A Fickle Thing
Chapter 9: Fever
Warning: Drowning, death of a family member
The cloak believes there is a duck in Dr. Strange's bedchamber.
Then again, the cloak can't be sure. It has been several years since it observed a live duck in its natural habitat and heard its precise avian call. However, the particular nasal resonance and timbre emanating from Stephen's bedchamber suggests some kind of waterfowl has taken up residence within.
Honnnnnkkkkkk!
Or maybe it's a goose.
"It's just influenza." Stephen's muffled voice drifts through the hallway from his bedroom. "I'm not going to a hospital for a case of the flu."
The cloak flutters like an angel's wing towards the entrance to the doctor's room, barely tipping the brim of its collar past its doorframe. It waits, inquisitive, an investigator.
"…. No, I'm NOT coming in to work!"
Work? The cloak thinks: What work? Dr. Strange does not have "work" the way that the cloak believes most average people have "work"—breeding bovines, aligning spines, fitting gaskets, and advising companies on the purchase of soft wares, whatever those are. Stephen used to be a surgeon—and a supremely gifted one at that—but Stephen has not been a medical doctor for nearly two years. Now he is a conjurer, a curator of the magical arts, and protector of the world, along with other humans who have extraordinary abilities.
"I don't appreciate your snark, Stark."
Strange clears his throat, and it sounds as harsh and grating as the Vitamix blender he is so obsessed with. The cloak will never understand the point of almond butter.
"No, Stark. I can't magic my way out of a virus. Ha. Ha. By the way, Lord Byron called, and he wants his narcissism back. Good. Day."
A heavy sigh follows the truncated conversation, and the cloak assumes that it's relatively safe to enter Strange's bedchamber.
It flits across the Isfahan carpet and into the sparsely decorated room to its chosen's bedside, brushing against the embroidered chair that has become its home in the evening whilst Stephen sleeps.
Pale morning light reflects across the man's face from the room's broad windows as the cloak closely examines him. It's not reassured by what it finds.
His grey eyes are watery and the eyelids around them puffy and red. Sweat speckles his sallow face, dark stubble contrasting with the ashen sheen of his skin. His hair is messy and sticks up wildly in the back. Stephen's beryl-colored robe hangs open at his chest, and he draws it closed hastily when he notices the overgarment appear.
"M-morning," Strange offers casually. The cloak notices the way the sorcerer's teeth chatter and the slight vibrations of the man's body underneath the robe and duvet, even though he is doing his best to hide them.
Stephen bites his lip, looking down at the cellphone in his lap. "Not feeling well enough to deal with the Iron Giant-Ego today, my friend."
The cloak drifts side to side in an agitated fashion, hoping to convey its concern at the doctor's wellbeing.
Strange picks up on its body language immediately and waves his hand dismissively. "I'm fine. Really. It's just…."
When the doctor stops, he releases a small puff of air, and suddenly his eyes are more watery than before, and his face scrunches inwards, his lips sagging. The cloak flickers, temporarily taken-aback because something within the man's eyes reflects an indescribable emotion that the scarlet fabric cannot pinpoint. Is it fear? Anger? Or something else entirely? The crimson cloth wishes it could read its chosen's mind on a whim, but it is still learning about the complexity of human thoughts and emotions, as well as the particular quirks of its master.
Strange swallows and attempts a smile, but it's unconvincing.
"Just a hard day…"
The doctor insists that he is going to sleep for a few more hours and doesn't need anything. Reluctantly, the cloak leaves him, hoping Stephen can get some rest.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO DO? POISON ME?!"
The cloak thumps against a particularly sturdy armoire in its haste to see what all the fuss is about, gliding down the hallway towards Stephen's bedchamber. The doctor has not left his room in nearly four hours—a substantially long time considering Strange's usually restless temperament.
"Restless" being a mild way of putting it.
The cloak was getting a bit stir-crazy too. It spent a full hour perched on a bronze hat rack and watching people walk by on the street below. Apparently, sarcoline boots are in this season.
Therefore, the cloak makes haste in reaching Stephen's bedchamber, ready to whip into action and prepared to give substantial rug-burn to whichever vicious foe is bent on poisoning its master. Who could it be? the cloak wonders. Loki? Xandu? Umar? Or possibly, it's a non-mononymous villain with more than just a two-syllable name.
The cloak should be so lucky.
Consequently, the overgarment is shocked when it hovers into Strange's room only to see Wong at his bedside, stooped over the pale and prostrate doctor with something that looks like a coffee mug in his hands and an unimpressed look on his face.
"It's not poison. It's tea," Wong says flatly, acknowledging the cloak with a nod.
