This is a gift to evening_spirit for her birthday. Her prompt was John&Marcos, "You don't look so good." It fit right into the Reasons To Live series and the new one I was planning of John's migraines, so I went ahead and wrote this.
Happy birthday! I hope you like it :)
John desperately tries to stay focused on Lorna's words, but it's a lost cause. He's missing half the words by now, and he's not getting any better.
"−and we'll have to repair the roof, it's started leaking again. Sage also says she really needs another monitor if she wants to be able to keep up with all the local police communication−"
John groans internally as he loses his train of thought again. He felt the migraine coming even before he got up this morning, but he really thought that he could sit through their morning briefing before it fully took its hold on him.
Lorna's voice is too loud. Marcos tapping his fingers on the table feels like a hammer on his brain. John rubs his eyes, as discreetly as possible, but he catches Lorna giving him a look.
"Shatter, Marcos, can you go on the supply run today?" she asks.
Shatter just nods, but Marcos looks confused. "Wasn't John supposed to go?"
John opens his mouth to answer−too slowly, so slowly that Lorna is already halfway through her next sentence by the time his brain reconnects and realizes it's too late to protest.
"−and John is going back to bed. Which is why I need you to go."
"To bed? Are you sick?" Marcos asks.
John feels his gaze on him, on the out-of-place sunglasses−the room is usually fairly dark, although it doesn't feel like it to him right now−and he opens his mouth again.
"John, go," Lorna orders. "I'll explain."
"No, I can−" John protests, wincing at the sound of his own voice.
"I'll drag you back to bed myself if I have to."
"Fine," John mutters, when his brain has managed to process that. From the look on Lorna's face, at least thirty seconds to late.
He stands up, careful not to misjudge his strength and tip over the chair. He's more tired than he thought he was. He feels like curling up on himself as soon as he reaches a vertical position, the nausea doing nothing to help. At least he doesn't think he's going to throw up right now.
He still takes the time to get a bucket he can use if he doesn't end up losing whatever is still in his stomach from last night, since he skipped breakfast. He closes the blinds in his room and kicks off his shoes before he buries himself under the covers. Having some kind of weight on him helps, even if it's just a couple of blankets.
"How are you feeling?" he hears Lorna murmur, already half-asleep. He didn't hear her coming with his ear defenders on, although his ears are picking up enough that he can see her crouching beside him through closed eyelids.
"'m fine," John answers.
"Obviously. Well, I won't be far if you need me, okay?"
"'kay. Thanks."
If she speaks again, he doesn't hear her, already fast asleep. Knowing that she's here, that she can handle any crisis that comes their way, lets him feel safe enough that he can let go of the tension. Sleep is the only thing that will help the migraine.
John doesn't fully wake up again until the late afternoon. He has vague memories of stirring, wincing against the pain, to see Lorna keeping vigil over him, like she often does when he has a migraine, but she's not there anymore. There's a glass of water on his nightstand, though, that wasn't here earlier.
John gulps down the water−and regrets it immediately, when the noise makes his head explode. Here in the dark, mostly quiet room, the headache had almost abated to something bearable, but the ear defenders have the unfortunate side effect of increasing the sounds inside his mouth and throat tenfold.
Sighing−internally, because there is really no need for more noise,−John removes the ear defenders and stands up. Nausea and dizziness assault him immediately, but he breathes deeply and they back down until they're not much more than an annoyance at the back of his mind.
As far as migraines go, he's had much worse. He's not exactly in a fully-functioning state, but it's one of the mild ones. He can still move without screaming. He decides to go handle his responsibilities toward the station while he can, and tries to arrange his hair with his hands so he doesn't look like he just slept through the day before stepping out.
Marcos is the only one in the corner of the main room they use as a makeshift kitchen, fixing himself a coffee. He hands John a mug, almost automatically, and John nods gratefully.
"Are you alright?" Marcos asks.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look so good."
John blinks, surprised. "Lorna didn't tell you?"
Marcos has only been with them for a month, so although they're quickly becoming good friends, he hasn't been here for one of John's migraines before. Everyone else around here know, at the very least, that they shouldn't bother John on days when he's wearing sunglasses indoors.
"Tell me what? I was on the supply run all day."
I did not need that conversation today, John thinks. "Where is she anyway?"
"I think she went down to the vault," Marcos answers. "Seriously, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," John mutters, annoyed and knowing he shouldn't be. "Just a migraine."
"Migraine? Like a headache?"
