Two To Kathmandu

by drewbug

How many times has she asked him this question? If he closes his eyes, he could be back in his condo. Standing in front of his fireplace. His beautiful piano waiting in front of that glorious view.

1. Chapter 1

Two To Kathmandu

N. Clevenger (October 2017)

Notes: Don't be deceived by the length; there's no plot here, just lots and lots of whump. There is a teensy bit of AdultContent at the beginning, but don't get too thrown off by that either – or too excited (nothing very explicit, I just had some headcanon to get out) - because the rest of the fic is my usual h/c. Warnings for a bit of questionable language; Stephen's not very polite when he's in pain. Written for the hurt/comfort bingo prompt minor illness. For those of you who somehow aren't yet tired of my repetitive nonsense. You make me smile with my heart.

(Oh, Stephen. I do seem to just keep making your life worse…)

MCU canon. I make no money, because they don't belong to me.

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Stephen's dragged out of sleep by an obnoxious ringing, something hard and plastic bumping against his fingers. He pries open an eye to rumpled blue bedsheets and the Cloak hovering just beyond the edge of the mattress. It nudges his cell phone insistently against the back of his hand.

He's sprawled face down on his bed; he figures out this much as his uncooperative fingers fumble to pick up the phone. He hasn't quite determined what day it is by the time he gets the thing answered and up to his ear. He pushes out a grunt of greeting.

"Hi. It's me." Christine. As if it might be anyone else. She's the one who gave him the phone after he'd returned from Nepal, the only person who has the number. Stephen rolls over onto his back, blinking sluggishly at the ceiling. He swipes at the sticky drool pooled at a corner of his mouth.

"Where are you?" she asks in his silence.

"Home. Where are you?" The light in the room is diffuse, dim. But not the dark of night. Stephen lifts his head to check the window across the room; the gloomy sky doesn't give much hint as to the hour.

"I'm at your front door."

Did they have a date? His head feels clogged, still foggy with sleep. "Why?"

"Can I come in? It's raining out here."

"Hold on." He sits up against the pillows, muttering the incantation to deactivate the warding that protects the front door. Brings the phone back to his ear. "It's open."

Hanging up on her thank you, he slides his legs over the side of the mattress to put his feet on the floor. The Cloak shimmies out of the way. Stephen rubs at an eye with the heel of a trembling hand, looks for the clock. Five thirty. He can hear the rain now, pattering against the window.

Pushing himself up, he pads out of the bedroom and down the hall in his socks. The grey sweatpants he's wearing sag low on his hips, the drawstring untied. His hands have been worse than usual today. Simple enough to blame it on the weather, but the cause doesn't really change things; whatever the reason, it was difficult for him even to get dressed this morning.

When he reaches the wide staircase landing Christine's already inside, dripping a puddle onto the marble floor of the foyer. She smiles up at him through twisted strands of wet hair. "That's quite a look."

He doesn't understand what she means until he follows her gaze and glances down at himself; the Cloak drapes over the soft cotton of his t-shirt and sweats in odd juxtaposition. He shrugs. There's something forced about that smile as he gets closer, something sad and swollen about her eyes. "What happened?"

"Really, really crappy day," she sighs, her eyes falling to her sneakers as she tucks her hair behind an ear. "I was on my way home, and I just –" This smile's more feeble. "Are you busy?"

He shakes his head, puts an arm around her shoulders and leads her into the sitting room. Her shoes make squishy squeaking noises; she definitely looks like she's trying not to cry. Stephen blinks hard, sniffs. He wishes he could wake up.

Christine removes her coat to reveal a matching set of green scrubs; when he offers her his bent arm rather than reach for it, she gets the hint and hangs it over his elbow. He takes it into the kitchen, drops it over the back of a chair and grabs a hand towel for her hair. He doesn't bother to ask if she wants anything to drink. He doubts he can carry back a glass.

He returns to find her sitting on the flowered settee that he hates – uncomfortable and ugly, the curse of inherited furniture – and Stephen gives the atrocious thing a glare out of habit. He almost wishes that he hadn't brought the towel; enough water damage, and maybe Wong would finally let him replace it. Christine looks up from her fingernails, takes the towel from where it lies hooked over his wrist.

He flops down onto the settee beside her, his limbs feeling inexplicably heavy. The Cloak billows out over the back of the couch, barely escaping being caught in his abrupt descent, and he ducks his head in apology. They both stare at the towel she holds in her lap.

"So?" Stephen finally prompts, making a deliberate effort not to sound impatient.

"A kid. A little boy." The false nonchalance of her shrug does nothing to cancel out the way her voice cracks at the end. "MVA. Mom killed at the scene."

She doesn't fill in any more details, but he can imagine well enough. He remembers what it feels like to lose a patient. And the young ones are always the worst. He pulls her toward his chest and she crumples into him.

He can't tell if she's crying, but she's certainly shivering. It's easy to conjure a few sparks in the pile of wood already stacked in the hearth – though his metacarpals twinge even with this accompanying flick of his fingers – and soon there's a bright fire. The Cloak detaches itself from his shoulders, floating off to somewhere nearer the window. Stephen rests his head against the hard back of the settee and closes his eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire. Christine's breathing.

She's beginning to relax, warm and soft where her body presses against him. The moisture from her hair spreads a damp patch across the front of his shirt. "What did you do today?" she eventually murmurs into their silence.

"Not a lot. Caught up on some reading." It'd been a rare day of relaxation, and he'd done little more than lounge around. Between the rain and an unusual lethargy he couldn't seem to shake off, there hadn't been a lot of motivation to do anything else.

"Anything interesting?"

The arm looped around her shifts when he shrugs. "Depends on your point of view. Mostly ancient lore. I'd let you borrow the book, but first I'd have to teach you to read Sanskrit."

"Oh you read Sanskrit now, do you?"

"Obviously. Otherwise it would've been a pretty frustrating day."

She swats at him for this; on impulse, he kisses the top of her head. She smells faintly of strawberries, of the soap from the hospital showers.

When she twists to look up at him, fragile and disheveled, there's a wave of protectiveness that his penis mistakes for arousal. He shifts his hips as it twitches against the cotton of his sweats. Her blue eyes are startlingly clear, wide and still wet, and though there are questions there he doesn't read any trace of objection. Without pausing to think, he bends his neck awkwardly to brush his lips against hers.

The kiss is short but he's already half-hard, his dick fully invested now. They've been together a few times since he got back, but this new thing between them is still nebulous, sporadic and not yet discussed. And his libido's questionable at best these days. Something that makes sense from a clinical standpoint, what with the chronic opioid use, but knowing the cause doesn't help him any with the problem.

Not what he wants to be thinking about right now. Stephen slides his lips to her temple, buries his face in her dripping hair.

"What are you doing?" Christine hums, not pulling away.

"You can't tell?" he mumbles, nuzzling the skin behind her ear. "Maybe m'doing it wrong."

"No, you're, ah –" His teeth graze her earlobe, and she breaks off with a breathy gasp that shoots straight to his groin.

"Do you want me to stop?" he teases, his voice low and rumbling.

As an answer she shifts around in his arms, pulling his head down to bring their mouths back together. Not breaking the contact, he tips her the other way, pressing her into the cushions at the end of the short sofa. The thing's too small for both of them; he's more off of it than not, bracing himself above her with a knee on the cushions and a hand on the frame. His other hand slips under her scrubs, quivering over her smooth stomach, and as he licks at her collarbone he imagines the disapproving look if Wong were to walk in on them right now. Another thing he doesn't want to be thinking about.

Christine makes enticing noises, wiggling beneath him, and he slides his fingers into her bra rather than try to unhook it. She moans as his thumb brushes over her nipple, as his tongue finds the pulse at her neck. Stephen hears himself make a few interesting noises of his own. The fire pops and snaps.

Her fingers are tickling at his waistband when his supporting hand gives a brutal spasm; Stephen yelps, barely having the presence of mind to tumble off the settee and onto the floor rather than drop all of his weight down on top of her. He hardly feels the impact, curling helplessly around the screaming appendage. All he can hear now is the tinnitic ringing in his ears, the sound of his lungs sucking in air. His hand feels like it's trying to implode, the entire thing contracting ruthlessly. Unendingly.

Days later it finally begins to ease off, and after a few shuddering breaths he manages to sit up against the arm of the settee. Without a comment, Christine slips to the floor to sit beside him. She rests her temple against his shoulder as he futilely massages one hand with the other, his head bowed. He doesn't really have anything to say either, nothing that will make any kind of a difference.

The Cloak appears on his other side, fluttering anxiously. Stephen sighs, lets his hands fall to the floor; the massage is doing nothing to erase the ominous pings that continue to run through the tendons, and now the other one's starting to cramp. Christine's breath hitches like she's about to say something. He's relatively certain that he doesn't want to hear it.

He almost wishes that Wong had interrupted them after all.

Stephen leans his head back against the short sofa behind him, closes his eyes. "Come with me," he hears himself rasp, as hazy idea begins to take shape.

He feels her head come off his shoulder as she looks at him, but he doesn't open his eyes. "Come with you where?"

"Nepal." Wong had been nagging him for a while – it's amazing how expressive the man can be using so few words – to come to Kamar-Taj and put in an appearance for the sake of the initiates. With no current Sorcerer Supreme things were in a state of flux, the novices having been mostly left to their own resources in regards to their training.

"Nepal. Are you serious?"

"I've got business there, and you need a break. Being the intelligent, busy people that we are, we'll combine the two."

"I can't just go to Nepal," she protests.

"Sure you can. Call in sick, take some of that vacation time you never use." He cracks open his eyes and rolls his head to peer at her incredulous expression. There's a soft flush to her cheeks, her neck where it disappears under her scrubs.

"I… When?"

"An hour?" He shrugs, his lips quirking into a tiny smirk at the shock on her face. "Two? I don't know how long you'll need to get your stuff."

"Just like that. 'Hey, let's go to Nepal for dinner.'"

