And All That Could Have Been

(N. Clevenger March 2024)

Notes: Okay, so this was started almost a year ago, in response to a Whumpril prompt (Day 7: "You look pale.") and a random Tumblr post. Then life happened and stuff, and I stopped writing. I've tried to round it off into something more complete, but I don't feel like I really managed it. I'm posting it anyway because there are bits I really do like, and on the off chance that anyone out there in the fandom has missed me. Set just before The Multiverse of Madness, MCU canon. The title is a Nine Inch Nails song.

They don't belong to me, because look at what I do to them.

"God, you look terrible," Christine greets him as he opens the door. "Have you been sick? I've been calling you all week."

"Good morning to you too," Stephen grumbles, turning and heading for the kitchen. He desperately needs some coffee.

She closes the front door and follows him. "I left, like, four messages."

Five. All of which he'd only gotten yesterday. The effects from his battle with that slime army had lingered for days, and that disgusting concoction Wong had eventually forced down his throat had knocked him out for two and a half more. "Been busy."

"Too busy to return a phone call?"

"Busy." There's a hazy memory of Wong finding him trembling and useless on the bathroom floor, of the other man filling the big claw-footed tub with water. He's still not sure that it wasn't just a fever dream.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee spills out of the kitchen into the hallway, pulling him through the door. Stephen leans against the counter next to the machine. Scattered black flecks in the grout whisper of the difficulty he'd had making it; he thought he'd done a better job of cleaning up after he'd dropped the bag of grounds. He'd known he was in trouble when he'd woken to find his hands contracted claws, trapped between his torso and the mattress. Definitely a sign of bad things to come.

Christine takes a seat at the table. The Cloak hovers behind an empty chair; Stephen wonders if it's supposed to be a hint. "Maybe you should think about taking a break, if you're so busy," she says. "You look pale."

"Sure. I'll just let the next invading horde know I've got a doctor's note."

Christine gives him a dirty look. "I'm serious."

"So am I." He turns away from her, opens a cabinet and reaches for a mug. The end of his left ring finger unexpectedly lights up with pain, the finger cramping sharply at the distal knuckle, and ceramic clinks loudly as the cup he's holding rattles against the others on the shelf. He's missed too many doses of his gabapentin this week, those that he did manage not all staying down long enough to make a difference.

You had a seizure. A glass vial being pressed to his lips.

The mug makes it safely to the counter. "When's the last time you ate anything?" she asks his back.

He can't remember. His body seesaws between nauseous and ravenous so quickly that he has to close his eyes and take a breath. "You want coffee?" he grunts instead of answering.

"No. It's almost lunchtime."

"Is it?" He's not even completely sure what day it is.

Behind him Christine exhales, an ominous gust of breath. "So… I came over because I need to tell you something."

Christ. In all of human history, has anything good ever followed that sentence? "Can it wait until after I've had coffee?" The full pot wobbles in his hand, the stream wavering as he fills the mug.

"It can wait an entire week, apparently."

Stephen picks up the mug and turns around. The heat feels amazing, melting through knotted muscles and sparking nerves. So good that he forgets for a moment that he's meant to drink from it. The steam wafts over his face, curls about his hanging head.

"Bad day?" she asks gently.

He lifts his head enough to blink at her, sees her eyes on his bare chest beneath his open hoodie; he hadn't been able to manage the motor control to zip it up. Her frown says she's not admiring the view. He doesn't want the sympathy he hears softening her voice. "Storm coming." He'd known since the minute he woke up, really, had checked to confirm when he realized he only had one oxy left. He's going to need to deal with that sometime today.

"Have you taken anything?"

Just his daily aspirin, the gabapentin. The first a prophylactic against blood clots, nowhere near a high enough dose to even make a dent in the pain. He's hoping that the second is planning to kick in soon. "No. It'll be fine." Probably. But likely only if he can find company for that solitary pill sitting in his medicine cabinet.

There's always that tincture lurking somewhere under the sink, the one they'd only tried once due to the side effects. Wong's still working on refining it, as far Stephen knows. It won't cut the pain as much as the oxy, but it's certainly better than the baby aspirin. Tremors and hallucinations aside, he remembers it was a decent analgesic.

"Need me to write you any refills? What dosage are you at these days?"

There's no reason she should know. He tries to recall the last time he'd actually spoken to her. "I've got one." Or he will once he actually calls it in. Stephen twists his neck to try to get at a persistent kink in the muscle. Deprives one hand of the soothing warmth to rub at the bridge of his nose. The crushing headache has finally dulled, thank god, but it hasn't yet left completely.