Stephen scowls, his face contorting.
Wong waits for a beat, expecting a response from the doctor. When there is none, he says, "You know—peppermint, rooibos, chamomile...oolong—"
"I know what tea is!" Strange hisses. "But that—whatever that is—is disgusting!"
Wong looks down at dark brown liquid in the cup. The cloak notices steam rising up from the warm mug—a fragrant aroma of ginger and something fruity…lemon?
"It is my specialty for sickness—it helps with fever—"
"My fever is not that high," Strange snaps and crosses his arms. "I will not be drinking any of that, thank you."
Wong just stares at Stephen and blinks. The cloak trembles slightly, waiting to see what the other man will do.
Strange throws Wong's gaze back at him until he realizes that his friend is trying to prove a point, and his frown deepens, causing a vein to appear on his forehead.
"Don't look at me like I'm a child!" he chides with contempt.
Wong just mutters, as unflappable as ever: "If the shoe fits, Strange…"
The man exits, and the cloak decides to follow after Wong, slinking back when Stephen turns his head the other way. The magical fabric is confused by this exchange. Why would Stephen reject his companion's help? Even if the drink's taste wasn't pleasant, at least he could be civil towards Wong.
"He's too proud," Wong whispers once they're out in the hallway. The cloak shuffles closer to the man. Wong's expression shows more frustration than it did when he was by Stephen's bedside, and the cloak realizes that the other man was keeping his emotions in check to help the doctor.
"Too proud to accept help. Or too stubborn. Or too stupid." Wong shrugs. "Possibly all three."
Wong looks down at his mug of tea again, thinking, and the cloak quavers beside him, not knowing what to do.
"What do you think?" Wong murmurs suddenly, his eyes bright. "You pin him down, I force open his mouth—he might swallow a few more ounces of it…" Wong's voice fades away. "I know—it's not the best plan." His face falls slightly, finally showing the man's real emotions; the cloak reads desperation and worry in Wong's eyes.
So it reaches out a tassel and pats Wong on the shoulder.
Wong grunts at the contact and straightens up. "Just watch him, cloak. Make sure he's all right."
Mug in hand, the housekeeper walks away.
As the day goes by, Dr. Strange gets worse.
A dry, persistent cough racks Stephen's slender frame and rattles the sturdy bed in which he tosses and turns. The cloak lingers by his doorway, staying partially hidden, afraid that Strange will become angry with it if it came too close or hovered too near.
So it waits, agonizing over each hour that Stephen drifts between sleeping and waking, body shivering, teeth-chattering like ice clinking in a glass. It unnerves the cloak and also makes it wish that it could do more for its chosen.
Finally, the sound of quiet voices conspiring at the base of the stairs—one male, one female—awakes the cloak from its reverie. Wong must have called Christine Palmer to check on Stephen. Sure enough, as soon as the cloak ducks into the hallway, it glimpses the nurse heading its way. She is wearing a long light blue coat and brown boots, her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. Her hazel eyes are clear and determined.
The cloak quivers with excitement and relief. At last—Strange will be looked after.
"Good afternoon." Christine greets the cloak warmly with a shy smile. It knows that the nurse is still getting used to Strange's profession, even though a few years have gone by since he became a sorcerer. The Sanctum's wonders can still be overwhelming to the cloak on occasion—so it understands Christine's awkwardness in addressing a magical piece of fabric.
She steps into the musty bedchamber, the cloak wobbling at her heels. "Stephen?" Palmer calls softly, blinking in the dim light.
Strange stirs, groaning, and pushing his comforter off his chest with a claw of a hand, but he doesn't wake.
She approaches his bed, leaning over. The cloak ripples with envy as she places her palm on his forehead. Christine frowns at the contact.
"He's a furnace," she says to the cloak.
Stephen's eyes flash open, and crimson cloth reads a hint of mortification before the doctor utters a string of meaningful syllables, an incantation.
"Stephen—" Palmer begins, but the sides of her coat whip backwards by a harsh wind, as if someone had left the windows open during a hurricane. The cloak fluctuates against the supernatural breeze and hastens to the other side of Stephen's bed to be out of his aim. His eyes are glinting grey stones. The nurse's eyes connect with Strange's—a brief moment of recognition—and then gold sparks are flying from the doctor's fingertips, and Christine is floating backwards to the hallway, frozen in place by invisible arms. She lets out a shriek and his bedchamber door slams in her face.
All is calm in the bedroom, as if Palmer was never there.
The cloak scrambles from behind the bed, pausing to observe Stephen (a smug look on his wan face) before rushing to the door.