"Well I was thinking we'd probably stay a couple of days…"

She gives him a look that's not hard to interpret. You know what I mean, Stephen. He can practically hear her say it.

"Why not?" he adds. It's far from an eloquent argument, but all the rushing endorphins have left him somnolent, slow. He watches her as he waits for her answer, concentrating mostly on flattening the wince around his eyes as his hand jitters through another threat of further pain. He's feeling too self-absorbed right now to try and guess at the reasons for her hesitation. Almost tells her to forget the suggestion.

"Okay," she says before he can. "Okay, sure. Let's go to Nepal."

"Okay," Stephen agrees, trying to recall where he'd left his sling ring. "Go home and throw some things together." He glances around at what he can see of the room from down here; it's probably in his bedroom. "Nothing fancy. Preferably layers." He's going to have to get up.

Beside him, the Cloak unfurls a corner and a familiar lump of metal falls into his lap. He didn't even notice it leave the room. "Thanks," he murmurs, slipping the sling ring onto his scarred fingers. He opens a portal to Christine's apartment from the floor.

She just blinks at him for a moment, and he wonders again if this is a good plan. They've only spent handfuls of hours together since entering this confusing new phase of what might be loosely termed a relationship. Even before, they'd been a long way away from anything resembling even temporary cohabitation.

But it's likely too late now. Christine gets to her feet, and he can see her brain working in the set of her eyebrows, the distance in her eyes. "Call me when you're ready," he tells her, not moving from his seat on the floor. She smiles at him, steps through the portal. He remembers her coat in the kitchen as the doorway closes behind her.

Stephen hangs his head, absently flexing his cranky fingers as best as he can. A fresh memory of the satiny feel of Christine's skin perks his dick up again with renewed interest, and as he hooks an arm over the sofa frame and hauls himself up off the floor he vaguely toys with the idea of finishing what was started in the shower. It's probably not worth the effort; masturbation brings little pleasure these days, repetitive motion and a firm grip not on his list of strengths anymore. He knows he's got to be a lot harder than this if there's any chance of reaching orgasm before hitting the limits of his hand's endurance.

The erection sinks in a wash of self-loathing, ending the debate. Stephen shuffles to the shower anyway, hoping to clear his fuzzy brain.

It doesn't work, and after shoving a couple of things into his backpack and getting dressed in his usual blue, he sits on the edge of his bed and stares dumbly at his boots while he waits for the phone to ring. He'd thought the hot water was doing a little something to loosen up his hands at least, but he'd been proven wrong when he'd only been able to get the backpack zipped a third of the way up. He's trying to ignore the frenzied fidgeting of those hands in his lap, the faint taste of metal still on the tip of his tongue from having to complete the task using his teeth.

He curses himself for coming up with this poorly-formed plan. He hasn't really been back to Kamar-Taj since he moved into the Sanctum, and he's already exhausted with the thought of having to sort through everything that time meant while also dealing with Christine. Stephen sneezes, hopes he isn't coming down with something to top it all off. The Cloak tightens briefly around his arms like a hug.

His eyelids are drooping when the phone finally jangles on the mattress beside him, and the jolt that runs through him rattles his feet on the floor. His fingers complain when he asks them to function long enough to pick the thing up, so instead he simply opens a portal to her apartment. Christine steps into view of the aperture, still holding her phone to her ear; Stephen scoops his bag up with his wrist and stands, immediately joining her in her living room. It clearly takes her second before she realizes she can hang up the phone.

"You rang?" He tries for his most charming smile, grateful to see that she holds only a duffle bag. He'd been a little worried she'd want to bring a full set of luggage.

"I guess I'm ready." She looks about the room for anything that might be missing.

"If you forgot anything important, we can just come back and get it," he promises.

"Oh. Right." She's changed into jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt, a thick zip-up hoodie and hiking boots. Her hair's dry, pulled back from her face. "Sorry. It's been a while since I traveled anyway, and this…"

"Is strange?" he supplies with a flash of a grin.

"Yes." She returns the smile, looking far more relaxed now. "This is unquestionably Strange."

He opens a new portal into Kamar-Taj, and the nostalgic sight of the open wood room melts away some of the tension he didn't know he was carrying across his shoulders. He almost takes Christine's hand, doesn't when the erratic throbbing in his own makes him reluctant for any kind of contact. He motions for her to step through ahead of him. Follows her to Kathmandu.

The place is dark and still, and a glance toward the lattice windows reminds him that he'd forgotten to consider the time difference. Evening in New York, but the pinks and yellows of sunrise are just beginning to blush the sky over the mountains. Stephen's wondering if anyone's awake yet when there's the sound of running feet and two initiates burst into the room wielding staves. Everybody freezes, staring each other down.

Stephen holds up his hands, one of his arms stretched protectively in front of Christine. "Hey, it's okay. We're friends." His fingers twitch; he's on the verge of calling up a weapon of his own until he can be sure they're going to listen to reason. "We're just –"

"Master Strange?" one of them says, lowering his staff. The other looks uncertain, his eyes darting between Stephen and his friend.

"Doctor," he corrects in a grumble, dropping his hands into the folds of the Cloak.

Wong appears in the doorway, looking as if he's only just woken up. His eyes widen – slightly – then narrow – slightly – when he sees them. "Like the new alarm system," Stephen tells him over their heads.

Wong simply stands there, barefoot and frowning. Stephen's suddenly swamped by the old smells of the place, the familiar unique feel of the air. Memories shiver down the length of his spine.

"This is my friend Christine," he says, unperturbed by the other man's silence. "She's never been to Nepal. I thought we could stay for a few days, if you have somewhere to put us."

Wong doesn't exactly look thrilled to have a tourist on the premises. But then, Stephen can count the times he's seen the man looking even remotely happy on one gnarled hand.

"I know there's probably not a lot of extra space," he continues, "so we're happy to share." More stony silence. "Don't worry, Dad. I promise we'll behave."

"Your old room is still open," Wong eventually says, turning around to exit the way he came. "Next time, use the door."

The robed novices scramble to bow and follow him out, and Stephen turns to Christine. She looks a little taken aback by the greeting they've received. "Welcome to Kamar-Taj. That was Wong. Super friendly guy." He gestures toward the open doorway. "They'll be having breakfast soon. We can get rid of our things and eat something, and then I'll show you around."

Christine shakes her head. "Oh no. After you, Master Strange. You know the way."

He loops an elbow through hers and they head for the door. "I kind of like it when you say it," he bends to murmur into her ear. "Maybe you need to remember that one."

Breakfast is vegetable soup and roti, a savory enough substitute for what would chronologically be their dinner. As always there's no conversation, most at the table keeping their gaze contemplatively on the meal before them. He pretends not to be aware of the occasional curious looks sent his way; he's unsure how many of them are new since he was here. Everybody kept mainly to themselves in this place. Unless they'd had some need to interact, he'd never given much thought to most of them.

Stephen barely eats; there's too much attention on him, and with the way his hands are acting up the very obvious tremors make any attempt both frustratingly difficult and spectacularly embarrassing. The soup splashes in the bowl when he lifts it to his lips, a loud sound in all this stillness. And he'll starve to death before asking Christine to tear up his flatbread in front of a table full of people. He probably wouldn't have to actually ask, just acknowledge one of those sidelong glances that he's ignoring along with everybody else's. Instead he sits with his hands hidden by the Cloak on his knees. It rubs subtle circles into the muscles of his upturned palms in a way that sometimes helps.

He isn't hungry anyway. He can grab something from the kitchen later.

The students vacate the room after the table has been cleared, but Wong remains seated. Christine's virtually vibrating next to him; desperate, Stephen's certain, to get him alone to find out what's wrong with him now. He gives her a smile that's supposed to be reassuring, overcompensates with the cheer in his tone. "So, Wong, what's new here?" he asks brightly.

Wong looks him over, turns to Christine. "Welcome to Kamar-Taj," he finally greets her, the soft hospitality practically exuberant considering its source. "Please feel free to stay with us for as long as you'd like."

"It's very peaceful here. Thank you for allowing me to share in it."

Wong inclines his head, returns his focus to Stephen. "You, I have work for."

"Oh good. I was afraid I'd be sitting around with nothing to do like at home."

Wong remains perpetually untouched by his sarcasm; it's nice to know there are a few things that never change. "After you rest. You'll be more useful when you can sit up straight."

Stephen blinks, realizes that there's a definite slump to his shoulders. He corrects it with an effort he keeps out of his voice. "This is what I don't get enough of anymore: Warm Fuzzy Wong."

Wong scowls his Wong scowl for a long moment. "Welcome back, Stephen," he finally says, rising from the table and leaving the room.

Stephen grins, hearing the sincerity. Christine's looking skeptical of their entire welcome. "He loves me," Stephen assures her.

His smile disappears when she presses the back of her hand to the side of his face. "He's right, though. You don't look well."

"Such a precise diagnosis, Doctor," he snaps, jerking his head away from her. "How ingenious of you to manage it without any diagnostic equipment."

"Stephen…" she sighs.

"I'm tired. It's what, almost eight in New York?" He doesn't feel the need to mention that she'd woken him up from a nap. He unfolds himself from his position on the floor, getting up from the low table using only the muscles in his legs. The Cloak might help a little. "Come on, let's go for a walk." He doesn't offer her either of the hands that hang aching at his sides.

It's early in Kathmandu, but the streets outside the sanctuary are already beginning to bustle. He points out a few remembered spots as they walk, the happiness in her eyes a good distraction from the complaints of his hands. He's confidant of his ability to protect them from any lurking danger, and they wander for over an hour down streets and back alleys. Christine laughs more than she has around him since the accident.

But he can't climb out of the cloudy fatigue, the young sun playing havoc with his internal clock. Christine's starting to look a bit tired herself when they return to Kamar-Taj. They're granted entry by a novice he's positive that he's never seen before, those eyebrows too distinctive; Stephen gives the kid a nod and leads them down a hallway to their room. He can hear the sounds of sparring coming from the training grounds.

