Working Man
drewbug (July 2024)
Notes: One last time for Tumblr's Whumperless Whump event. Warnings for whump for whump's sake and for brief but repeated descriptions of vomiting. MCU canon, but set at no particular time. The title is a song by Rush. Never going to be mine.
He's crumbling like the concrete dam he's struggling to keep together, every new crack feeling like it's forming underneath his skin. Terrified townspeople scatter across the grass below him, all fleeing in different directions. He thinks the Avengers have evacuated most of them. Can't really afford the focus to check.
Pressure building behind his eyes like the water pushing against the failing wall, his hands burning, cramping in their constant motion. The magic pulses rather than flows now, slippery surges of power that dim without warning under the roaring in his ears. Grinding his teeth, he winds the tendrils deeper into the cement. He notes the huge green body of the Hulk out of the corner of an eye; concrete splinters in a new area, begins to leak as a result of his distraction. A bead of sweat crawls down the side of his face.
He only needs to hold on until the last of the villagers are out of the valley. They've got to be close. Surely they're close.
Something snaps, whiplashes back. It knocks him sideways. Flickers his concentration. His low moan is carried off by the wind as he reorients; modulating it into a growl, he pushes back at the resistance. There's a twinge of pain in his chest, sharp and scary, and a hot nausea floods his throat. The cacophony in his ears tightens to a high-pitched ring.
'-nge… Hey, Strange! You can let it go now. Yoohoo, Strange… can you he–" The buzzing voice registers just as it's cut off. "Holy shit. Okay. You are not okay."
He can't spare the brain cells for identification, not when he's so close to losing his grip. Not when everything hurts so much. Somebody flitters in the air beside him, too near. A metal glove bobs in and out of his line of sight. Red and gold.
"- everyone out. Doc? You hear me? It's okay to let it go."
Recognition comes slowly. Stark. "But…" The world blurs, returns slightly out of focus.
"Everyone's been evacuated. You need to let it go."
Stephen watches his lips move, but it takes a minute for the words to make sense. The magic sputters before any real intention to cut it off, and his vision goes grey as the dam explodes outward, water flooding into the valley below them. The Cloak stiffens around him as his body slumps. It still feels as if he's falling.
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he forces them open he's in motion. Stark keeping pace at his left shoulder, still talking, the hillside coming up fast. He stumbles a step when his boots touch the rocky grass. The billionaire touches down with far more grace.
" – okay?" Stark's asking, faceplate up and eyes concerned. "I only ask on account of how you're bleeding. From your face."
"Huh?" He unconsciously mimics the other man's motion, finds the blood dripping sluggishly from his nose. He swipes at it with a sleeve. "Oh. I'm fine."
"Huh." Stark doesn't look convinced. "Well you're the doctor, I guess."
"I'm fine," Stephen repeats, because it seems to need repeating. He wills Stark to drop it.
"Sure." Something over Stephen's shoulder grabs his attention. "Looks like Cap wants us."
"Right behind you." He's hollowed out, ridiculously shaky. Not at all in the mood to listen to whatever it is that Rogers has to say. Now that the immediate danger is past, he'd retreat to the privacy of the Sanctum if he thought he had the energy to open a portal. Let the Avengers sort things out until reinforcements arrive. Stark starts walking that way, but Stephen's feet refuse to immediately follow.
Rogers waits near the rear of the Quinjet, his frown visible even from here. Beyond him, injured survivors spread across the grass in front of the thick treeline. There must be at least sixty of them lying sprawled or standing around. Most of those who are conscious stare mournfully at the new river where their homes used to be. Those on their feet group together in twos and threes.
A cold weakness drizzles through him; he wavers. Again the Cloak does its best to stabilize him through the misty grey that fades in and out of his vision. Christ, he wants to sit down. Instead he locks his knees, makes himself lift his head. Rogers still points that frown this way. Stephen wipes his nose one more time, scowling at the dark smudge left behind on the blue sleeve.
He makes himself pick up a boot, put it down. Reluctantly, the other repeats the action. Once the Cloak recognizes what it is that he's trying to do it shifts priorities, engages itself in keeping him upright and moving in the correct general direction. Good thing, too, since walking's making him dizzy as hell.
"Nice work out there," Rogers says when Stephen reaches him. "Shield's still two hours out. We've got a lot of injured. We could use a doctor."
For a long moment Stephen just blinks at him. His head feels like it's going to float off his shoulders, the dizziness making friends with the nausea. Behind Rogers, Romanov guides a pale Banner into the back of the plane. He's wrapped in a blanket. Stark has disappeared. Stephen shifts his focus back to the Captain, struggling to remember what they were talking about.