"Yeah, pretty much," John says. He has no energy to explain more right now. "Sorry I missed the supply run."
"It's fine, it wasn't anything heavy anyway. And Shatter's not a strong as you, but he's got muscles."
"Good. I'm, uh−" John starts, trying to find a way to escape the conversation. The sound of Marcos's voice is echoing in his head painfully, and he's starting to feel seriously nauseous again. "I'm gonna go up to the roof to see that leak."
"Want some help?"
"I'm good. It's usually the gutter clogging up, it shouldn't be hard to fix."
Even just talking with Marcos for five minutes has taken more energy than John really had. The only thing he feels like doing is going back to bed, but there's work to do, and he's been sleeping all day. He drags himself up the three flights of stairs, then onto the scaffolding ladder going up to the roof.
He has to sit down once there, out of breath. His head is pounding, and the birds' songs feel like drills piercing his skull. The sunglasses barely help against the glare of the summer sun. John moans and presses his hands against his eyelids.
"Do you know where John is?" Lorna asks fifteen minutes later, walking into the computer area where Marcos is working with Sage. "He's not in his room."
"On the roof," Marcos answers.
"What? What the hell is he doing up there?"
"He said he wanted to go seal off the leak before it gets worse."
"And you let him? In the middle of a migraine?"
"He said it wasn't bad−" Marcos starts.
Lorna rolls her eyes. "He always says that, Marcos. He still shouldn't even be up, let alone on the damn roof!"
"Hey, I didn't know!"
Lorna deflates. "No, I guess you didn't. Well, here's rule one: never let John do anything when he's having a migraine. That includes going onto the goddamn roof!"
Marcos raises his hands to calm her down. "And how am I supposed to stop him? He's way stronger than me."
"Today he's not. You could flick him and he would probably fall over. Now let's go and drag him back to bed."
Marcos looks at Sage, who nods and waves him away. He almost has to run to catch up with Lorna. She's taking the stairs two by two, obviously in a hurry.
"Is it really that bad?" Marcos asks.
"Not every time, but going onto the roof just isn't safe. If this is a mild migraine, he's just going to be tired and in pain for a couple of days."
"Days?"
"Usually. Sometimes they go after the first night, but it's pretty rare."
"You said a mild one," Marcos says. "That doesn't sound mild."
"Oh, it is. A bad migraine is when he's in so much pain that the only thing he can do is lie down and puke."
"Damn," Marcos murmurs, shocked.
Lorna looks at him, a bit sadly, then starts going up the ladder.
"John!" she calls−strangely quietly, given how annoyed she seems.
Marcos doesn't hear an answer, but he climbs behind her. When he reaches the top, he finds Lorna frowning, and John sitting against another ladder that goes up to the watch tower, his face white as a sheet.
"John, are you fucking kidding me?"
"What?" John asks weakly.
"You're nauseous and dizzy and having sensory processing issues and you decide to go repair the roof on your own?"
"I'm fine, Lorna," John sighs.
"So if I were to move that metal ladder you're using to sit up, you wouldn't fall?"
John precipitately removes his back from the ladder−and almost overbalances. He looks at Lorna, sheepish.
"Now will you come down?" Lorna asks, like to a little child.
"We need to stop this leak before it does even more damage," John says.
"Which I will do, as soon as you're back in bed," Lorna says.
"Fine," John relents. Marcos watches him closely as he stands up and takes slow steps toward the scaffolding, clearly unstable on his feet.
"You okay going down the ladder?" he asks.
John looks at him−or maybe through him−for a moment, as if trying to process his words.
"Sure," he says eventually.
That does not reassure Marcos at all. He goes down the ladder first, stopping halfway through to watch John carefully reach down. Marcos wants to stay close to be able to catch him if it goes wrong, but he realizes that John's weight would be more likely to crush him and make them both fall.
"Wait," Lorna says before John can start moving down. "Get one of those bracelets on your other wrist."
"Why?" John asks.
"Because I can use them to catch you if you fall, but if I do it with your watch, it'll be ruined."
"I don't need you to catch me."
"Right," Lorna says, rolling her eyes again. "Just do it for me, okay?"
Johns shrugs and obeys. Observing closely, Marcos can see Lorna's hands make tiny moves, supporting John with her power just enough that he doesn't lose his balance. John must feel it, but he doesn't comment.
He's putting on a good face for me, Marcos understands. He doesn't need to pretend with Lorna, and he's willing to accept her help. Just not outwardly, not when Marcos is there to watch. It must be very hard for him to let go of his tight control on himself.