Either because there wasn't another pallet available or simply to punish him for his life choices, Stephen's been given a woven mat to sleep on. It waits on the floor next to the bed, the two of them together taking up a good chunk of the tiny room. He can already tell that it's going to be way too short.

He sinks down onto it, not bothering to change out of his tunic and trousers. The Cloak detaches itself as he lays down; as expected, his long legs hang off the mat to stretch over the wood floor. Stephen rolls onto his back and bends his knees, throwing an arm up over his eyes to block the light coming in through the window.

"You should take the bed," Christine says from the other corner. He hears a zipper, scratchy nylon as she digs through her bag.

He realizes she's going to have to step over him to get onto the pallet. Decides that she's a smart woman who can figure it out. "You're just jealous," he mumbles from behind his arm. "You can tell it's much more comfortable down here than on that thing."

Going by memory it's a toss up. His legs didn't fit on the bed either, and it had been just as unyielding. Maybe a little less cold.

"Fine, do what you want. You always d—" She breaks off abruptly, continues confused. "Why is my phone asking if I want to connect to wifi?"

"Maybe it thinks you want to check your email."

"But why is there…?"

Stephen shrugs from his supine position. His fingers jump where they dangle by the side of his face. "Dunno. But the password's shamballa, if they haven't changed it."

There's a pause as she types it in. "They have not," she says, still stupefied.

"There you go. Something to do if you get tired of meditation."

"Well I did bring a book. And the view's nice too."

"Try looking out the window. Even better," Stephen quips, earning himself a snort of amusement. He listens to her shifting around, to a persistent solitary bird that sounds right outside. He wonders if it's sitting on the sill; he doesn't recall there being a tree out there.

The bird's the last thing that he remembers before Dormammu's huge face fills the sky. Before his skin is melting, tearing. His eyes burning, bleeding. Sometimes it's just one memory, a single horror replayed over and over; this dream brings back all the highlights, a Dark Dimension Greatest Hits. Stephen dies. And then dies again.

Again. Again.

He wakes with a noise that echoes like a shout in his ears, his shoulders lurching up off the mat. Cognizant of his where if not his when, his spinning mind can't immediately reconcile the familiar walls of Kamar-Taj with the Cloak that wraps around him as he sits up and pulls his knees to his chest. He's shaking, breathing hard. In what should be an empty room someone touches his shoulder, and he scrambles across the floor away from the contact before he realizes that he's moving. There isn't far to go. His hands don't appreciate their part in the escape; the left one barks, his elbow buckles. Stephen crashes back into the wall that turns out to be right behind him, ends up an ungainly pile of limbs.

Dazed, he blinks at Christine from the floor.

She looks bewildered, and more than a little concerned. "Stephen?"

"I'm fine," he growls. Still mildly tachypneic, tachycardic; still trying to forget the sensation of having his skin flayed off in haphazard strips. But fine. To prove it he uses the wall to sit up. He slumps against it, his hands fluttering against his abdomen as he holds them protectively close. "Stop looking at me like that."

Christine gets up and crosses the few feet between them to kneel at his side. Her fingers find his carotid artery, brush back the strands of hair that have fallen onto his forehead. He pulls away from her hand. "What was that?" she asks.

"What'd it look like?" It's a snarl forcibly muffled into whisper, a hushed version of an ugly tone he knows she's well familiar with. There were times after the surgeries – when the pain and helplessness were at their worst – when he'd lash out just to see how much she'd take before walking out his door.

She doesn't so much as flinch. "It looked like one hell of a nightmare."

"Keep your voice down," he snaps. Anybody in the sleeping quarters would've heard that clatter; he doesn't want them to hear this conversation, too. The slant of the light from the window speaks of afternoon, but he isn't sure exactly what hour it is. He can only hope it's not time for meditation. Or that he hadn't actually yelled loudly enough for them to hear out in the courtyard.

"It might help to talk about it," she murmurs.

Absolutely not. "Maybe you should've gone into psychology."

Christine sighs, sits back on her heels. "Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea."

"Nepal? Or us?"

"Jesus, Stephen…" she exhales.

He rests the side of his face against the cool wooden wall, wishing he could just go back to sleep. There's no point; he has no doubt the lingering dream is waiting. "Forget it," he says, the vague flip of his hand meant somehow to erase the hurt expression he can still see behind his closed eyelids. "I'm just…"

The sentence trails off when he realizes that he has no clue where it's supposed to be going. But apparently it's enough for Christine. "Yeah," she says. It sounds sympathetic, and he wonders what she thinks she heard. An apology?

Had he intended to apologize? His head feels congested, foggy.

"Are you all right?"

The hand on his shoulder tells him he's forgiven, at least for now. But clearly he still needs a distraction. "I'm hungry," he lies, opening his eyes. "Let's go raid the kitchen." Ignoring the skepticism he sees on her face, he shoves himself to his feet.

They skirt the edge of the courtyard on their way to the main building; it's filled with sparring partners, the sounds of exertion and wood cracking against wood, and there's a brief flash of relief with the thought that maybe his dramatic awakening had gone unnoticed. Stephen sees Master Hamir, nods to him when they make eye contact. The old man returns the gesture, turns back to the training initiates.

Christine stops, interested. Stephen shifts his weight back and forth between his feet behind her, unable to stand still. It's not that he's in a hurry; he's beginning to recognize the flaw in his plan, that when they get to the kitchen he's going to expected to actually eat something. His shoulder aches dully, a memory of pain. His eyes keep sliding that way, reassuring himself that the thing remains attached.

He'd watched Dormammu rip both of his arms off. As soon as he has this thought, a phantom ache starts up in the other shoulder as well. Stephen rolls his eyes. "Did you do this?" Christine asks, without looking back. "When you were here?"

"Yes." His gaze flicks over her head toward the training, back down the path.

"So, what? You're like a kung fu expert or something now?" She grins at him over her shoulder.

"Something like that."

"Ooh, is that why they call you Master?"

She's way too entertained by that. He gets the feeling he's going to have to hear it a lot. "No. I thought you said you were hungry."

"You said you were hungry," She turns around to face him. "What, is it a secret?"

"No, the full title is Master of the Mystic Arts." Stephen shrugs, starts walking; Christine misses only a beat before matching his pace. "Only words. I'm a doctor."

"Who's also a master of kung fu, the mystic arts, Sanskrit…"

"Oh I've got all kinds of hidden talents."

"I've never doubted it."

They reach the empty kitchen, and he decides that the easiest place to start is with tea. Christine leans against the counter beside him. "So what else did you do while you were here?"

"A lot of studying. Reading. I'll show you the library later; that'll be where Wong's at." His voice sounds tired, rolling over gravel. He clears his throat.

"How long did you stay?"

"Have we really never talked about this?" A warning twinge in his fingers arcs the question more sharply than he'd intended. He turns away from her, hangs the tea kettle over the fire. "Uh, most of the time I was gone. It took a while to find the place."

He watches the fire dance, trying to preemptively stretch the threatened cramping from his fingers. The thin raised scars stand out starkly, nearly purple in the cold against his pale skin. He didn't bring his gloves, had forgotten how badly he needs them here in the mountain chill.

"Did you enjoy it?" Christine asks from behind him.

Stephen laughs. Desperation, loneliness, frustration. "I… found something. Not what I was looking for, but..." He pulls a breath in through his nose as his hand spasms; rubbing furiously at his fingers, he holds his hands a little closer to the fire with the hope that the heat might loosen up the tendons.

"Stephen?"

"Cups," he grunts, with a truncated backward wave in what's probably the correct general direction. He doesn't want to turn around until he can find a way to soften the grimace he can feel creasing his face. "Cabinet."

She hesitates, but after a few seconds he hears her moving, opening the carved doors. He grinds his teeth together as his second and third fingers lock up, viciously cramping. Trying to focus instead on what she's doing – trying to remember to breathe – he imagines he hears the clinking of china. The flames blur before his eyes.

"Are you –?" She stops, clinically reroutes the question. "Did you bring any meds?"

He flinches, works to straighten his shoulders from their hunched curl. "No," he croaks. Though he might have to go get them. And his gloves.

"Can I do anything?"

How many times has she asked him this question? If he closes his eyes, he could be back in his condo. Standing in front of his fireplace. His beautiful piano waiting in front of that glorious view. "It's fine. Don't worry about it." He pretends he can feel some of the tension beginning to ease.

The kettle whistles, and he tries to hide his faintly keening exhale in its sound. He hears Christine take a step closer behind him, grabs another fortifying breath before retrieving the water with his more functional left hand and turning around. His right hand hangs at his side, a shivery throbbing still running along the lines of its scars. "There should be more of that flatbread," he tells her, crossing to the little table in the corner. He manages to keep his voice fairly level.

She finds it, brings it and the cups over to join him. They each take one of the two simple wooden chairs. He lets her pour the hot water without argument, his hands in his lap.

An uncomfortable silence settles with the steeping tea, and he doesn't have to look up from the table to know that her eyes are on him. Assessing. The shift from her relaxed demeanor is obvious, and he remembers suddenly that for her this was supposed to be a vacation. He'd wanted to give her a break.

So he makes himself raise his head, forces an enthusiasm he doesn't feel in an attempt to entertain – distract – her with various tales of Kamar-Taj. He tries to keep his tone, his thoughts light as he speaks of the Ancient One, Mordo. She's smiling again when he tells her about the portals in the library, how Wong had ratted him out. Submerged in the memories, he watches her body language calm with every shared tiny moment.

He supposes he's never told her simply because she's never asked. Because, in the midst of everything else, those day to day moments hadn't seemed as important as they do now.

But his life here had also been very repetitive, and he doesn't have an unlimited supply of stories. When the only ones left all seem to involve things he doesn't want her to know – recovering from the street beating, the sheer terror of being abandoned on Everest, Dormammu – the silence returns. It's less critical, though. And Christine's still smiling.