RIght. His medical degree. His hands are screaming, worse than useless, and he's becoming more sure by the second that he's going to throw up. He doesn't explain all of this to Rogers. "Sure," he mumbles instead, already turning away. He needs to get out of here.
"Wait, where are you going?"
He looks back to see Rogers holding out one of the jet's first-aid kits. HIs body flushes hot then cold, his head throbbing. He takes the duffel without argument. Needs to keep moving. "This way."
"You could at least occasionally do people the courtesy of having an entire conversation."
"I'll remember that," Stephen tosses over his shoulder.
He's headed for the relative privacy of the other side of the Quinjet. Isn't sure he's going to make it. Saliva pools beneath his tongue. He swallows, swallows again. FInally recognizing his unease, the Cloak lifts him a few inches off the ground and propels him that way. It doesn't do much for the vertigo, but it's faster than walking. With the artifact's help, he manages to get out of sight before he empties his stomach.
The metal shell of the jet is cool under his hand when he comes back to himself, bent in half and propped up by the plane. He coughs, spits. Wiping his mouth with a sleeve, he remembers the blood. His nose. The hairs on his upper lip are wet, stuck together, the skin around them tacky. Stephen sniffs. He uses the sleeve to dab at the blood. Probably doesn't accomplish as much as he's hoping.
He's no less shaky, but he has to get back before someone comes looking for him. Using what feels like the last of his energy, he casts a glamour to hide the worst of it. Pushing off the solidity of the Quinjet he turns too quickly, the world continuing its spin even after he's stopped; he takes a step to balance himself, knows it's really the Cloak that's doing most of the work. A cool breeze wafts over his skin when he closes his eyes. The sun hasn't come out once since they've been here.
A spasm through his left hand refocuses his attention. Difficult to say how much of the deep ache comes from all the frenetic activity and how much may actually be a portent of another approaching storm. It certainly looks like it could rain again. Fantastic. More water is the last thing they need. He should talk to Rogers, find out if there's a plan for further flooding.
He doesn't want to talk to Rogers.
Bending cautiously he retrieves the red bag, tucks it under his arm. He's still incredibly dizzy. And with how his hands feel, he's not at all optimistic that he'll be of much help with the first-aid efforts. It's not like he's going to be able to set a broken bone or tie a tourniquet. He's not entirely certain that he's even going to be able to convince his fingers to work the zipper on the duffel.
Very few of these people speak any English, as far as he understands; fifteen minutes of frustrated miming later, and he's finally gotten the man in front of him to wrap the wound of the woman beside him tightly enough to do some good. The kid next to them is a sobbing teenage boy curled around a shoulder sporting a decidedly unnatural bulge. Jesus. He glances around, looking for help. Stark's crouched on the ground, trying to communicate god knows what using a stick and some dirt. Romanov's doing triage on the other side of the crowd. Stephen gets to his feet, weaves his way through the supine bodies to get to her.
"I need you with me," he mutters as he comes up beside her.
Romanov arches a thin eyebrow, but follows him back to the boy without protest. The kid's dangerously pale. "Tell me you've reset a dislocated shoulder." She nods. "Thank god," he exhales.
He tries for a smile as he crouches beside the boy. Isn't sure how well he manages it. "We're going to fix your arm," he explains, gesturing toward the mess. He can see the bruising now, inching dark and ominous across the skin. "Doctor," he explains, motioning toward himself.
The kid's all huge brown eyes, red-rimmed and wet. It's likely he's got no idea what Stephen's even saying. "Your arm," he tries again, reaching a hand in that direction. The boy jerks away from him, yelps in pain as the shoulder shifts. "Goddammit."
Romanov moves between him and the boy, talking softly. "We're going to help. It's going to be okay. You're doing great. I just need you to hold still…"
Distracted by the reassuring tone and those plump red lips, the kid's watching her mouth instead of her hands. In a motion so fluid it could put some of his ex-colleagues out of business, Romanov grabs the boy and pops his shoulder back into place without fanfare. He howls, collapses in on himself, and a disturbed murmur ripples around them. But the boy sits up when spoken to. Whatever he says seems to reassure them, despite the tear tracks drying on his face.
"Good job," Stephen says, surveying the closest of the injured. "Next up is the guy with the head wound."
They work their way through a series of cuts and sprains, nothing their combined kits and her limited nursing skills can't handle. If she wonders why he's directing rather than helping, she doesn't ask. They barely speak outside of his instructions. Both of his hands are throbbing now, hot and swollen as the storm builds overhead. They're taking up too much of his attention for him to feel at all awkward about the silence.
"You two should really split up. Cover more ground," says a voice behind him.
Stephen turns to find Rogers far too close. "But we make such a good team."