"You look really shaky," Christine says. "Come sit down and drink your coffee, so I can tell you my news."

He wants to go back to bed. The hot coffee scalds a bright path down his throat when he takes a sip. "Just tell me," he growls.

"Well…" She looks down at her hands on the table, back up to his face. "Charlie proposed."

It's a punch to the gut, a door slamming in his face. He keeps his spine pressed against the counter so as not to double over. For one long moment, the words completely blank his mind. His thoughts come rushing back tumbling and clamorous and crowded, and his mouth picks one at random. "Why? Are you pregnant?"

Hurt flickers over her features, is quickly tucked away. "Jesus, Stephen. You're supposed to say congratulations."

He's doing his best to keep his own face blank. "That's not a no."

"No. I'm not pregnant. Not that it's any of your business. We're in love."

Stephen snorts. "I certainly hope so. Otherwise it's going to be awkwa–" The sentence snaps as his right hand suddenly spasms. The left doesn't compensate quickly enough, and the mug slips from his grasp; it shatters against the floor in an impressive explosion of ceramic and liquid and a gasp from the other side of the table. The muscles across his palm convulse again before he can decide what to do about it. vHis bare foot stings, somewhere to put his focus beyond the intense cramping. He vaguely notes the dark coffee splattered across his skin.

Christine shifts at the edge of his vision. "You okay? Where's a towel? I'll –"

"I've got it," he forces through clenched teeth, cradling his right hand. He tells himself the spasms are fading. It might be true.

She's still talking, still moving, still rising from the chair. A glint off a ring he hadn't noticed before. "Don't be silly, I can –"

"Said I've got it," Stephen snaps, obstinately reaching for the first spell that comes to mind. A pocket of time snags, reverses, and the mug reconstructs itself midair, solid and liquid racing back to the whole. He even manages to get the thing onto the table before the magic backlashes and the kitchen dissolves into a disturbingly humming grey. Trying for a smirk, he's not sure he manages it; he grabs for the solidity of the counter behind him, the only steady thing in this sea of subtle motion. Christine says something but he can't translate the words. The choked noise he makes is no kind of response anyway.

His head's floating, trying to pull away from his body. He's putting all his focus into not falling over, not throwing up.

She's got a hold on his arm; it's the first thing to really register as the kitchen begins to fade back in around him. "For fuck's sake, Stephen, move your feet," her voice is saying, syllables without substance until he understands that she's awkwardly supporting the bulk of his weight. A few staggered steps and a lot of help from Christine, and he makes it to a chair before his legs fold.

She immediately swarms him, her concern everywhere. "Are you okay? Tell me what's happening." Two fingers to his carotid to check his pulse; she doesn't look pleased with what she finds. "Stephen? I need you to talk to me."

Except it seems that every time he opens his mouth to speak, another rogue outburst from his hand takes a little more of his breath away. Instead he grinds his teeth together through the familiar pain, riding the spaces between the waves until he's hunched and spent, blinking dully at the mugs sitting on the table directly in front of him. Blurry and doubled, the restored coffee steams along merrily. Mockingly whole and undamaged.

Unlike him.

His hand twitches through another wrenching throb, and he makes a noise that he wishes he hadn't. The left one ineffectually cups the other, far too achy on its own to try for any kind of alleviating massage.

"Talk to me now, before I decide I have to call somebody. I don't like how tachy you are. Is it your hands? Where are your meds? I'll go grab them."

She's slipped completely into Doctor Palmer mode; he doesn't need it, doesn't want to try and explain about the magic sickness compounding everything. She's not going to find any pills for that. "You sure you're not practicing to be somebody's mother?" he grumbles instead, hoping to annoy her into giving him some space. She ignores him, but pulls away to fill a glass from the sink. "Surely you need to be getting back to your fiancé…" he tries again. There's more venom behind the word than he expected.

It clearly surprises her too, and stung she freezes, glass in hand. The hurt's draped over her face now. "God, I don't know what I was expecting. I thought we could be adults about this. That I owed it to you to tell you in person, before you heard from somebody else." She sets the water on the table beside his abandoned coffee. Her hand doesn't tremble the way her voice does. "I don't know why I thought maybe you'd be happy for me, or at least pretend to be. I should've known you'd make this about your feelings instead."

Stephen sneers. "And Charlie doesn't have feelings, I suppose."

"Of course he does. He just doesn't take them out on me."

This statement coincides with a particularly nasty cramp across his palm; pain makes his eyes water, and he blinks furiously before she sees it and gets the wrong idea.