She turns to look out of the glassless window, and he glances toward the tea that's surely by now gone cold. Wishes he had some coffee to help shake this irritating lethargy. His body feels bruised all over, like he's still experiencing the ghostly echoes of Dormammu's nightmare tortures. Though he's grown accustomed to the dreams on some level, what with them coming so regularly, they still too frequently leave him rattled. But he doesn't remember the physical effects ever lasting this long before.

Annoying. But less important than getting them moving before she notices that he never touched his tea. He's pretty sure it'll ruin her good mood.

"I should go find Wong, see what he wants," Stephen says, grabbing the cup as he stands. The liquid splashes onto his unsteady hand, confirming its temperature.

He carries it to the counter. "My watch says three-fifteen. Is that a.m.?" she asks from behind him. "What time is it?"

It takes a few extra seconds for him to work out the answer. He'd certainly done the calculation often enough when he was here before, but his brain feels slow. "Two. No, one. Three a.m. in New York."

A sudden tickle in his nose immediately precedes an unexpected sneeze, a totally insufficient warning. It rocks him violently, cold tea slopping over his hand and onto the toe of his boot. The Cloak flutters over his arm; when his eyes focus, he can clearly see small droplets of spittle speckled across the red fabric. Stephen makes a face, sets the cup down to wipe at it with his sleeve.

"Bless you," Christine says over his sniffling. "Look, maybe we should just go home."

His pause is a stutter, a hiccup; he goes back to scrubbing at the cloth with his sleeve. Even if he can't see any moisture remaining, the Cloak back to looking as it always does. "Why?"

"Well for one, I'm afraid you might be coming down with something."

Deciding that it's done submitting to his unnecessary ministrations, the Cloak ripples, pulls away from his fingers. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't get sick." He returns to the table, continues to clean up mostly one-handed. "If you want to leave, say so. Quit trying to use me as an excuse."

"You know that's not what's going on." His eyes dart up from the uneaten roti; she's glaring at him, not backing down. He's faced that look on more than one dark night. Stephen picks up the plate, turns away.

"It's beautiful here," she says, softening. "I'm happy to stay if you want to."

"It's just allergies. Altitude," he lies. "Like this last time at first too." Except it hadn't been. He'd been surprised, actually, when it had finally occurred to him how quickly he'd acclimated.

"Okay," she says, standing up from the table.

He thinks she sounds unconvinced. Can't help but note that she manages both the tea pot and her cup in one trip.

When they pass the courtyard again, the day's exercises have progressed from staves to magical energy. Christine appears absolutely entranced by the glowing weapons, the motions of the sparring men. "Wow," she breathes after a long moment. "Can you do that?"

"Of course," he replies with a shrug. As if it had been nothing to get to this point. "What? My life is weird now," he says, in response to the look she throws him.

She turns back to the training; he drops his eyes, swallowing the remembered aggravation and shame of standing out here every day trying and failing. He should really polish up his boots. They're not exactly dirty, but there's a markedly cleaner spot on the toe of one where the tea had splashed him. He swipes at his nose with a sleeve while Christine's not looking.

"Could I…?" she starts. Stephen raises his head; she's glancing between him and the men. "I know you wanted to find your friend, but can I stay here for a while? Watch this? Is that allowed?"

Hamir's studying them from across the courtyard. "I don't see why not." As a woman he isn't sure she'd ordinarily be allowed free reign of the place, but with the Ancient One having been female he can't see anyone really raising any objections. Aloud, at least. "When you miss me, ask somebody how to find the library. That's probably where I'll be."

"When I miss you."

"You know you will. And then you can rescue me from whatever Wong has planned."

"Have fun," she says, turning back to the sparring as he walks away.

Wong's in the library, as expected. He looks up from what might just be the largest book Stephen's ever seen. Open, it covers almost the entire surface of the desk. Stephen wonders what it weighs.

"You don't look much better," Wong says bluntly.

"Flattery's not going to get you anywhere," he deadpans, falling into the chair on the other side of the desk. "I'm with someone."

Wong's eyebrows shift fractionally, but he isn't baited to respond. Stephen looks back with as much expectant innocence as he can feign, trying not to sniffle. He really needs to blow his nose.

But Wong merely goes back to his oversized book, apparently prepared to ignore Stephen until he's finished whatever he'd been doing. The doctor slouches in his chair, his eyes wandering idly about the room. He thinks he's read most of what's in here, debates heading into the other wing to find something to occupy his attention. In the end he just sits where he is, staring vacantly at an out of focus corner of Wong's desk.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when the other man replaces the pen in the inkwell, stands. Stephen blinks, sits up; Wong just gives him a look, inscrutable as always. He has no idea if he's meant to follow. "What? Are we –?" Wong turns and walks out of the room. "All right then," Stephen mutters, pushing himself out of the chair to trail after him.

His steps are shuffling as he follows, his feet heavy. Wong doesn't glance back as they leave the library, not even when the doctor's toe scuffs the wood and he stumbles. Stephen figures he doesn't need to; he's certainly making enough noise for Wong to easily track him. The sinuses on the left side of his face are thickly congested. Even his breathing feels too loud.

Two other Masters wait for them under the suspended globe in the large planning room, apparently meeting on some secret schedule that Stephen hasn't been given. Only one of whom he thinks he's met; he doesn't recall the guy's name. He almost groans when he realizes what they're here to do. Sight seeing takes an enormous amount of energy, and his eyes already feel barely open.

It's his own private name for it; if this psychic monitoring has a real title, he doesn't remember having been told. He's only participated a couple of times, and those under the guidance of the Ancient One. As far as he knows she was present at every session, better able to handle the strain than the Masters who rotated through the duty. With countless potential dangers and usually a few active ones, this distant observation is their first step in the protection of the planet.

Seeking out the various sites around the globe requires incredible focus, and he imagines now that this was another reason for the Ancient One's constant presence. Without her direction their energies move in fits and starts, swooping together toward a destination only to be yanked off course at the last moment by some fleeting distraction. Stephen doesn't think the fault's entirely his, but he doubts he's really helping.

Overall it's a frustrating session – a sentiment echoed in the eyes of the other men, despite their placid faces – and when they finally break up Stephen suspects that they haven't accomplished nearly as much as they were meant to. Exhausted, he doesn't really care. There's a bright singing pain centered directly between his eyebrows. The sinus pressure's making all of his teeth ache.

He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until he opens them, his hands with their spiderweb ribbing the first thing to sharpen in his bleary view. They rest alone on the orb; when he raises his head he finds the other two men have gone. Wong stands a few feet away, watching him. Stephen isn't sure if he's inventing the undercurrents beneath that stony expression.

Probably not. Wong is mostly undercurrent.

There's an equally indecipherable huff of breath from the man when their eyes meet, then Wong turns without a word and leaves the room. Stephen sighs through his one working nostril; that noise could've been anything from concern to reprimand, and he's too tired to translate. The blocked exhale reroutes into his throat, tickling up a dry shivery cough. He works his jaw around, poking at his ear a few times in a futile effort to shift some of the occlusive congestion.

He stands there for a minute, ten; he can't say how long it's been when he sways and a staggered balancing step breaks the spell. He sags into the Cloak's support as the room goes cloudy, soft. But he doesn't actually lose consciousness, likely due at least in part to the Cloak's gentle but insistent tapping on the side of his jaw. It's annoying, and he swats at it clumsily as he struggles to straighten his legs. "M'okay," he mumbles aloud, the words gooey. He wonders belatedly which one of them he's trying to convince.

When the world's a bit more stable, he wanders back to the library. Wong looks up briefly, returns to his writing. Normally Stephen would be happy to fill the silence, would enjoy trying to provoke some response. Instead he grabs a book off a shelf at random, collapses into a chair in the other room. Drifting in the quiet, staring at nothing, he finally remembers Christine. Thinks about going to search for her. He has no idea how long they've been apart.

Maybe in a minute. She knows where to find him.

He glances at the book's title without reading it, absently flips it open to an arbitrary page. Propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his palm, he tries vaguely to separate the squiggles into individual letters. It takes a full minute before it registers that the words are in Latin.

Stephen sniffs, attempts to clear his throat. Starts again at the top of the page. He doesn't know why he's bothering; odds are good that he's already read this, and he's certainly not retaining anything anyway. Still, it seems a better option than moving. He squints at the yellowed paper, rubbing at an itchy eye.

Motion just inches away snaps him back to awareness. "M'wake, what're we doing?" he slurs automatically, blinking uncomprehendingly at the confusing slant to the giant tea cup, the retreating hand. A second or two later he understands that he's got his head down on the table, pillowed on his folded arms. Stephen sits up, drags a hand over his face. His nose is completely clogged, the inside of his mouth cracklingly dry like he's been sleeping with it hanging open.

Surreptitiously he checks to see if he's been drooling. There's a couple of wet spots on the table; glad that he'd missed the ancient pages, he wipes it away with his sleeve before Wong notices.

He plants both elbows on the table and runs his hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp. His fingers twitch and tingle, and he can tell by their stiffness that he'd been holding them clenched while he slept, locked into their clawed approximations of fists. He winces as he tries to unbend them, pulls them out of his hair. They tremble on the smooth wood in a pool of light.

Stephen looks instead toward the steaming tea he can't smell, to Wong waiting mutely with arms folded across his chest. There's a distant bit of his fuzzy mind that thinks he's probably supposed to be saying something, doing something. Possibly coming up with some justification for his behavior, maybe his entire continued existence as a Master of the Mystic Arts. But his brain's stuttering. Caught up in a loop of one thought.

"You brought me tea," he says stupidly.

"You're thirsty," Wong tells him, as if that's an actual explanation. As if it paints this aberration commonplace.

He is, though. Obscenely thirsty. He slides the cup and saucer closer, holds his face for a moment over the wafting steam. The china's pleasantly warm against his fingers, the damp rising heat soothing his tender nasal passages. He'd stay like this forever if it weren't for the persistent tickle in the back of his throat. Lifting the handleless cup in both palms, he scowls more in irritation than pain when the hot liquid sloshes over the sides to soak into his skin. But it's worth it. He can't taste it, but the first sip is pure bliss as it washes over his tongue and down his esophagus.

