying down carefully, hoping to be able to sleep off a sufficient amount of the pain so as to be able to drive or bus home later, to his bed and his medication and the blissful silence of his apartment.

"Bones!" Doctor Brennan looked up from her desk to see Agent Booth leaning against the doorframe of her office.

"Oh, hey, Booth." He quirked a smile at her and sauntered up to her jingling his keys in his hand.

"You ready to go?" She nodded and stood up, picking up her purse. "Is the diner good with you?" She nodded again, and they both headed out to Booth's car.

The drive to the diner was spent mostly in amicable silence, with both the agent and anthropologist lost in thought, going over particulars of each of their sides of their current case. When they arrived outside the diner, Booth set the car in park and they both got out. Once inside, they ordered, and Booth pulled out a folder containing backgrounds on all the suspects in their case. He listened intently as she detailed all of the forensic evidence that the Jeffersonian team had put together that day, and then turned to the profiles, and rifled through them, his brow furrowed.

"I dunno, Bones. I mean, I know what you found is solid, but from what we know now, any of these people could have done it. Sweets…"

"Doctor Sweets bases his theories on guesswork and the soft science of psychology. He can't give us anything we can use to convict someone." Booth frowned at her, and opened his mouth to argue the merits of what Sweets did, but she spoke before he could: "But… I do admit that his work has led us in the right direction in the past, despite how baseless it is." Booth sighed, knowing that there was no use arguing the finer details.

"Sure. And yes, he has led us in the right direction before, and I gave him the backgrounds to work with two days ago, and I told him it was urgent, so I'm hoping he has it done by now. I was thinking we might drop by there after this to see if he's got it for us… talk about whatever insights he might have, you know. Maybe even take him a late lunch. He's been working late a lot lately – I know he got a bunch of cases from different agents pretty much all at once." Brennan looked up from her coffee, setting it down on the table after taking a last sip.

"You seem…" She frowned, trying to peg the emotion she could see glinting in her partner's eyes. She knew she'd come a long way with interpersonal relationships and reading people, but sometimes she still had trouble. Sweets had once assured her that everyone had trouble, sometimes. She'd found that reassuring, even though the knowledge didn't exactly help her when she couldn't figure someone out.

"I'm just a bit worried for him, Bones. He's just a kid – he should be out having fun every once in a while, but lately I've been seeing him at the Hoover building all the time. He gets there early, he works through lunch, he goes home late… I don't know if he eats."

"He lives alone, Booth. I'm sure he's more than capable of taking care of himself. And besides, you spend a lot of time at the FBI too. And I spend a lot of time at the Jeffersonian, as do Hodgins and Angela and Cam, and everyone else… and we're all fine."

Booth shook his head. "Sweets is so young, I just... and we went out for lunch every day this week, and out for drinks a few times too. Sweets turned us down all of those times. And Bones?" She looked up, eyebrows raised. "We have each other. We're partners. We look out for each other. Sometimes… sometimes I wonder who Sweets has."

He'd thrown up twice, each bout sending new and increasing pain through his head, and he slept on and off, curled up tightly on the couch, his hands covering his face, his breathing strained. If he wasn't so scared of the pain that opening his eyes might bring, he might have checked the time, but as it was, all he knew was that it hadn't been long enough, because he was still in agony. All he could do at that point was try to sleep off the headache, and hope that nobody came knocking. And that his phone didn't ring. He prayed for a second that it was on silent.

He attempted to shift into a slightly more comfortable position, but his couch was small, and it was surprising that he'd managed to squish himself into it in the first place. He did have a lot of practice folding himself into small spaces, though, and for as long as he could remember, he'd always slept curled up.

And that was when it happened.

The sharp rap on the door followed by the loud announcement of "Hey, Sweets, did you get those profiles done yet?" as it opened sent new spasms of pain through his head, and he couldn't help the soft sobs that left his mouth as he vomited violently into the trash can.

"Sweets?" Booth's voice was softer this time, but he still dry heaved again, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He'd always hated throwing up.

"Doctor Sweets, are you alright?" Brennan's voice was barely above a whisper. "Are you suffering from phonophobia?" Booth's forehead creased into a frown.

"He's afraid of…" Brennan put her finger to her lips, indicating that he should keep his voice down.

"Sound. It's a symptom of –" She was cut off by a muffled murmur from Sweets. "Doctor Sweets?"

"Migraine," was his barely audible response.

"Yes. It is a symptom of migraines, which, judging by Doctor Sweets's state, he is currently suffering from. Doctor Sweets?"

"Mmmmh."

"Do you have medication for this?" She looked around the room for a pill bottle or injection kit.

"Forgot it."

Booth looked at him worriedly before sighing and giving the room a quick cursory glance. "You can't stay here, Sweets. You need to go home, and take your meds, and get some real sleep, in a real bed. Any chance it's been getting better?"

"Mmm-mmh." Booth sighed again.

"So that's a no…how long does one of these things last, anyway?"

"Migraines in adults can last up to seventy-two hours." Booth looked at Brennan at that, a worried look on his face.

"That long?"

"Not necessarily, but it wouldn't be out of the norm."