Doesn't matter. Christine's not looking at him anyway. "Last chance," she says, grabbing her purse from where it hangs over the chair. "I've got to run to make my lunch date. Can I do anything for you before I go, or should I just trust you're going to figure it out on your own?"

The thought of climbing all those stairs to get to his bathroom and that oxy makes him want to drop his head on this table and moan for a bit first. It's not what he says. "It's fine. Go. Be sure to tell Charlie I said hi."

"You're an ass. Drink that water."

"Yes, Mom."

"Ass."

He puts his head down on the cool wood and listens to her let herself out through the big front door.

With his head resting comfortably on her leg, he watches his thoughts wander about the room. It's hours, days later, but the rain still flings itself against the windows. He wishes it would end. Does he know a spell to stop a storm? If he did, he doesn't know it now. Honestly, at the moment he's having a bit of trouble holding on to his own name. Maybe he can find a spell. Or possibly a new name.

Christine twists her fingers gently through his hair; he tries to focus long enough to make his plans. If he ducks through the doorway to Nepal, he can check the library, see if he can find some obscure piece of magic to send the storm away. Or maybe it's okay, maybe he doesn't need to.

Stephen idly tries to judge the height of the waves forming out in the street, to decide if they look likely to breach the windows. It probably doesn't matter. If they do, he does recall the spell to levitate the sofa.

Besides, he's not sure he can get up even if he decides to. The intricate pattern she weaves over his scalp is hypnotic, soothing, and he's exhausted. The pain's mostly a memory now, leaving him heavy and drained. He could definitely sleep here, if only that damn brass band in the corner would quit playing their overly jubilant swing versions of familiar classic rock hits. They're ignoring his protests. Worse, they're ignoring his requests. Stephen shifts his focus to the ceiling, watching as a diagram of the human nervous system details itself colorfully across the plaster.

His hands rest on his stomach, twitching occasionally. After falling asleep for a bit at the kitchen table, he'd managed to make it upstairs with some help from the Cloak, but the oxy had proved frustratingly useless. After a half hour of waiting for it to ease some of the relentless aching in his hands or his head, he'd fumbled around under the bathroom sink until he found the vial of greenish liquid. It tasted even more disgusting than he remembered.

Kicked in faster too. He'd wandered into the library with a vague idea of finding something distracting to read to pass some time, but before he'd chosen anything the thought had left him. The next thing he remembers is the Cloak tugging at his arm, and finding himself standing in the middle of the room staring down at his bare feet. He has no idea how long he'd been stuck there. Just knows that he'd barely made it to the sofa before he collapsed.

But now he's good, so good, floating in a near-absence of pain that's pure bliss compared to what had come before. Floating along the waves on his trusty sofa, Christine humming softly above him as she plays with his hair. The band strikes up an echo of her song.

Apparently her requests they'll listen to. His attention drifts, meanders back.

Wong's standing on the other side of the low coffee table, frowning his Wongiest frown. On the ceiling the anatomy lesson has focused in on a pair of hands, lined and labeled and reconstructed with metal pins. He traces them in the air with a crooked finger.

"What are you doing?" his newest guest asks.

Stephen squints at him across the expanse of water, debating whether to bother to answer. The ghost looks solid enough, but so does the band behind it. And he's not so sure about them, not since they all morphed into giant lizards.

Hasn't affected their playing, though. He closes his eyes, focuses instead on Christine's humming. It's softer now. Almost lost under the band's noise.

"You are intoxicated," the hallucination decides.

At some point that he'd missed, the song playing has inexplicably shifted to "Tainted Love." Soft Cell, 1981, his brain supplies automatically. "If I am, s'your fault," he mumbles sleepily over the chorus.

"I don't know what that means."

"Means go away. Crowded enough in here already."

"Hmmm…"

"Hmmmmm," Stephen petulantly hums back. His entire body vibrates with the sound.

It's somewhat unpleasant; he quickly stops doing it. And yet his legs continue to tremble, an undeniable twitch sparking repeatedly somewhere between calves and ankles. He shifts restlessly on the sofa, and Christine's fingers go motionless in his hair. Slitting open his eyes, he peeks at the hallucination. Still present, still solid. Still frowning. Still Wong. "Go away. We're fine."

The other man's gaze darts around the room before it returns to his face. "We," Wong repeats flatly.

"Yes, we." The tremors are creeping up toward his hips now, shortening both his patience and his tone. "Don't know what you want anyway."

"I came to check on you."

Somebody laughs, an ugly strangled sound. "Not even a very good impression," Stephen complains. "Way too concerned for Wong. I knew you weren't real."