Hurried footsteps and a lower voice outside—Wong! Christine is whispering with the martial arts expert again. The doorknob turns and jams. Strange has conveniently locked it.
"Oh, c'mon, Stephen!" Christine's voice is exasperated. Her words are followed by muffled pounding on the door. "Let me in!"
"What did you expect?" Strange retorts, his voice more gravelly and weaker than before. He coughs violently into his elbow.
Then a call from Christine: "I expected you to be less dramatic!"
Stephen chuckles only to succumb to another dry coughing fit. He lunges for a tissue and spits into it, moaning. Sweat is shining on his brow again.
"Recall one of the oldest maxims in the medical profession," Stephen says loudly once he recovers from coughing. "Doctors make the worst patients."
"So don't be a cliché!" Palmer's cry is muted from the barrier between them. "Admit that you're sick and need help."
"I feel just fine," insists Strange, his voice as gruff as a grizzly bear.
"Symptoms of influenza," Palmer persists. "Fever over 100.4, aching muscles, chills and sweats, headache, cough, fatigue, weakness, nasal congestion, and a sore throat. Tell me you don't have all of those symptoms—"
"NOT TODAY!" the doctor cries, his voice booming out, his eyes glowing.
Everything goes quiet. Not even the cloak makes a sound, hanging mid-air motionlessly.
"Don't mess with me today," Stephen mutters, and without acknowledging the cloak (so unlike him) he curls into a ball on his left side and closes his eyes.
The cloak pauses for a moment and then whirls around to face the door again. A hushed conversation starts back up on the other side, but it can't make out what Wong or Christine are saying. Then, double-checking that Strange isn't paying any attention, the cloak wraps part of its cape around the doorknob and twists.
No effect. It is locked in with Dr. Strange.
At 8 P.M., Dr. Strange begins to scream.
What starts out as mumbling gibberish turns into semi-coherent sentences. At first, the cloak thinks that Stephen is merely dreaming and talking in his sleep, but soon the sentences take a darker twist. The cloak, flittering up and down Strange's bedside, only manages to understand random phrases here and there:
"No….. Donna…I can't see… too dark… come back. Don't go…"
Moonlight spills upon his bed, illuminating his colorless face. Then Stephen's eyes flick open and, wildly, he thrashes in his bed. The regular speech turns to shouts, his mouth curled downwards in an expression of absolute despair.
"DONNA! DON'T GO! DONNA! DONNA!"
The cloak swings around to grab his arm, to support him, to comfort him, but the doctor doesn't seem to notice its presence. His screams continue, one tortured cry after another, until the cloak hears Christine and Wong shouting for Strange on the other side of the door. Their pounding is more frantic this time.
"Donna…" he says weakly, swallowing. Tears are streaming down his face. The cloak presses against his back, soothing, trying to calm the agitated man, but Stephen ignores it and instead gets to his feet and stumbles. The cloak just manages to whisk to the right side of the bed in time to partially catch his fall, but his ankle twists in the jumble of bare limbs and scarlet fabric. Strange moans as the cloak sets him gently down on the carpeted floor. It pats his face (skin sticky and glaringly hot) but he doesn't stir.
And that's when the cloak realizes it has had enough.
Smoothly, it pulsates across the room in an instant, thumping heavily against the wooden door as a warning to the sorcerer's friends outside. Hopefully, they will take the hint and steer clear. Gauging the strength of the entrance, its lock, and the magic that holds it strong, the cloak back tracks, shifting to a horizontal position, collar facing the door. Then it surges forward, like a wine-colored torpedo, bursting the door open with one solid crash!
Dazed, the cloak shakes itself off. Wood splinters fall like snowflakes from its cape. Wong and Christine stand in the hallway, both of their mouths hanging open in shock. It's the kind of picture that Stephen would have gladly paid money to see if he was in his right mind.
Wong comes to his senses faster than Christine. He sidles up to the cloak, eyeing it along with the destruction all around them.
"I didn't know you could do that," he says in a low tone. He nods, as if to himself, and surveys the damage. "Good to know."
"Stephen!" Palmer is already inside the doctor's bedchamber, picking her way through the shards of wood, and rushing to the man on the floor. "Wong!" she cries seconds later.
Wong races through the entrance to join her. The cloak lingers in the destroyed entryway, still dazed. It watches as the two quickly lift Stephen's limp body onto his bed. Palmer produces a medicine bottle from her coat pocket, and when Strange rouses at their touch, she helps him swallow a few pills without protest.
"You do a great job of scaring the crap out of us on a regular basis," Christine says eventually as she checks Stephen's vitals. "You know that, right?"
Stephen is about to say something when Palmer shoves a thermometer in his mouth.
