When he heard that he could finally go home, Stephen's brain was too overloaded to fully process the news. He'd been at the hospital for five straight days, and while there was some catnapping whenever he could grab a few hours here and there, he was operating on the never-ending stream of victims in a condition that would've been considered unwise and unsafe if it hadn't just been a war zone. As it was, he operated on auto-pilot, cutting and stitching with rote movements that teetered on the point where he thought he'd be making mistakes soon.

The words "Okay, Stephen, go home and rest up" were almost foreign to him at that point, but he propelled his aching body out of the chief of medicine's office and toward his car without any additional urging. Other doctors had come and gone. Now it was his turn, and the rest would be well-earned. He knew he'd be expected back in the morning, or as soon as traffic would let him back, but for now…

Oh. Traffic.

Stephen was halfway to the parking garage when his clouded mind registered the fact that a battle had raged around the hospital, and that he might not be able to take his usual route. He detoured to the nearest nurses' station; nurses always had their fingers on the pulse of information. "Nurse Temple," he hailed the first one he saw.

Claire Temple, a smart, efficient nurse who now sported dark circles beneath her eyes, glanced up from the computer and winced over-dramatically when she saw the approaching doctor. "Here comes the walking dead," she said before swilling down some strong-smelling coffee.

"What's it like out there?" he asked, and when he got two incredulously-raised eyebrows in reply, he clarified, "They're finally letting me out for a bit. Do you know what roads are clear?" His eyes drifted to a television at the nurse's station that had the sound turned down but was still showing the news, which was still all about the Battle of New York, the bravery of local heroes and a band of more powerful superheroes, and the ongoing cleanup efforts. On screen right now, a caravan of trucks labeled Damage Control shuttled debris away from a fallen building. This wasn't what Stephen was looking for, so he forced himself to focus on Nurse Temple's words.

"…half of Manhattan is still shut down," she was saying. "Don't try to drive anywhere south of here."

"But that's where my apartment is." The words slipped out with an edge of desperation, and while he normally despised anyone who looked so weak, he couldn't help it.

"We still have beds here."

"Only if I want to be drafted again. I can't operate like this. I can't… I can hardly move." He could barely think, either, but maybe that was a blessing. He didn't want to relieve the invasion or aftermath, at least not yet. He knew it would come, and his photographic memory would recall every excruciating detail and every face twisted in pain and every second that he saved one life at the expense of ten or twenty others who needed surgery just as badly.

The nurse in front of him offered a smile that was not unsympathetic, but it was accompanied by a shrug that clearly conveyed that she had other priorities right now. She did offer one last suggestion as he pulled away, saying, "You could always sleep in that fancy car of yours." After Stephen turned his back, he heard Claire Temple get back to work and address an approaching patient. "Mr. Meachum, the doctors say that you can go home. The wound to your hand wasn't serious enough to warrant hospitalization."

"I cut it on some alien ship thing!" he yelled back. "What if it's infected?"

"You can always come back if you start showing symptoms, but we just don't have the room right now."

"Okay, well, at least give me some stronger pain meds. This hurts like a…"

"There aren't any doctors available to see you right now," Temple countered.

"What about him? What's he doing right now?"

Assuming this Meachum guy was talking about him, Stephen slipped into an elevator just before it shut its doors and breathed a sigh of relief as it began to descend along with its payload. The floor he wanted was blocked off thanks to battle damage, so he got off at the floor above and walked through a makeshift area that was set up to accept blood donations. People always flocked in to give blood during tragedies, though year-round would've been more helpful, but in this case, Stephen wouldn't complain. He suspected not much of it would go to waste like it sometimes did when there was an influx.

Instead, he silently passed through the corridor with the row of donor chairs that were slightly less partitioned than normal, thanks to the hurried setup. Part of him tried to solve his bed problem and part of him listened to snatches of conversation from those around him.

"It's okay, Foggy. You're doing fine." This was from one donor to another as they sat in chairs close to each other.

"Heh. You wouldn't say that if you saw how pale I looked. Are you sure they know how much blood is safe to take from a person?"

Then a little after that, a man in a suit was saying to a woman giving blood, "We should take some pictures of you here for your Instagram and the Trish Talk website."

"Don't you think that would be a little crass?" she replied.

Yes. Yes, it would be. But Stephen didn't judge. Instead, he kept listening until he heard someone speaking to him. "Doc! Hey, Doc!" It was one of the residents, who was always looking to score a few points. How did he still look chipper? Had he been getting enough sleep? Stephen resented him for it. "You heading out? Word is that the roads to Queens are open right now."

"Queens?" Stephen repeated incredulously. "I don't need to go to Queens."

As soon as he snapped out the words with an ungrateful glare, the resident went skittering backwards with his hands raised defensively. "Sorry, sorry. That's just what they're tellin' me."