"Your dreams still trouble you," Wong says out of nowhere.

Stephen chokes on the tea, coughs. The last thing he needs is aspiration pneumonia on top of what's probably a viral infection. "Not really." The cup clatters against the saucer as he sets it down. "Sometimes."

When he'd returned from the Dark Dimension, he'd done his best to appear unaffected. Unscathed. Easier to do with his audience shrunk to one; easier still with him no longer living on the premises. But running from sleep and its nightmares, he'd stopped by one day to look for a book. Made the mistake of sitting down, relaxing for a moment in the quiet of the library. Wong woke him up when he started shouting. Stephen's pretty sure he remembers taking a disoriented swing at him.

That's right about when he'd stopped coming to Kamar-Taj.

"You talk in your sleep," the other man says.

He's frozen, doused with cold dread. All the time? Surely not. "You misunderstood. Whatever you think you heard."

They stare at each other in silence until Stephen's forced to duck his head to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. It blasts through his sinuses, and some of the pressure in his left ear finally gives. Pushing the cup out of the way, he drops his head back down onto his arms with a groan and closes his eyes.

Had to have been those damn little kids. He'd just happened to be in the right place at the right time yesterday – the day before? – to prevent a wayward truck from plowing into their bus, and afterward they'd been all over him, clamoring for attention. Most of them had been sticky. It wasn't a huge leap to assume some of them had been germ-ridden as well.

"Why did you come here, Stephen?"

"You asked me to come." He doesn't open his eyes. Barely moves his lips.

"I ask you to do many things. You seem to have no trouble ignoring me."

"Aww, do we need to talk? Sound s'like we need to talk." He doesn't have to see Wong to know that there's glowering happening. He buries a cough in his sleeve, concedes with a slow exhausted sincerity. "Christine. She needed to get away. Know s'not a vacation spot, but… you know. This place. I, uh, I found a kind of peace here, and I just thought…"

Nothing. He pries open his eyes to find Wong studying him speculatively. Maybe. Even from just a couple of feet away, his face is a little out of focus. Stephen clears his throat, embarrassed.

"You're absolutely right," he sighs, pushing the chair back from the table. "I should go find her." The congestion in his head shifts unpleasantly when he stands, and a muffled ringing starts up in one ear. "Listen, Wong, when you see Christine…" He glances around the room. Makes a slashing gesture with his hand. "Bros before –"

Wong doesn't move. Doesn't blink. He might as well be talking at a statue.

"Nevermind. Thanks for the tea."

Wong says nothing, as usual. Watches him leave.

The breeze brushing his face as he steps out of the library feels wonderful, but with his stuffy nose he can only imagine the remembered smells that it carries. If it's cold out here, he doesn't notice. The courtyard has mostly emptied out when he reaches it. He doesn't see Christine anywhere.

Hamir's gone too, Chan the only Master in sight. Squinting against the brightness of the flawlessly blue sky, Stephen walks over to him. "Chan. Hey. Have you seen my friend?"

Mute, Chan's answer is a gesture: one hand coming up through the other – a motion repeated several times – and the miming of a flat surface. Stephen's never studied any sign languages, but he's never had trouble communicating with Chan in the past. Right now, though, the flurry of movement is a bit too much for his sluggish brain to keep up with. He doesn't even have a guess. "I don't know that one. Give it to me again."

Chan repeats the gesture more slowly. Again, when Stephen just blinks at him. In the end it's less about figuring it out than an elimination of other possibilities. "Maybe… growing? Garden?" he stabs. "She's in the garden?"

Chan beams at him, nods his head. Stephen returns the smile, feeling a little pleased with himself. And now he's at least got a starting point. The compound isn't that big, but he's not really in the mood to go poking in every corner. "Great. Thanks," he says.

Someone calls his name and Stephen turns; instinct lifts his arm in time to grab the staff sailing toward his head. He catches it awkwardly but doesn't drop it, fingertips stinging with the fumbled contact. "What the hell?" The kid approaching is short and wiry, looks like a teenager. Though Stephen might not be the best judge, considering how miserably old he feels at the moment. "Do I know you?"

"I know you." Despite the respectful bow he offers Chan, despite the even tone, there's a sense of rage simmering in the kid. Stephen's eyes dart between his face and the tense grip he has on his own staff. "There are many whispers about the great Master Strange."

Stephen shrugs. "Yeah, well…" The stick shivers in his shaky hold. "What do you want?"

"I wish to see if the whispers are true."

The kid takes two steps back, raises the wooden staff into a defensive position. "Really," Stephen says flatly. He glances at Chan, but the other man merely arcs an unhelpful eyebrow. The people still in the courtyard are lingering, gathering. Stephen sighs, tries to clear his throat. "Fine," he mutters. "I guess we can do this for a couple of minutes."

He doesn't consider himself a master of any martial arts, but he's learned enough to hold his own. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that the kid's not interested in a friendly bout of sparring. Stephen ducks away from a swing that whistles past his shoulder. He's beginning to suspect that this guy might literally be out for blood.

He lands a satisfying whack to the kid's side, and the boy dances away. The thin mountain air burns through his raw nose with every breath, prickles its way down his esophagus. It feels like every other exhale's a cough. He brings the staff up to parry another strike, spins away. The congestion in his sinuses is unbalancing, and all these tight turns are starting to make him dizzy.

He aims a kick for the kid's legs, could be moving in slow motion for how easily the boy avoids it. "There's nothing to prove here," he huffs, barely dodging a jab. He hears the Ancient One telling him to let go of his ego. For a second he feels the snow whipping his face, the panic. It's enough of a distraction to nearly get him nailed by a hit from his left; his empty hand comes up reflexively, and the solid wood cracks against the base of his fingers. He makes a strangled noise as he swallows a howl.

Curled pointlessly around his hand he staggers backward a few steps, the Cloak stiffening to keep him standing when his feet tangle and he trips. The dull ringing in his ear gets louder in some kind of sick competition, and his vision goes a bit murky. "Fuck…" he hisses through his teeth, trying to blink it away.

"You are slow. An old man."

Chan's inching this way; Stephen waves him off with the hand that's spasmed into a locked grip on the staff. "… show you an old man," he mumbles, mostly straightening. It's only a little slurred.

He's still working on the whole ego thing. It's a daily battle, and not one he has room for today. He struggles to ignore the throbbing of his useless left hand as he launches a flurry of an offensive. The kid's good, but Stephen's pissed. Determined to end this as soon as possible. And he's got an ancient relic on his side.

They trade blows in a violent ballet, the Cloak blocking as many of them as Stephen. His chest hurts and his head pounds, and each step seems to vibrate inescapably through his left arm. Any skill on his part is just conditioning now, his ailing body pushing its limits. It's teamwork that finally takes the kid down, a one-two punch so smooth it feels rehearsed.

The Cloak sweeps the boy's legs out from underneath him; Stephen pins him down with the staff pressing against the center of his sternum. Maybe leans into it a little more than necessary for a moment, just to make a point. "We done?" he croaks, trying not to obviously gasp for breath.

The kid scowls, nods. Stephen returns the unhappy expression, releases him with a cursory visual inspection for any signs of serious harm. The boy scrambles to his feet, glaring as he puts a wary distance between them. Stephen deliberately turns his back on the guy.

The courtyard tips and he wavers, the Cloak again forced to supplement his failing equilibrium. A grimace twists his face before he can flatten it out; he holds his left forearm braced against his abdomen, hyperaware of all the eyes on him. He tries, but he can't do anything about the way his shoulders shudder as he fights to keep his breathing level.

He walks toward the approaching Chan, handing him the staff when they meet. It's difficult to get his fingers to unclench enough to let go of it, but their bitching is nothing compared with the mass of pain that's the other one. Stephen peeks at it, a hesitant shift of his eyes. There's already a nasty bruise spilling over both sides of his knuckles, creeping across the back of his hand and the lower halves of three of his fingers.

Christ. Likely something fractured then; not hard to do with as many times as the bones have been shattered and rebuilt. Stephen drops his arm to hide it in the Cloak's folds. He flinches when Chan touches his shoulder.

The other man's face is questioning, worried. Stephen shakes his head, manages a flash of a crumbly smile. A blurry glance shows that the kid's disappeared, that most of the onlookers are beginning to leave. "Well that was fun," he grumbles, rubbing the bridge of his nose with jittery fingertips. "Maybe not what Wong had in mind when he wanted me to come out here."

Predictably, Chan doesn't answer aloud. The bright sun makes Stephen's sinuses tingle when he opens his eyes, setting off a series of sneezes. Chan looks no less concerned when it finally stops. "Allergies," he sniffs, the lie sounding tired and worn.

A frown slants Chan's eyebrows; he reaches for Stephen's hidden left hand. Gets dangerously close before the doctor's dragging brain catches up. Stephen yanks his arm away with a sharp inhalation that triggers a coughing fit, leaves him bent and swaying by the time he can find his breath. Chan's frown has taken over his entire face now.

"M'alright," he wheezes with a dismissive flip of his right hand. "Gonna go find my friend."

If Chan has a response Stephen doesn't see it; hardly finished speaking, he's already turning away. Wincing as he swallows something that really should've been spit out, he concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other on a relatively straight path toward the garden. He's positive that Chan, at least, is still watching.

The moment he rounds a corner he collapses wearily against the wall. Elevating his broken hand to rest between his sore lungs, he realizes that he's drenched in sweat; the heel of his other hand swipes at a rivulet crawling down the side of his face. He doesn't think he has a fever worth mentioning, but it's admittedly difficult to discern the source of the chills. Could simply be the way the mountain breeze breathes over his damp skin, lowering his body temperature as it cools the sweat icy.

He can't face Christine like this, needs to regroup and pull himself together. The sunlight glints off his still-broken watch; he has no idea what time it is. Doesn't matter. Can't be helped. If Christine sees him like this, the vacation will be over for sure.

