Demi Lovato Imagines

Migraine

Dem <3
I need to go upstairs
12:36

Sorry! Just saw this now! Are u ok? xxx

14:12

You'd pretty much bolted out the office, laptop under your wing, as soon as the corporate clock struck four and people began to close down their computers. Yours was already off, though. Had been for the last ten minutes of your shift as you kept making covert glances towards your boss' office to make sure he wasn't about to do rounds, making sure no one was slacking off. It's not like you do it every day. Not like Talks-Too-Loud-Grant three cubicles down who spends most of the workday swiping left and right on Tinder. You heard ('overheard' technically - but who didn't?) about his date last weekend and how he took her scuba-diving. Janet, the designated office photocopier, didn't say anything about how scuba-diving isn't exactly a girl's top pick for first dates but, let's face it, you wouldn't have exactly had the balls to tell him either. Not only does Grant not appreciate the art of indoor voices, but he also has a knack for cutting women down with crude remarks every time they have something to say about his behaviour. Nothing bad enough to get him fired, mind you. Especially not by someone like Mr Simmons. But enough for you to want to roll your eyes every time his barking laugh erupts over top of the plastic partitions as you input endless numbers into an excel spreadsheet. 

Collapsing down on one of the seats on the bus, you check your phone again. But the screen is still blank and so you're forced to look out the window for the next eight miles, counting the number of trees to distract you. It's not like she'll be mad, right? There was no way you were going to be able to finish your shift early, especially now when the stock market doesn't know whether it's coming or going. And she knows you don't keep your phone on your desk so there's nothing you can be blamed for here. Nevertheless, you're up and by the driver's cubicle long before he slows down at your stop and you don't wait to hear a reply when you thank him, leaping out onto the sidewalk. 

Closing the door softly behind you, you toe off your shoes and sling your jacket over the first chair you come across as you pad through to the living room. Empty, you conclude as your eyes scan over every surface, finding no one. You turn back to climb the stairs. 

You knock gently using the soft part of your hand, between the knuckles, before pushing the door open just a crack. It cuts a yellow streak down the otherwise dark room, blinds rolled all the way down. In the centre of the room, the bed. And in the centre of that, Demi. 

She's still, face down on the mattress. But you don't want to wake her if she managed to escape into sleep. 

"Dem," you whisper, barely even that. 

A groan bleeds out from the pillow but her head doesn't move. Carefully, you tip-toe across the room, perching beside her and placing your hand on her back. Her muscles are tight and hard as if she's exerting physical energy into fighting the pain. 

"How you feeling, babe?" you ask. 

Slowly, she rolls onto her side so that she's facing you. Her features all pinch in the middle, creased forehead and sallowed cheeks. 

"Shit," she grumbles, voice hoarse. And although she's not looking, you nod in understanding. Well, not understanding exactly but appreciation. You remember the boy at school who had to take multiple days off because of them but it wasn't until you started dating Demi that you really grasped how debilitating migraines were. It wasn't until you were being asked to cover every source of daylight in the house and google the cost of soundproofing a nineteenth-century building that the seriousness of them really clicked. "Going upstairs" has turned into a codeword and the two of you have been trying to figure out how best to manage the storm when it hits.