"Not – ?" The figure takes a couple of steps around the table before it stops waist-deep in the surf. "You're hallucinating," he guesses, remarkably unaffected by all the water.

"Probably. Took some more of that green crap you mixed up. The real you, that is."

"I am the real me."

"Uh-huh." Stephen gets an elbow underneath him, starts to push himself up. "Tell you what, let's ask Chris–"

But she's gone, a decorative throw pillow in the place of her thighs. "Dammit." Had she even been here earlier? Unexpectedly, his eyes sting; propped up on unsteady arms he lets his head hang through a swell of dizziness. Clearing his throat, he mutters, "Just proves my point. None of you are real."

"You're wrong," Wong proclaims, leaving no space in the room for an argument. He closes the distance to the couch with the speed of a thought, waves parted by his path. "And now you will sleep in your bed."

Stephen doesn't lift his head to look at the figment standing over him. What's the point? "M'okay here. Go sing with the band, Beyoncé."

"You're still not recovered. You should be in bed."

The hand is warm on his arm. Real. But so seem the waves rocking the sofa, and he's beginning to think they may not be. There's a tiny voice pointing out that there have never been waves in here before. Is he even still in the library? His mind bounces around, pinging off stray thoughts that he can't hold onto. A tremor runs up his arms and into both shoulders, shakes out a low moan. Doesn't matter. He's probably the only one actually here anyway.

The hand moves up to cup his shoulder. "Come with me."

His body bows to the calm authority in the voice without his brain registering it; Stephen slowly twists into a sitting position on the edge of the cushions. The room rolls around inside his skull for a moment before it settles, and the sound he hears himself make is way too similar to another moan. "Not sure I'm gonna be able to get up. Not without help," he mumbles.

He'd been hoping the Cloak was nearby, that it would take the hint and come to his aid. He's surprised when it's the hallucination that pulls him smoothly to his feet. A fresh wave of vertigo slumps him against the other man. Wong seems substantial enough.

"Huh. Maybe you are here." Stephen's not feeling particularly certain of anything right now.

"Of course I am. Stop talking and walk."

For fuck's sake, Stephen, move your feet. The trumpet player waves a stubby arm goodbye. "M'trying," he protests, taking a wobbly step forward through the water. A tremor rattles its way up from his toes and he groans. "M'trying."

They make it out of the library before he trips over his own feet. The hand on his arm tightens, keeps him from falling. "Sorry.".

"No, I'm the one who's sorry," Wong murmurs. "I should have come up with something better for you by now."

"I'm sure the real you is working on it," Stephen assures him.

"I am the real me," Wong sighs.

He watches as his bare feet stretch to comic proportions, as if he needed something else to make this whole walking thing more complicated. At least he's already upstairs, doesn't have to climb all those stairs again. "This sucks," he hears himself say from somewhere down the hallway.

"Come on. We're almost there."

Stephen looks up to see that the hallway has elongated too. "If you say so."

"I say so. Walk."

He does the best he can with his mangled balance and floppy feet. It's a surprise when their path suddenly rubberbands back and they're at his bedroom door. "Hey, look at that," he says. "We made it."

"Nearly," Wong corrects him. "Keep walking."

"Oh, right. Yeah." He stumbles the last few steps, crashes face first down onto the rumpled sheets. They smell of stale sweat, sickness. He doesn't move, legs hanging off the side of the mattress and feet still touching the floor. The lizard band pushes past one another to get through the doorway, in a hurry to set up in this new space. Their first song is "Hot Blooded."

Foreigner, 1978, his memory offers. He doesn't want to be awake anymore.

Wong nudges him further up onto the mattress, lifting Stephen's legs onto the bed. It's unaccountably gentle, and suddenly he finds himself on the verge of tears once more. "Christine's getting married," he remembers, the words half lost in his pillow. It hurts all over again.

He thinks he feels the other man freeze for a moment before reanimating. The comforter is pulled up over his back, settling like an old friend. "I'm sorry," Wong says softly.

"Way too compassionate," Stephen mumbles into the creases of the pillowcase. "Not Wongish enough."

The hallucination huffs, a dismissive puff of air. "Sleep, Strange. I'll be back to look in on you later."

"Sure. Whatever." The band shifts into "Dream a Little Dream of Me." Cute. He struggles, but the only name he can come up with is Doris Day. Wong evaporates while he's working on it, if he was even around to begin with.

Stephen decides not to worry about it. He closes his eyes, letting the lizard men play him off into a dark and unusually dreamless sleep.