Decision made, he pushes off of the wall; the Cloak steadies him when he stumbles back into it, gently propels him forward. Stephen gathers together the shreds of his balance, heads for the door leading to home. He can just pop over, pop right back. If he moves quickly enough, he might even have time for a shower. He keeps his head down, doesn't run into anyone on his way.

The chamber with the three doors is empty, silent until his bark of a cough bangs a noisy echo. Stephen glances around one last time before opening the doors to the New York Sanctum.

The peace of his adopted home surrounds him, relaxing his shoulders slumped and his head bowed as he makes his way upstairs to his room. The medicine cabinet in his bathroom is his first stop. Ignoring the thermometer he grabs the bottle of oxycodone, the pills rattling against the plastic as he fights to get it open one-handed. Even with the easy-off cap, it's difficult to manipulate his fingers with the coordination required. When the thing finally gives it's a surprise, a shower of round pills raining down into the dry sink and skittering across the counter. His frustrated growl starts him coughing again.

With the extra time it takes to clean up the mess – the pills are small, each one necessitating its own focused coercion past the neuropathy – he doesn't feel like he can linger too long in the shower. But he turns the heat up as far as he can stand, and when he gets out he's definitely breathing better. Plus the drugs have started to kick in, dulling his hand to a background bass beat. Stephen clears the condensation from the mirror, studies his foggy reflection. He might just be able to pull this off after all.

After he dresses he finds his fingerless gloves, the knit stretching obligingly over his left hand to disguise the swelling and conceal the ugly bruise. He thinks about pocketing a couple of the oxycodone, but he'd told Christine he hadn't brought them. If she finds out he came back for them, she's going to want to know why. He could try and sneak them past her, but he suspects she'll be able to tell. As it is, the two he's already taken on an empty stomach have left him feeling a little stoned. He blinks, realizes he's been staring blankly at his open bureau drawer.

He leaves the beginning day in New York for late afternoon in Kamar-Taj, finds Christine still in the garden. She's sketching, a hobby he forgets since he doesn't see it often. She looks up at him with a smile when he approaches, returns to her drawing. He tries not to be jealous of the way her nimble fingers maneuver the pencil across the paper.

"Where have you been?" she asks.

There's a hitch in his steps as he weighs her tone; she doesn't seem upset, and he continues toward her. He feels a little like he's moving through water. "Around. You don't seem to be looking for me."

Her profile dips into a frown, but she doesn't glance at him. "You sound terrible."

"Pfft. I'm fine."

The casual dismissal gets him a quirk of an eyebrow, a brief sideways look. She's trying so hard to appear unconcerned. Stephen's trying to keep himself from rocking compulsively back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Do you like it?" she asks, tilting the drawing pad toward him for a better view.

The small garden is all vegetables and fruits and herbs, not very picturesque. She's captured it fairly accurately, but he's not particularly interested. "Sure." The afternoon is dimming; it's got to be close to five by now. "How long are you planning to stay out here?"

Christine shrugs, scoots over on the low bench so there's room for Stephen to sit down. He doesn't. His left hand hangs like a brick from his wrist, weighted and immobile. "I was hoping to finish this, if I have enough light," she says. "But it doesn't really matter. Do we have some place we need to be?"

"No. Just curious." He coughs a couple of times behind his closed lips. His eyes play vaguely over the rows of growing things, and he remembers Chan's sign. He wonders if that's ASL. Speculates yet again about the root of Chan's silence. He'd asked the Ancient One once, but she'd said it wasn't her story to tell. Stephen likes Chan, but he's never spent enough time with him to even begin to garner the details. "Probably time for dinner soon," he hears himself say.

"And are you finally going to actually eat something?"

He glances over at Christine. Away. She's watching him now, and he doesn't want her to see the trouble he's having keeping his eyes focused. "What're you talking about? I ate."

"When? You didn't even drink your tea in the kitchen."

"Didn't realize I was traveling with my mother," he grumbles, but there's not much heat to it. His gaze lands randomly on a tiny stalk of green, barely poking up through the soil. He tries to figure out what it is.

"I'm just worried about you, Stephen."

"Well don't be."

Christine's humorless laugh slides his eyes back that way. "I've been trying to figure out how to do that for a long time."

"Try harder," he snaps, suddenly tired of this conversation. Vertigo sweeps through him like a chill, and he sinks down on the stone bench beside her. He stares at the dirt between his boots as it fades in and out of a blur.

"I suppose you still don't want to talk about the dream either."

"Perceptive." The word jumbles back in on itself as he swallows something trickling and disgusting.

He hears her pull in a breath like she wants to say something, but clearly she changes her mind. After a moment there's the scritch of pencil against paper as she goes back to her drawing. Obviously experience has cautioned her against waging this battle; he's relieved. He can see the corner of the pad in his peripheral vision, the tip of her thumb where it curls around the edge.

Slouched beside her, he subtlely tests the limited function of his hand under the Cloak. It feels as if it might be more swollen, the yarn of the glove tighter over the base of his puffy fingers. Fingertips cold but not numb – as far as he can tell, having so little sensitivity these days as a baseline – and he can move all the digits. With pain. He's privately betting it's the distal end of his fourth metacarpal, probably a hairline crack. He'll need an x-ray to confirm.

A murmuring voice asks what's the point. A bell begins ringing before he can come up with an answer.

"Food," he mumbles to Christine. She makes a noise of acknowledgement, the pencil hissing against the paper as she finishes her shading. After a moment, she begins to gather up her things. Stephen waits, staring at the stone wall along the garden's edge without really seeing it.

The evening meal is little more than a rerun of breakfast, except this time the narcotics and illness conspire to leave him undeniably drowsy and he has to pay attention so as not to faceplant into his rice. He thinks there are more sneaking glances now. No doubt everyone's heard about what happened in the courtyard. He hopes this doesn't mean more challengers.

He does make himself drink some tea, knows he's got to be dehydrated. The heat of it is fantastic, but he could do without the way it pools in his empty stomach. And it's doing nothing to warm him up in the long term; after every sip, he's right back to freezing. He burrows further into the Cloak's high collar and tries to keep his eyes open.

Still he's not exactly relieved when it's over; Christine's probably not very happy with him. Maybe they should just call an end to this, go home. It'll be easier to avoid her until he figures out what he's going to do about his hand. He doesn't move as the room empties, waiting for the inevitable lecture.

But she doesn't comment on the uneaten food as she picks up his bowl with hers, talks instead as he follows her to the kitchen about her plans for tomorrow. Despite the worry for him that she's striving to bury, he thinks she looks more relaxed than she has all year. He can't suggest that they leave. He doesn't want to tell her about the mugging, but he does warn her to stick to the main streets if she intends to do any exploring outside Kamar-Taj.

Their room is dark when they get back to it, the setting sun a swath of bloody red through the ornate openings at the top of the walls. Stephen reaches across his body to tug the chain for the naked bulb above the mirror, catches a glimpse of himself as he passes. Even in the dim light he looks awful, shadows under his eyes and rosy splotches on his cheekbones, his nose. He scowls, sniffles as he crosses the small room to sit heavily on the edge of the bed.

Christine switches on the lamp by the desk. "So what's up with your arm?" she asks, with what sounds like crafted nonchalance. "Or is it your hand?"

He pulls his eyes from the hypnotizing woven pattern of the mat he'd been sleeping on. "What?" he asks dully, even as her words are registering in his brain.

She gives him an impatient look. "It's obviously bothering you. You're holding the whole arm really unnaturally, and I haven't seen you use your left hand at all."

"Not left handed," he deflects.

She's unamused. "What happened?"

"Well, see, there was this car accident…" he starts, in his best patronizing tone.

"Stephen…"

"Nothing happened. It's cold up here. My hands hurt." She's frowning even with this curt explanation. Done discussing it he tips sideways, his upper body on the thin mattress while his feet remain on the floor. He's not really stealing her bed, just borrowing it for a minute or two. He's certainly not comfortable.

She slides out the wooden desk chair and sits down, her phone in her hand. "Are you going to sleep?" she asks, scrolling through something he can't see on the screen.

"No, I should go back to library for a while," he says as his eyes close. There's really no reason, other than a desire to be away from her trained gaze. "… find something to do without me?"

"You know, I do find ways to occupy myself without you most of the time."

"Bet it's not as interesting," he rasps. His throat feels irritated, inflamed.

He doesn't make it to the library, doesn't give Christine back her bed. Lying there listening to her breathe, he suppresses a cough and tries to convince himself that the twinges in his hand are only psychosomatic, that it's way too early for the meds to have worn off. His thoughts are slips of paper in the wind, wafting close enough to read but always blown away before he gets to the end.

Unconsciousness pulls at him with sticky fingers. Just like those kids from the bus.

He wakes to moonlight and pain, disoriented and curled into a ball. Shivering under the blanket of the Cloak and his hair limp with sweat, he figures out that he's on the pallet – that Christine's on the floor below him – without having to move too much. She's got her back to him, and he thinks she's asleep; he's trying to judge the rise-and-fall rhythm of her shoulders when the pain spikes and slams his eyes closed.

Forced to breathe through his clogged nose so as to keep any sound from escaping his mouth, he becomes light-headed quickly. Has to switch to sucking in air through clenched teeth. The agony gradually fades to something more manageable, and he distantly wonders what time it is. Going by how great his hand feels, he's guessing it's been hours since he lost the analgesic effects of the drugs.

It's not an unfamiliar sensation, lying huddled on this bed in the dark stillness of the cold night, hurting and trying desperately not to make any noise. He'd still been in the middle of PT when he'd found Pangborn, had hopped on a plane the next day. The first weeks here had been especially rough, what with those two cracked ribs from the beating on top of the postsurgical fragility of his hands. He didn't sleep more than a couple of disjointed hours for days at a time.

He might be trapped in a memory. But that wouldn't explain the presence of Christine. It could be a dream. He feels feverish, untethered.