Booth turned back to Sweets. "Well, you can't stay here, kid. Not even for half that long." Sweets gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, his face still buried in his hands. Booth sighed again and looked at Brennan before crouching down beside the psychologist. "Alright – so how about we get you up and go down to my car and drive you home. We'll take a bag just in case you feel sick again, and I'll even – just this once – let you lean on me all the way down. Is that okay?" In a moment of tenderness which he would deny forever, the agent reached up and gently carded his fingers through the psychologist's hair. Sweets gave a minute nod, and Booth stood up, turning to look at Brennan, who was picking up the trash can after tying a knot in the bag.

"I'll go deal with this, and get us a bag."

"M'sorry." Booth and Brennan turned to look at Sweets, who was squinting at them with shiny eyes, his pallor even more apparent now that he wasn't hiding his face. Booth quickly shook his head.

"Don't even worry about it, kid."

"Yes. I agree, Doctor Sweets. I know you would do the same for us." And with that, she walked out of the office, shutting the door gently behind her.

Booth watched the door for a moment more, before turning to the psychologist again, and then looking around the room. Silently, he started to pack up the papers on the desk, making sure to check which folders they belonged in, and then put them into the psychologist's briefcase, which he shut with a soft click. He then picked up the jacket that was slung over the back of one of the chairs, and dug into the pockets, checking for keys. Finding two sets, one of which was clearly to Sweets's car, he pocketed the other and walked back over to the couch. Tapping gently on the psychologist's shoulder, he carefully helped him to sit up as he groaned and brought his hand up to clutch at his head.

Sweets squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the nausea swelled again, and ground his teeth as he tried to bring it under control. Booth stood silently beside him, letting him take the time to get himself together. When he was finally convinced that he could move without throwing up again, he shifted forward on the couch, and braced himself, ready to stand. Booth was immediately there, putting a reassuring hand on his arm and helping up, and then putting an arm around his shoulders to steady him. Sweets pinched the bridge of his nose at the new onslaught of pain, but didn't have much time to dwell on it, because that was when Brennan returned with a garbage bag, and they were out the door. As they made their relatively slow way to the elevator and then down to the parking lot they received a few curious or worried glances, but nobody said anything, and they were soon all in Booth's car, with Sweets curled up in the back seat.

The ride to Sweets's apartment was spent in silence, and when Booth pulled up to park on the street outside, Sweets blearily looked up and squinted out the window, surprised that they had arrived already. Booth opened the back door then, and guided Sweets out of the car and toward the building as Brennan shut the door behind them and locked the doors of the SUV.

They took the elevator, and Booth kept his arm around Sweets up until they were in the apartment and Sweets was sitting down on his bed, kicking off his shoes and curling up underneath the covers.

"Sweets?" The psychologist peered up at the agent, his brow furrowed. "Where are your meds?"

Sweets shut his eyes again and was silent for a moment, before murmuring, "Bathroom. Bottom shelf behind the mirror." Booth nodded and walked out of the bedroom. Brennan then walked up beside the bed and looked down at the psychologist.

"Do you need anything else, Doctor Sweets?"

"Mmmh. No. But thank you, Doctor Brennan." They fell silent for a few minutes, and then Booth walked back in, carrying a box of vials and a syringe.

"Sumatriptan Succinate Injection. This it, Sweets?" Sweets murmured a confirmation, and started to sit up, and reach for the medication, but Brennan guided his hands back to his lap and took the set from the agent, and set to getting it ready. After helping the psychologist to administer the shot, Brennan put the empty vial aside and rearranged the covers over him.

"Are you alright, Sweets?" she asked.

"Mhm. Just need to sleep. Thanks. For everything." His voice was sounding increasingly drowsy. Brennan put her hand on his, comfortingly.

"Not a problem, Sweets."

"Yeah, kiddo. Don't mention it. And your car is still at the FBI, so call me tomorrow morning if you're good to go to work and I'll come pick you up. Alright?"

"Mhm."

"Atta boy." Booth patted the edge of Sweets's bed. "You need anything, just call, okay? I'm going to lock your door behind us, so I'll bring your keys when I come to pick you up. Sound good?"

"Mhm."

"Good."

And with that, the agent and the anthropologist took one last look at Sweets, and quietly made their way out of the apartment.

In the morning, Sweets called Booth as promised, and by seven the agent was at his apartment, knocking on the door. Sweets grabbed his briefcase and jacket and hurried to unlock the door, and opened it to come face to face with the agent.

"Sweets! Hey, buddy, how are you feeling?" Sweets gave a small smile.

"Much better, thank you, Agent Booth." He shut the door behind him and had started to dig in his pockets for his keys when Booth cleared his throat. Sweets looked up, his eyebrows raised.

"Sorry. I have them, remember? Took them last night." Sweets shut his eyes for a second and sighed, before looking back up at the agent.

"Right. Sorry. Forgot. I was kind of out of it." Booth laughed softly at that.

"That's an understatement, kiddo. You were totally out of it." Sweets gave him a nervous smile.

"I'm really sorry, by the way, Agent Booth. You shouldn't have had to deal with that. I should have taken care of it myself." Booth's smile turned slightly sad at that.

"No. Sweets, you were in a lot of pain, and you needed some help, and that's okay. You're a good kid, buddy. Everyone needs a little help every once in a while – you just gotta let people give it to you."