"Fluids," she says briskly, more command than suggestion. "Then sleep and more fluids." The thermometer beeps, and she removes it. "101. I think your fever has broken, thanks to the medicine."
Wong scrambles out of the bedchamber and returns minutes later with another cup of steaming tea, bringing it up to the doctor's nose. Christine helps prop him up with pillows, and this time Strange drinks the tea silently, gratefully. Wong watches while standing over him, arms crossed, undeniably pleased.
Meanwhile, the cloak still idles by the shattered door, taking everything in. It slides up and down the splintered wood of the doorframe compulsively, nervously. It doesn't know whether to be relieved or terrified or angry at its chosen for so blatantly refusing treatment and endangering his own life. Strange can be reckless, but doesn't the man realize how much he hurts his friends in the process?
"Cloak…?" Strange's raspy voice is barely above a wave lapping on a shore. The three humans look in the cloak's direction, and it oscillates away, billowing down the hallway at a medium pace.
It finds a rarely-used closet and burrows its way inside, finding peace in the darkness and old coats and smell of dust. Anything to get away from the image of Stephen on the floor, unmoving and trapped while the cloak hovered nearby, absolutely helpless.
It is a fickle thing…
The cloak wonders about the Ancient One's description of it for a moment.
Maybe I am…
It certainly is quite useless most of the time.
Before the cloak can grovel in its own self-deprecation any longer, the door to the closet whips open. Wong is staring at it, his expression as mild and unemotional as ever.
"I know all your favorite hiding places."
Wong walks with the cloak back to the doctor's bedchamber, insisting that Stephen called for it. Halfway there, Wong reaches for his back pocket where his cellphone is buzzing away. He looks at the caller and groans peevishly before denying the call.
"Tony Stark has been trying to contact me all day after Stephen hung up on him this morning."
The cloak ruffles quizzically. Why would Stark be trying to get hold of Wong?
"It's Stephen's birthday in a couple of days, and apparently the Avengers want to throw him some kind of surprise party."
Birthday? The cloak had almost forgotten! Last year, Wong baked Stephen an enormous Bavarian chocolate cake. Hopefully Stephen will be well enough to celebrate his birthday this year. And knowing how much the sorcerer loathes surprise parties would make the event Stark is planning unmissable for the housekeeper and overgarment.
Wong must have picked up on the cloak's eagerness because he responds: "Yeah, I can't wait to see the look on his face. He's gonna kill Stark."
As the pair enter the sorcerer's room, Strange is commenting on the peculiarity of having no door—perhaps he only just realized it was missing.
"When did that happen?" he asks, bewildered.
Palmer says, "When you idiotically locked yourself in your own room and the cloak had to break it open and rescue you."
"Typical," Wong says dryly.
The cloak flutters towards Strange warily, uncertain in its movements. Stephen perks up at the sight of it. Dark circles rest under his eyes, but his face has a little more color than before. In the light of his bedside lamp that Wong switches on, Strange reaches out a hand. The cloak examines it cautiously.
"I'm sorry," its chosen whispers, serious. "Will you forgive me… for my actions?"
The cloak drifts down to Strange's bed like a sigh and unfolds itself in his lap like a blanket, wrapping around one of his arms to give him a solid handshake. Stephen returns the gesture and relaxes back against his pillows, shivering slightly.
"Rest," repeats Palmer again, an edge in her voice this time. "Good night, Stephen."
"G'night, Christine," Strange mutters sleepily, and Wong turns off his bedside lamp with a click. "G'night, Wong."
"Good night, Stephen," Wong says. "Good night, Cloak."
Christine begins: "G'night, Cloa—"
"I just want to make the comment," Wong interrupts, "that what we're doing right now is totally unnecessary."
Christine chuckles as the two pick their way through the mess of wood splinters.
The glow from the hallway illuminates the pair's figures, and then that light eventually shuts off too, and the cloak is left alone with Stephen in the dark. The glow of moonlight drifts across his face, and he appears exhausted yet coherent.
"Cloak…"
The crimson fabric rustles at its chosen's voice, stirring to reassure him that it's still there.
"Do you know who Donna was?"
The cloak wiggles again, indicating a negative.
"She was my younger sister."
The cloak quirks up its collar. It wasn't aware that Strange had any siblings. Although, it wouldn't be completely surprising, because he has never said anything in the cloak's presence about his family.
"I had just started college in New York. Pre-med. For my nineteenth birthday, I went back home to Nebraska for a weekend. My family owned a farm. Donna was there. She was seventeen and couldn't wait to tell me about her plans for college… She wanted to be a vet. Loved animals. Almost as much as she loved Natalie Merchant." He smiles faintly then continues. "We decided to go swimming one evening. I'm not sure why. It was early November, after all, and freezing. But she wanted to go, and the lake was really close to our parents' farm. So we went.