He's still wearing his gloves, not that they're doing much good. He's a little concerned that the left one is going to have to be cut off. The thought scatters with a brutal stab from his knuckles that radiates throughout his entire hand; Stephen ducks his head into the cocoon of the Cloak, fighting to muffle his harsh breathing. The pain ebbs for a teasing few seconds, swells blindingly when his fingers give an unintentional jerk. He sinks his teeth into the excess fabric of his sleeve to keep himself from crying out.

He needs to get out of here.

It's the only coherent thought he has, and it repeats in a timpani drumbeat. He'd fallen asleep still wearing his sling ring; he slips it onto the fingers of his left hand and wiggles down to the end of the bed so he can climb over Christine's legs. The room wobbles drunkenly, smears when a series of spasms brings a new surge of pain. He chokes on his gasp, clears Christine's sleeping form with an unsteady stretch of a step.

But all he can conjure are sparks, and his ragged breathing provokes a cough that he struggles to smother. "Stephen?" Christine shifts on the mat behind him, sounding only half awake.

"Go back to sleep," he grinds out, not turning around.

"What's wrong? Where are you going?"

"Nothin'srong," he slurs. "I'll be right b—" The pain crests nauseatingly, explodes into seafoam that fills his head, his mouth. Doubles him over, one useless hand cradling the other, and the noise he makes sounds like something between a growl and a moan. He's got to get out of here. The door home feels distant, unreachable, as does the possibility of a portal. Only one other option.

"I'm gonna… nngh… I'll… fuck… jus' don't freak out," is the best he can do by way of explanation, warning, before he shatters a doorway to the Mirror Dimension. Christine makes a surprised sound, but he doesn't have time for her. A staggered step, and he tumbles through. He crashes to his knees. Something catches on his boot, falls over it.

There's no room for shock when Christine lands on her hands and knees beside him. A savage throb through his knuckles instantly steals his attention, folding him in half with a deep groan.

"What. Just. Happened."

His chest is tight, and he tries to determine if the cause is physical or mental to distract himself from the sensation of not getting enough air. The Cloak rubs a circle between his shoulderblades as he rocks on his knees.

"Talk to me, Stephen. What's wrong? What the hell's going on?"

"Why'd you…?" he pushes through his teeth, twisting his bowed head to look at her. The picture his eyes give him is far from in focus, her sleep-tousled hair framing her blurry face in a fuzzy halo. The slightly out of sync feeling of the room around her makes him uncomfortably aware of the tea sloshing around in his stomach. "What're you doing… nngh… doing h—"

Another twitch of his fingers slices through the question, bends him forward over his knees until his forehead's flat against the floor. Mindful of pressure on the broken bone, his hands are sandwiched between his abdomen and thighs in an attempt to keep them still. "Ow ow christ ow ow ow…" Now that Christine's the only one who can hear him, he's less inclined to fight the vocalizations.

"Hang on. I have some ibuprofen in my bag. I know it's not much, but…"

The odd quality of the sound in here wraps itself around her voice, her footsteps. Or maybe that's just the ringing in his ears. He realizes what she's trying to do at presumably the same moment she reaches her bag; he pictures her hand swiping futilely through it in time with the confused noise that she makes. "Mirror Dimension," he mumbles from the floor.

"I'm sorry. Did you just say we're in another dimension?"

It'd be funny if he wasn't so miserable. He grits his teeth and presses his forehead harder into the floorboard as the pain jumps again. "I know. S'weird," he forces out when it begins to lessen. "One might even say str—"

"One really shouldn't," she interrupts, returning to his side. "How do we get out of here?"

"Shouldn't be here at all."

"Don't blame me," she says, dropping to her knees next to him. Stephen cracks open an eye to squint at her. "Your…" She waves a hand behind him. "It pulled me in here. Guess it thought you needed me."

He'd glare at the Cloak if he could lift his head. He coughs, warm wet air reflected back by the wood. Tries to clear his throat. "Gimme a minute. Didn't… didn't want to wake anyone up."

"What's going on?" Her hand's on his bicep, slides toward his elbow. "Is this breakthrough pain? Or something else? Any other symptoms?"

He tenses further as her hand curves over the jutting bend of his elbow to his forearm. "Took a hit," he admits to the floor. "Sparring. Fracture plus cold plus intractable tremor…" His fingers quiver against his stomach in unnecessary demonstration; he sucks in a breath as the pain soars. "Ow fuck fuck fuck," he exhales, mashing his forehead, his nose, into the wood. He imagines pressing so strongly that he breaks through the floorboards. It's going to be an annoying spot to have a bruise.

A splintered snapping, Christine's surprised squeak. "Stephen!" She sounds scared.

With effort he wrests open his eyes, raises his head a few inches; they're on a wooden island, separated from the rest of the room by a fissured ring. Mirror Dimension. Right. "Oops." Christine huddles close, shooting nervous glances between him and the chasm behind her. "Hang on," he mumbles. "I can…"

Freeing his right hand from where it's trapped against his legs, he holds his palm over the thick crack and watches blearily as it begins to knit itself back together. It takes energy he can't really spare, and the circle only seals itself about halfway around before his strength fizzles out. Good enough. Christine looks happier now that her side at least is again connected to solid ground. Stephen lets his pounding head fall onto his outstretched arm; his back's not going to thank him if he spends too much longer in this contorted position.

"So, um… is that going to happen again?" Christine asks, clearly still unnerved.

"No. My fault." He rolls off his knees onto his right side, conscious of the crevasse still behind him. His hand complains loudly as it's jarred by the lurching shift in position, and he curls around it with a moan.

He flinches when her fingers unexpectedly stroke his hair, opens his eyes to a close-up view of her denim-clad thighs. "It's been a while since I've seen it this bad," she observes softly above him. "Is it still like this a lot?"

He doesn't turn his head to look up at her face, plays his heavy eyes instead over the stitched seam that curves up from the inside of her knee. "Told you. Extenuating circum—" The pain arcs again, and his attempt at a controlled exhalation comes out sounding more like a whimper.

"Give me a number," she says, running her fingers through the hair at his temple.

The cartoon faces of the pain scale dance in the air behind her back – with even anguished number ten not really seeming to adequately express what this feels like – and he wonders if she'd see them if she turns around. "Six," he huffs through his teeth.

"You're so full of shit," she says, not unkindly.

It's a familiar exchange between them, practiced so many times since the accident. It makes him tired. He closes his eyes, coughing a few times behind compressed lips.

"We should go home," she says.

"Yeah," he sighs.

"Should I be worried that the way we got in here doesn't seem to be there anymore?"

She's already worried; it vibrates through every word. A trickle of moisture worms its itchy way along the side of his nose, and he's unsure if it's a tear or sweat. "No. Gimme a mmm… gimme a minute. Get us back."

"Take your time. I'm busy anyway. I'm trying to decide if I'm more upset that you were hiding a broken bone, or that I missed a chance to see you fight."

"Wasn't my idea," he protests feebly from behind closed eyelids. "Some kid. Challenged me."

"And of course you had to accept."

"Course," he murmurs unapologetically. "Witnesses."

"Uh-huh." Her hand leaves his hair to return to his forearm. His eyes blink open, landing warily on the contact. "Can I take the glove off?" she asks.

"No." He'd pull his arm away from her if he had anywhere to go; it twitches under her hand, the broken appendage still buried against his abdomen in the folds of his tunic. "Nothing you can do."

"Can I at least see it?" She doesn't drag his hand forcibly out of hiding, but she doesn't give up and let go of his arm either. "How's the circulation? Do you still have sensation in all of your fingers?"

The digits in question are thrilled to speak up when the spotlight falls on them, flourishing a series of pangs that dart erratically up and down their length. "Unfortunately," Stephen grumbles. "S'no worse than before."

"Please let me look at it," she says, her hand inching its way toward his wrist.

"Fine," he surrenders wearily, carefully extricating his trembling hand. He tracks every motion of her pale fingers as they move delicately over the glove, his skin. When the room begins to sparkle in his peripheral vision, slowly dissolving in a glittery drizzle, he realizes that he's holding his breath.

Christine's hands freeze on his. "Okay, now it's… what? Snowing inside? I'm really not sure I like this whole alternate dimension thing."

Shit. It's the whole room, not just in his head. Stephen blinks deliberately, wills the world around them to resolidify. He breathes through a flush of heat, nausea. "S'a bad idea," he grunts, reclaiming his hand and trying to prop himself up onto his unsteady right elbow. "Need to get you out of here."

Her laugh sounds shaky; he doesn't glance at her, his focus consumed by the impossibility of sitting up. "I'm not going to argue," she says. She and the Cloak haul him upright, keep him that way when his eyes roll briefly in their orbits. The crap in his sinuses cheerfully redistributes itself with the change in position.

"You feel a little warm," Christine says, her hand slipping from his arm to the bare skin under his jaw.

"Don't." He's uncomfortably warm, and tiny flames begin to lick at the top of the wall behind her as his brain registers this. "Not if you want me to… Jus' shut up for a minute." He vaguely notes the frown that flitters over her face, most of his attention on the creeping fire.

Drawing on the focus that had once helped him to become such an incomparable surgeon, he manages to break a hole in the veil between this Kamar-Taj and theirs. It leaves him dizzy and weak, and the Cloak does most of the work to get him up onto his feet. He coughs harshly, intentionally, trying to get rid of the tickle in his throat before they reenter the real world.

Christine stands too. "Uh, Stephen…" she starts, noticing the fire for the first time. The flames have taken over most of the far wall now, eerie in their smokeless silence.

He puts his less damaged hand on her shoulder, urges her to turn toward the shattered doorway. "S'fine. We're leaving."

"But…"

He gives her a little shove between the shoulderblades, accidentally a bit harder than strictly necessary; she doesn't look pleased when he follows her through, but his stumble immediately distracts her back to concern. He doesn't do it on purpose, but a distant part of his mind still recognizes the benefit of the timing.