Rogers scowls. "She's not your nurse, Strange. Why don't you try doing some of the work yourself?"
Beyond him Banner reappears, wearing sweatpants and a tee, carrying his own red bag. He begins administering first aid to the closest group of natives. A breathtaking bolt of pain fires without warning from one side of Stephen's palm to the other. "Don't want to ruin my manicure," he grunts.
Finishing with the ankle she's wrapping, Romanov stands. "He's right, Steve. We make a good team. We've got this."
Rogers still looks uncertain. Stephen's smirk probably isn't necessary.
It disappears a moment later when two of his fingers seize at the same time; his ring finger and his pinky cramp bent, and it's excruciating to try and straighten them. His hands have become contracted claws. He hides them in the Cloak's lining, hopes that the spell is keeping the pain off his face. "What you should be worried about is that storm," he deflects.
"What storm? The report said we're clear until the afternoon."
Discomfort shortens his tone. "Well you'd better check it again. I'm telling you it's coming early."
"So you're an expert on the weather now?" Rogers sneers.
Romanov steps between them. "Boys…"
His hands feel lit up. "Believe me or don't. It's still going to rain. Storms in this part of the world come fast and hard, and we need a plan if that river floods."
Surprisingly Rogers' face softens. "Okay, I see your point. We can't fit all these people in the Quinjet. I'm open to suggestions."
This brutal cramping is drowning out any chance of thought. "Not my department." It's a challenge to keep his voice even. The glamour might keep them from seeing anything he doesn't want them to, but it's nowhere near elaborate enough to keep them from hearing it. "Nurse Romanov," he can't help but call her as he turns and walks away.
He doesn't wait to see if she'll follow. Wouldn't blame her if she doesn't. Christ, he's tired. Keeping the spell going is turning out to be more effort than he'd expected.
He registers the voice, the presence, beside him just as the stranger grabs for his arm. Instinctively he pulls away, the man's hand closing around his fingers instead. His vision goes white as he swallows his shout. The guy's crying, begging, kneeling beside a bloody woman. Stephen doesn't need to understand him to recognize the emotion behind the words. But pain's making him just as desperate. He tries to peel off the man's fingers; it makes him grip even tighter. "Fucking let go," he gasps, clawing at the hold.
Now Romanov's here, a hand on the man's shoulder and that same soothing tone to her voice. Stephen's not listening, but whatever she says sets him free. An attempt to flex his fingers shoots spikes all the way up his arm; his vision sparkles unpleasantly. He tries to blink it away, concentrates on the wounded woman lying on the ground. She's bleeding from an injury to her side, and it looks like she's been doing so for a while. Around her are shreds of cloth, all stained red. Romanov goes down on her knees and immediately applies a pressure bandage without having to be told to do so. But Stephen's got a bad feeling about this.
His instincts are validated a few minutes later when blood continues to seep into the bandage. The guy wails, clutching at the woman's shoulders. Her lips are turning blue. Romanov uses her hands to add to the pressure, but it's clearly not working. Stephen groans.
This is really going to suck.
The first spell gives him a view of her internal organs, allowing him to pinpoint the bleed. The second is a neat bit of microsurgery to seal it off. It's a quick procedure, fortunately. He doesn't have much energy left, magical or otherwise.
When the spells fracture, crackle back, it feels like he's being electrocuted.
He sways into the Cloak's supportive lining, maybe loses a couple of seconds. With his chin to his chest, it's his boots that come into focus first. Mostly. He's impossibly dizzy again. His hands bitching at full volume. Romanov's face blurs and sharpens, her eyebrows pulled together in a tiny frown.
His stomach clenches, twists, and he realizes he's going to be sick again. "I'll be back," he grunts. Doesn't know if she has a response. Reading his mind the Cloak levitates, flies him into the trees. Holds him up when he's bent and retching. When it finally stops he's breathless, moisture in the corners of his eyes. Head hanging, he watches a fat glob of blood drip from his nose to splatter on the dirt below.
He doesn't think he can do that again.
It starts to rain.
Protected from most of it by the trees, he's considering the idea of trying to move the injured when the lightning hits. Maybe not then. Looking out at the rain he indulges in a moment of self-pity. He really doesn't want to go back out there. He wants to go home. Go to bed.
But he thinks of the bleeding woman and knows that they need him, even without his magic. Romanov and Banner might have rudimentary skills but he's the only medical doctor. Wiping at his nose he sees Romanov facing this way. He wonders if she can see him from there.
Looking for the spell, he finds it flickering; he doesn't have anything left to put into strengthening it. It's not going to last long. Stephen sniffs, clears his throat. Runs a hand through his hair only to step out into the storm and have it immediately flattened. By the time he reaches Romanov, the ground's already turning to mud.