John makes it safely down the ladder, but he looks exhausted. He staggers once back on solid ground, and Marcos grabs his arm to steady him.
He can feel John tense, almost try to escape his grasp, then relent and accept his support. He even leans into Marcos's hold, just a little.
"You okay?" Marcos asks.
"Um," John nods vaguely, wincing.
"Noise down," Lorna murmurs in Marcos's ear as she passes by him. "It hurts him."
Marcos nods, blinking. That and the sunglasses...are migraines like hangovers and make everything louder and brighter? With John's mutation, it must be torture.
Lorna authoritatively takes John's arm and drapes it over her shoulders.
"Lorna−" John starts, but he fails at sounding annoyed.
"It's dinner time, everyone with be down to eat," Lorna says. "No one will see you."
John relents and leans on her. On instinct, Marcos imitates her and ducks under John's other arm. John freezes.
"No," he mutters. "'m fine."
"John, let me do this," Marcos says. He tries to make his voice firm despite whispering, but it only makes him sound angry. John blinks and nods, clearly unable to think past the tone.
They make it down the two flights of stairs to John's bedroom slowly, with John dragging more with each step. He tries not to lean completely on his friends, but Marcos still bows under his weight, at least twice that of a human his size.
John drops on his bed fully clothed, with the clear intention of sleeping right then and there. He's dropped the pretense that he's fine, and now he simply takes off his sunglasses and curls up on himself.
Marcos stands back while Lorna removes his shoes and pushes his hair out of his face. It feels too intimate, a process in which he wouldn't be welcome. Lorna and him are tentatively exploring a relationship since their kiss the other night, something John doesn't yet know about, but John and Lorna's friendship long predates that. They've been living together and sharing everything for years.
Marcos knows there's no reason to be jealous, though he feels a pang of envy at the thought. He's never had that kind of friends. You don't make close friends in a cartel, and certainly not on the streets of Bogota.
"Let's let him sleep," Lorna murmurs, standing back up.
"Does this happen often?" Marcos asks when they're far away from John's room not to risk bothering him.
"He has a migraine every couple of months or so," Lorna answers. "Sometimes it's much worse than this. In general everyone here knows to leave him alone, but I still haven't gotten him to stop worrying about missing a few days of work. He's stubborn."
"I've seen that. Doesn't he have some sort of medication?"
"We're fugitives, Marcos, we can't exactly get health insurance. John especially, his military file would raise all kind of red flags."
"What about the...less legal ways?"
"It's easy to get Kicks, not so much migraine medication," Lorna shrugs.
"Not even painkillers?"
"He won't take them. Please don't bring it up with him, though. It's complicated enough as it is."
Marcos nods, sensing a story there that he's not privy too. He wonders briefly how mentioning painkillers could make the situation more complicated, but a few images of the addicts who came to the Guerras' club desperate for a fix pop up in this mind. They weren't always looking for heroine.
"Noted," he says. "Anything else I should know? I want to help."
"He gets really sensitive to...about everything. So I try to make sure his ear defenders and sunglasses are close by. And don't wear perfume, or Cologne. Not just during the migraines, apparently it can trigger them, too."
Marcos nods, taking it all in.
"There's not much else to do," Lorna continues. "Sometimes he likes a presence, usually only when he's too out of it to worry about bothering us. Sometimes he really wants to be alone. He might throw up, that's nothing to worry about, but it's important to make sure that he drinks enough to stay hydrated."
"Thank you," Marcos says. "I'll try to remember all that."
Lorna shrugs. "I don't even know why I'm telling you all this, it's unlikely he'll allow you to help him again. He's very private about this. I'm the only one he lets in even a little."
"I'm still glad that I know what to do. At least next time I'll know not to let him go to the roof."
"Right," Lorna says. "Yes. No roof for John when he's not feeling well."
"Rule one! I think I've got it."
They both laugh, relieving the stress a little. Marcos hadn't realized that seeing John like that had affected him so much, but he can feel the tension in his shoulders.
"I should go check out the roof for real," Lorna says. "It does need to be fixed."
"I'll go help Sage again," Marcos nods.
"Hey, Marcos!" Lorna calls him an hour later from the stairs.
"You done with the roof?"
"No, it's more complicated than I thought. It's going to take a while, but I need to do it now because it's going to rain tomorrow, according to Sage."
"Do you want any help?"
"Not with the roof, but could try to get John to eat something? Get something plain, he'll be nauseous. Maybe some broth if you can make it. And could you make me a sandwich or something else that I can eat up here?"
