She flinches when he says that, tamps down the urge to offer to pay for it or point out that maybe, just this once, his mother has a point, and just caresses his face instead, because nothing else she can say will be of any more help. She's not capable of fixing his headaches the way an actual doctor would be.

"All right," she murmurs, pressing her mouth against his gently (closed, of course, since he went straight from vomiting to the bed), then pulls away to go find mints -- she's sure she has a tin in one of her purses. Returning from the closet, she pours him water from a carafe on the bedside table, then offers the glass and the tin over.