It always started with the static. Not in his ears but behind his eyes. Like someone twisting the base of his skull, tightening invisible wires from the inside out. That day it hit somewhere between 2 and 3 PM. He couldn’t really tell, because he’d had the blinds pulled shut for hours by then.

Voices in the hall, a dropped piece of metal. His vibranium arm flexed without him realizing it, fingers twitching rhythmically. Bucky was on the floor.

Not because he fell, because the bed was too soft. His back hit the wall and he closed his eyes, letting the pain crest and break over him. He’d ridden it out before. He could do it again.

Until your voice came through the door, soft but certain.

“Bucky?”

No answer. You tried the handle. When you opened it, the light from the hallway hit him and he immediately turned his face toward the floor.

“Oh,” you murmured, and your voice shifted. You knelt down slowly, not close enough to crowd him. “Head?”

His jaw clenched, but he gave the smallest nod.

“Okay.” You didn’t ask questions. Didn’t fuss or offer water or meds. He’d already tried that. You just sat down nearby.

You reached into your jacket pocket. Pulled out a small tin.

“…You eat mints?” you asked.

He blinked at you, confused. “What?”

“Mints. I get migraines too. Chewing something helps me not bite a hole through my tongue.”

He snorted, barely. But he took one. The menthol burned his sinuses a little. Minutes passed.

“I hate when my head turns against me,” you said softly. “Feels like someone else got in.”

And that? That made something behind Bucky’s ribs ache.

He didn’t answer but the worst of the pressure slowly lifted, Later, when the pain dulled to a throb, he let his head rest back against the wall and whispered, “Thanks.”