Stephen stalked away, mentally scrolling through his contact list. Who did he knew that lived in Queens and would take him in for a night? He'd burned a lot of bridges, but people might be generous and understanding under the circumstances. Unfortunately, most of his colleagues and exes lived in Manhattan, except for a few that were still here on duty. At last, he hit on a potential name.

Everett Ross, who'd been his roommate one year in his college undergrad days, had some sort of government job that kept him roaming the globe, but was currently stationed in New York City. They'd gotten together once for drinks before realizing they had nothing in common anymore, but in that time, Everett mentioned that he had an apartment in Queens. Of course, he probably wasn't there any more, but it was worth a shot.

He plucked the phone number from his mental rolodex and then called up his old friend. He was pleasantly surprised to get an answer right away. "Hey, Evie, it's Stephen!" He tried to sound as casual as possible. He remembered calling Everett "Evie" sometimes when they were tipsy then cringed when he remembered how much Everett hated it when they were sober. Not a great start, but he plunged ahead. "I've been run off my feet at the hospital and I desperately need a place to crash. Can I stay at your apartment tonight?"

"Of course. Of course you can." The voice was warm and generous as always and held no trace of resentment for the months of silence between them. "I'm not there now, but I'll have someone let you in."

"You are a lifesaver. Thank you." He didn't thank people much these days, but genuine gratitude poured through every fiber of his being.

"No problem. Look, I have to run, but we'll catch up later, yeah?"

"Sure."

They hung up, and Stephen continued his trek with a lighter heart. He was stopped one more time, just outside the stairwell, when a nurse called out, "You know you can't get to your apartment, right?"

"I know; I'm headed to Queens."

She waived and continued on her way, but a nearby man interposed before Stephen could do likewise. "Excuse me, Doctor, I'm sorry, but could I catch a ride with you? I live in Queens, but I got stuck out here during the battle. I wasn't hurt badly, but the buses aren't going on a regular schedule, and I…"

"Can you drive?" he asked, eying the man judgmentally. What he saw was a dark-haired man in his early middle age with weathered skin and workman's clothes that were rough but passably clean.

The man's eyes widened in surprise. "Yeah, I can drive."

Stephen's first thought had been to laugh this guy away, but he realized the man could have some use. "You can come if you drive, and if you do it without scratching the car. I'm going to sleep in the passenger's seat, so you drive to… wherever you're going in Queens, and you can wake me when we get there. Okay?"

"Of course! Thank you! My name's Ben Parker, by the way."

He stuck out his hand, and Stephen shook it out of societal obligation, though he wasn't interested in the man at all. "Wonderful. Come on."

They trotted down to the garage where Stephen made for his Lamborghini. For half a second, he found himself looking for his old Porsche, but then he remembered that he'd had to replace it recently. For some reason, an ex decided to take a crowbar to it.

He missed that car, though his new toy excited him, too. He slid into the immaculate seats that he knew would need thorough cleaning after today, between him and his passenger. He passed over the keys with a twinge of apprehension as the man said, "You have no idea how much this means to me. My wife and nephew have been worried sick. They know I'm okay, but until I actually make it home…"

"We don't have to talk."

"Right. You must be tired. I'll let you sleep."

The word 'sleep' was all it took. Stephen closed his eyes and immediately succumbed to a dreamless and unsatisfying sleep. He woke all too soon to a gentle tap on his shoulder. His first fleeting thought was that it might've been unwise to trust a stranger with his keys and his car, not to mention his own unconscious body, but it seemed okay. They'd pulled up in a run-down neighborhood where his Lamborghini was decidedly out of place but would be leaving soon.

"We're here. Sorry, but the drive took a few hours. Traffic was backed up like you wouldn't believe."

"I believe," Stephen responded, rubbing out a kink in his neck. "And I needed the sleep." He checked his watch out of habit, not that he knew what time he'd left the hospital, but he liked showing off whatever timepiece he happened to be wearing. In this case, it was a $4,000 Monaco.

Ben Parker regarded him with soft, concerned eyes. "Are you okay to drive the rest of the way?"

"I'll be fine."

"You could crash on my couch here. It's the least I can do."

It really was the least, judging by the state of this dump. Oh, a glance told him that the building was well-maintained, but he could hardly expect any comforts here. Out loud, he said, "My friend's expecting me."

"Of course. Thanks again."

"Not a problem." They both exited the vehicle so that Strange could circle around to the driver's side and Parker could make for the front door. Stephen glanced into the rearview mirror once as he drove away, just in time to see a woman barreling out of the house to clutch Ben Parker in a tight embrace and land a desperate kiss that he returned with equal fervor. Good for him, Stephen thought sincerely before putting the incident entirely out of his mind.

Sometimes, a part of him envied that kind of honest, reciprocal love that some people shared, but right now, he was in pursuit of something more valuable than love. Right now, he was going to get a good night's sleep.