"I just need to grab my bag," she whispers, thankfully aware of their new slumbering surroundings, "then I'm ready to go." But she doesn't release his arm. Maybe she's afraid that he won't stay standing without her.

Not willing to wait here all night while she debates it, he jerks his chin toward the duffle bag by the window. After another second of consideration she lets him go, crosses the moonlit room. She keeps throwing glances at the unscorched wall, checking again and again for nonexistent flames. Stephen pulls the Cloak more tightly around himself, suddenly chilled.

He scowls when she picks up his backpack as well, reaches to take it from her. She ignores the gesture. "So, um, how do we get out of here?"

"There's a door." He shifts his shoulders, working to coax the Cloak's high collar to cover more of his neck. "C'mon."

"Should we… I don't know. Leave a note?"

"They'll figure it out. I'll call Wong or something tomorrow."

He leads the way out of the room, trying not to bump into the walls as they move down the narrow corridor. He feels like shit – admittedly not his most brilliant diagnosis – is shuffling along entirely on autopilot. They're nearly there when a sideways step tips him off-balance, thumps his elbow into the wall. The impact jams the knuckles of his left hand into the cradling palm of his right.

He blinks, and he's on the ground.

His hand's a mess of blazing shouting suffering, and he's become incapable of distinguishing new damage from old. Christine's hovering too close, her voice an annoying buzz. He doesn't waste time attempting to translate. "Up," he demands, somehow managing to garble even this one-syllable word. He thrusts his right arm in the air petulantly when neither the Cloak nor Christine instantly responds. "Somebody… somebody… ffffu… up, dammit…" He doesn't want to be down here when people arrive to investigate the noise.

One of them pulls him to his feet – Stephen isn't really sure which with the way things are spinning, doesn't really care – and now they're both pressed against him like a sweltering second skin. He can't do much to escape the Cloak, but he shrugs off Christine's clinging hold on his arm.

"Are you alright?" she asks in a murmur.

"What d'you think?" he snarls. He doesn't need to look at her to see her frown. It's not important; he can't focus on her now. His pulse beats in his knuckles as if working to split them apart, and his head feels packed with gauze. It doesn't really leave enough space for anything but the thought of getting home. "S'go."

Hunched around the hand braced against his sternum, he moves down the hall as quickly as he's able. He doesn't want to run into anybody. The only light in here is what's leaking in from the night outside, and he's grateful for the dark. He's sure that every heartbeat of pain can be clearly read on his face. He doesn't have the patience to deal with Christine's worry.

Wong emerges from a shadow as they reach their destination, and Stephen staggers when he's suddenly forced to stop short his plodding gait. "Bet you're fantastic at hide-and-seek," he mutters, trying to reestablish some kind of equilibrium. Christine's poised at his elbow, not touching him but obviously ready to grab onto him at any second. He should tell her not to bother; the Cloak's already rigid, the only reason he's standing up more or less straight.

Wong's eyes glint in the moonlight as he looks them over. "You're leaving."

Stephen can't interpret how the other man feels about this. "Yeah," he rasps, glad nobody's expecting him to speak above a whisper. "Christine has to work."

He carefully avoids looking over at her; she doesn't call him out on the lie. But Wong's pursed mouth says he's not buying it anyway. Stephen ducks his head, biting down hard on his lower lip as another rumble of agony rolls through his hand like a semi. He's so close to home. The door's right there. Home means drugs, his bed. He drags his eyes back open when he notices that they've closed.

"Call me if you need me," he mumbles, risking a step past Wong toward the door. When his knee doesn't immediately buckle, when the room stays right side up, he takes another.

"Thank you," Christine says behind him. "It was wonderful to be here."

If Wong has a nonverbal response to this, Stephen doesn't turn around to see it. "Yeah. What she said," he wheezes, opening the doors to the Sanctum. The marble floor shimmers beyond the barrier that separates the two locations. Christine joins him, gaping at the sight through the doorframe.

"That's…"

"New York," he confirms in a low voice. Over his shoulder he says, "Hey, Wong… thanks. I'll, uh, talk to you soon."

Wong's soft murmur follows him as they step through. "Be well, Stephen."

He glances back with a surprised smirk, but the doors are already closing. Rubbing his nose on his sleeve, he ignores Christine and crosses the foyer to the stairs. There seems to be more of them than there used to be as he stands at the bottom, glowering up at the distant landing. Drugs. Bed. He takes a bracing breath; it fragments into a coughing fit that leaves his eyes watering.

Now Christine's beside him, her hand on his back. His frown slides briefly that way before he pulls apart from her to begin the climb up the polished steps. It's slow going, his feet heavy and clumsy, and he's grateful for the protection of his boots as he stubs his toes against another riser. He's on the wrong side of the wide staircase, the bannister useless to him on his left. His heartbeat reverberates through his hand where he clutches it to his chest.

He has to stop at the landing to catch his breath. When he sways, the Cloak's quick reaction is the only thing that keeps him from tumbling back down the steps and undoing all of his hard work. Drugs. Bed. He can't hear out of his left ear again; Christine's flittering around, and he resists a cranky urge to swat at her like a bug. Instead he starts reluctantly up the second flight of stairs.

Bent nearly double, he tries to distract himself by coming up with songs with the word step in the title. "(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone." The Monkees, nineteen sixty-six. "Gimme Three Steps." Nineteen seventy-three, Lynyrd Skynyrd. Bruce Springsteen, "One Step Up." Nineteen eighty-seven. Alice Cooper's "Step On You"… was that also eighty-seven? He's pretty sure that was in eighty-seven. Def Leppard, "Two Steps Behind." Nineteen ninety-three.

He grunts when a cramp rips through his hand, trips on the top stair and stumbles into the turn toward his room. Drugs. Bed. He's going to get that put on a t-shirt. Christine trails behind him, close enough that he'd tell her to back off if he could pry his teeth apart. It's freezing in here. He wonders if there's any wood in the fireplace in his bedroom.

She follows him into the bathroom, their eyes meeting in the mirror before he paws open the medicine cabinet. The cap on the pill bottle is no more cooperative this time around, and after a few seconds of fumbling with it he throws it into the sink with a frustrated noise. It bounces around the porcelain bowl, settles against the drain. Christine drops their bags on the floor and scoops it up.

The cap pops off effortlessly under her fingers. Stephen scowls but obediently holds out his right hand, the promise of relief a higher priority right now than his pride. She puts a single pill in his jittery palm. He doesn't take it, gesturing impatiently for another.

"How many of these have you already had today?" she asks.

Stephen swallows the first pill dry, cringing as it creeps a clunky path down his esophagus. Holding out his palm again, he glares at her reflection. "Doctor too. Not gonna OD on my meds." It rankles to wait for her to dole out pills like this. "Gimme another one."

She relents, tipping another pill into his hand. It traces the same difficult path as the first. "I'm just asking," she says, her tone searching for peace. "It's not hard to tell when you're medicated. Your eyes were practically crossed earlier."

"Mmm." Suddenly dizzy, he closes his eyes; he clings onto the counter with one hand, his chin drooping toward his chest. Christine says his name. When he wrenches his eyes open again the room wavers around his head, and he's afraid for a moment that he's somehow flung them back into the Mirror Dimension. But he decides Christine's way too calm for that. "Bed," he informs her, shoving himself away from the sink.

"You need an x-ray," she insists, lingering in the bathroom as he staggers to his bed. As he collapses onto the comforter, he hears the toilet paper roll rattling in its holder. Fully clothed and still wearing his boots, he pulls up his knees to curl around his broken hand, the Cloak readjusting itself to act as a blanket.

He watches Christine enter the room through slitted eyes, lazily tracks her as she approaches the bed. She sets a folded ream of toilet paper on the blanket a few inches from his face. "X-Ray," she repeats, like he might not have understood.

"Later," he says, dismissing her by closing his eyes. He knows it won't work, but he tries anyway.

"Or we could go right now. Get it over with," she parries.

"Sleeping right now. Go aw-way." His breath hitches on the last word, a rogue burst of pain catching him by surprise. Writhing a bit on the mattress, he reminds himself that the drugs should start working any minute.

Any minute. Any minute.

Her hand cups his bent neck, and he finds himself unconsciously arching into its warmth. He grumbles when it disappears, when an accidental shift of his fingers exacerbates things all over again. Too consumed by this to pay attention to what she's doing, he has no clue where she's gone until she returns.

She sits on the edge of the mattress, playing her fingers through the hair on the back of his skull. He sniffles, most of his head buried under the Cloak. "I want to get your temperature," Christine says gently. "Come out for a second."

"Later. Go'way."

"Stephen…"

"Not a fucking child."

"Honestly? Sometimes it's hard to be sure."

His hand – his head his chest his nose his back – hurts, and he wishes she'd leave so he can smash his face into his pillow and flat out scream. Sure seems like the damn meds should be taking effect by now. "Take m'own temperature. Doctor. Go'way."

"I just want to help," she sighs.

"Like you'll ever let me forget," he growls, cradling his hand against his chest as he rolls over. With his back to her, he burrows again under the Cloak.

Her exhale is abrupt, and he knows from experience that he's finally found her limit. His twitch of a masochistic grin twists into a wince as pain ratchets over the back of his hand and up his wrist to his elbow. "Fine," she says behind him, practically stomping her way across the room. "I'm leaving. Drink some water."

He listens to retrieving her bag from the bathroom, follows the sound of her boots as she walks out the open door. She doesn't say goodbye.

Neither does he.

---

End Notes: These days I find myself both obsessed with Benedict Cumberbatch and easily irritated by people in the Real World. Because of this, I can't seem to stop writing Strange. (I suppose one of these days I should finally try my hand at writing Sherlock.) There's likely a few more scenes to tack onto this – mostly just an excuse to extend the whump and maybe even a bit of comfort for the poor man – but I didn't want to rush through it in order to get this posted. So here's this for now, with maybe a second chapter to come.

CumberCookies unite. For together we shall be a CumberBatch.