"Sure," Marcos says. "I can put a tuna sandwich together if you give me a minute."
Marcos goes back to the kitchen corner and grabs some bread−over a day old, but it's all they have−and a can of tuna. He turns to put a pan of water to heat on the camping stove and drops a stock cube into it. It's the closest he can get to broth with what they have.
"Thanks," Lorna says when he hands her the sandwich, going back up the stairs while taking a bite. Marcos quickly eats his own sandwich while the water finishes heating up, then pours half the broth into a bowl. He adds a bunch of bland biscuits and a glass of water to a tray and carries it over to John's room.
A groan is the only answer he gets when he knocks on the door, so he takes it as permission and walks in. The blinds are still closed and the room is nearly dark. Marcos is careful not to trip up on the way to John's bed.
"I've got some broth for you," he whispers, pulling the desk chair closer. "How are you feeling?"
"Marcos?" John asks, confused. "Where's Lorna?"
"Fixing the roof. I'm sure she'll check on you when she's done."
"'kay," John says, but he's still frowning−and he hasn't even opened his eyes. Marcos has been wondering for a while if the man can see with his eyes closed or something, because he often hides them when he's using his tracking power. "I'm not hungry," he adds.
"Nauseous?" Marcos asks.
John hesitates, then nods.
"The broth is clear enough, if you want to try. I brought water too. You need to drink, at least."
John seems too exhausted to question that. "Lemme sit up," he murmurs.
Marcos almost makes an instinctive move to help, but he's not sure it would be welcome. Instead he stands by helplessly as John pushes himself off the bed and winces, holding his head.
"Thank you," he says when Marcos passes him the bowl of broth.
The bowl wobbles dangerously as soon as Marcos lets it go. "Wow. Let me help."
"Sorry," John murmurs sheepishly, trying to get into a more stable position. "This thing makes me clumsy."
"You mean the migraine?"
"Yeah. Muddles my senses."
"Does it come from your mutation?" Marcos asks, curious, since John seems willing to talk.
He nods. "Sensory overload. Sometimes it gets too...loud."
"That's a hell of a downside," Marcos says.
John takes a few sips of the broth, then hands Marcos back the bowl. "What's yours?" he asks.
"I can heat this back up..." Marcos starts, letting his hands heat the bowl. John immediately covers his eyes against the light. "Oh, sorry. I didn't think."
"It's fine," John says.
"Anyway, fine control isn't easy, especially when I'm stressed out. Heating up a bowl of soup is fine, but you wouldn't believe how much money I lost because I burned holes through the bills."
John laughs weakly. "What about people?"
"You mean do I burn them? I try not to shake hands too often."
"What about Lorna?" John smirks−the effect is unsettling on his too pale face, with his eyes still closed.
Marcos blinks. "What about her?"
"You burn her too?"
"What do you−" Marcos starts, and trails off. John is not supposed to know about them kissing, but then he's a tracker. With a really good hearing.
"I enjoyed the aurora," John teases.
Marcos sputters. "You saw that?"
"Your traces were all over the place. I didn't even mean to look."
"And you're okay with it? Lorna was hesitant about telling you."
"Of course. You guys are adults. As long as it doesn't interfere with our work, you do whatever you want."
Marcos nods. "You two are close, though."
"Not like that," John shrugs. "She's like my sister. It just means you'll have to deal with me if you hurt her."
"I won't," Marcos promises.
"And…you don't have to tell her I know just yet. She deserves a hard time for thinking I wouldn't find out."
Marcos laughs. "Don't be too hard on her. She really loves you."
"I know. Doesn't mean she gets to keep secrets from me."
They both chuckle. Despite John's slouched position in bed, the exhaustion and pain on his face, the whispered conversation is good for both of them. Marcos can feel the beginning of a new camaraderie in John's teasing, but also trust that wasn't there before. John could have easily have closed-up and refused to let Marcos see him in a moment of weakness, like he seemed ready to do just hours ago, but he's decided to trust him instead. A warm feeling of belonging spreads over his concern, and he relaxes.
Lorna sticks her head into the half-open door while they're still quietly laughing. "Joking around, uh?" she says. "You must be feeling better."
"Not quite yet," John answers. "But I will."
The title of this fic comes from the flashback to the beginning of Marcos and Lorna's relationship in 1x03:
"Look, we're hiding fugitives, not hosting garden parties. What matters is we're together. We fight for each other. We take care of each other."