"It was really crisp that night—and the stars were magnificent. Each one was so clear. We started in the shallows and then Donna wanted to swim farther out. I kept telling her it was dangerous, but she was a strong swimmer and wasn't worried. I chickened out and kept closer to the shore… I never even saw her go under. They say that people who are drowning usually don't make a sound, don't cry out for help. She might have splashed, but it was so dark… I didn't see her… and she was…gone."
In the dim light, Strange chokes back a sob. The cloak wraps itself tighter around him, comforting, aching for its chosen, at last realizing the significance of his melancholy this time of year, why Dr. Strange told Wong and the cloak that he had not celebrated his birthday in years after Wong presented him with the cake.
"We found her body the next morning. She must have gotten a cramp and… I searched for hours that night, trying to find her, calling out her name, freezing…" Stephen shivers, teeth chattering. "My parents told me it wasn't my fault. Everyone said it wasn't my fault. But, deep down, I knew it was. I still blame myself. And when I went back to New York, nothing was the same. Medical school wasn't the same. I didn't have the optimism I once had for the profession. I didn't look at patients with compassion any more in case I… in case I couldn't save them."
Tears pour down Stephen's cheeks, and the cloak brushes them away before settling back down.
"Donna died on this day 23 years ago. She would have been 40 this year. The last thing she ever said to me was: 'Stephen, isn't it beautiful?'"
Silence. Man and magical fabric lie quietly.
"Cloak…"
The cloak stirs again.
"You're not going away, are you?"
The cloak stretches itself out, pressing against his chest gently, as if to say: Never. Now go to sleep.
And Stephen must understand and believe it, because in a few moments, he is sleeping peacefully at last. The cloak settles around its chosen and waits for the dawn.
A/N: Extra kudos and virtual cupcakes to a Guest reviewer and KarToon12 for inspiration for this ficlet in wanting a story about the anniversary of Donna's death, more cloak POV, and cloak interaction with Wong and Christine.
Confession—Chapter 8 took a lot out of me, which is probably why it took so long for Chapter 9 to get written and posted. But I put a lot of heart and soul into this one, and I thoroughly loved going back and re-discovering these characters.
I will still be updating this fic as often as I can (and when inspiration hits). But please be patient with me. And keep sending me ideas for one-shots! I have a lengthy list going of all kinds of ideas for ficlets reviewers send me, and it's fantastically helpful!
Next one-shot: It's Stephen to the rescue when the cloak becomes trapped in a hidden room of the Sanctum that holds many dark secrets.
I have been honored and amazed that so many people enjoy these little ficlets—your response continues to surprise me. Truly, thank you.
~Ista ^_^
A message from The Science of Deduction- SH: They are working on uploading a new chapter but it might take longer due to college commitments. Please don't worry, readers! They haven't forgotten you! :)
The Magic Within: Re: your Chapter 6 review…Thank you again for your thorough and honest feedback! I like mixing up writing styles as often as I can or I get bored. So having Stephen take notes diary-style was another way to show his thought-processes. I'm glad that you enjoyed Stephen trying to cheer up the cloak and their anniversary celebration. Awww-I blush at your praise! Thank you muchly. Also, your wish is my command—Stephen will be proving himself by going BAMF in front of the Avengers in Chapter 11. Re: your Chapter 7 review… I'm glad I could make your day again by responding! Yes, I was trying to think of a way to make the cloak more miserable and demonstrate its willingness to help Stephen no matter how uncomfortable it is—snow worked well for that. I'm also flattered that you enjoy my interpretation of the cloak. I channel a little bit of Data from Star Trek and a little bit of Spock, too, when I write it. I see it not lacking in emotion, but it has a lot to learn about people and its inquisitiveness is always present in its interactions with Strange. I shall be responding to more of your reviews with future chapters! Thanks again for your thoughtfulness and detailed feedback!
Kat: Yeah, I think it has to do with each individual author's preference for a name. The cool thing about fanfiction is you can do almost anything you want with the characters. I try to stay as true to the story as I can while also injecting a lot of my own interests and personality quirks. (And I secretly love the name Vincent). Haha But I will stick with "Cloak" for now. Thank you for the review!
Aria: Thanks so much for your fantabulous review!
TheWayfaringStra: I'm so glad you enjoy the fluffiness! I agree that the randomness of this relationship is one of the things I love most about it. The bond between a man and his cloak cannot be broken!