"You okay?" she asks, barely louder than the rain. Her hair is plastered to her head.
"Fantastic," he lies. Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn't comment. "What's next?"
An hour later and the rain hasn't stopped. Despite the Cloak's protection, he's still soaked. Shivering miserably, he takes a second to be envious of Stark's full-body suit when the other man waves for his attention. There's a woman in his arms – more of a girl, when Stephen gets closer – and she appears to be unconscious. Slogging through the rain and the mud, it feels like it takes twenty minutes just to walk over there.
"We were talking," Stark says, "and then she fainted."
Trembling fingers crawling across her skull. He finds the lump he's looking for. "Head injury," he confirms. Water pelts his face. "Take her inside the jet, get her dry. See if you can find another blanket." Stephen shrugs. "Not much else I can do for her."
The Cloak braces him when he straightens and sways. Around him the world disintegrates, rebuilds itself a little less solidly than before. Stark's already left with the girl. He turns to find Romanov behind him.
"Maybe you should take a break," she says.
If he lets himself stop moving, he isn't sure he'll be able to start again. "Why would I do that?"
"Your nose is bleeding."
Godammit. So much for the spell then. He dabs at it with his wet sleeve. "It's stopped."
That tiny frown is back. "You're not concerned with why you're bleeding in the first place?"
"No." He drops his hand, knowing the tremor has to be obvious. "Don't forget which one of us is the doctor."
Water drips from the ends of her hair. "I wouldn't dare," she murmurs.
Something about her tone grates at him. Or maybe it's just how awful he feels. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. I get it."
"And what is it you think you know about me?" he snaps.
"I know you're an asshole," she says cooly. "And that, while you've probably always been an asshole, at least some of that comes from the chronic pain. I think you're in pain right now."
Hot embarrassment flushes his tone. "Looking for a promotion, Nurse Romanov?"
"Look, I'm just saying that if you need a break, no judgment. It's been a long day."
"I'm fine." He deliberately straightens his spine. "I have to go check on Stark's patient. Come get me on the jet if you need me."
"Sure," she says. He turns away.
As dizzy as he is, walking through the strewn bodies feels like navigating a minefield. The Cloak's help is the only reason he manages to keep his balance. Rain glues his hair to his forehead, his scalp, oozing from the ends to run into his eyes and mouth. Banner gives him a nod as he passes. Rogers is talking on the sat phone, taking shelter under a wing.
Stepping out of the storm is a relief that makes his shoulders slump, and he stumbles the rest of the way up the ramp. Stark's unconscious friend lies on the floor under a blanket, breathing steadily but still unresponsive. Her pulse is slow and even under his fingers.
He checks his own. Way too fast and erratic.
He stands, has to stagger a step to seek his equilibrium. Feet numb and hands tingling, yet it somehow isn't until the Cloak yanks him sideways into a seat that he realizes he's about to pass out. Panting irregularly, Stephen fights to outlast the creeping grey. Everything's so heavy. The stitching of the headrest dents its pattern into the side of his face.
"Strange?"
No time between then and now, but he must have closed his eyes because he's opening them again. How long was he out? The empty seats and unconscious girl offer no answers. His thoughts are fuzzy, sluggish. He drags a shaky hand over his face, trying to wake up.
Banner stands over him, looking apologetic. "Are you all right?"
"Of course," he replies automatically, shifting to sit more upright. "I was just checking on the girl."
"Sure," Banner agrees too quickly. "How is she?"
"Unconscious." He pushes to his feet. Banner takes a small step back, out of his personal space. "What's going on?"
"The river's rising. And uh… Steve was looking for you."
Of course he is. "Why?"
"Shield's still at least an hour out. They hit some weather themselves and it slowed them down. There's no high ground. We need to get these people out of here before we're hit with a flash flood."
"And Rogers wants me to open a portal." The realization is dry in his mouth.
"And he wants you to open a portal, yeah."
The idea flips in his unsettled stomach. He certainly doesn't feel any better after having "rested." He scowls. "Wonderful."
"Look, if you want I can tell hi–" The sentence breaks as Banner sways. Reflexively Stephen reaches for him, his hand shrieking as he forces his fingers to curl around the other man's arm.
"I'm okay," Banner's saying, despite not yet having opened his eyes. "I get these… waves of vertigo. You know, after."
Pain makes his voice snap. "Sit," Stephen says, shoving him down into the seat so he can let him go.
"I'm okay, really. It's just like this."
He wonders for a moment about the effects of that transformation on a human body; the thought's derailed a moment later by a vicious spasm across his palm. Fuck. One useless hand does its best to massage the other, and he tries not to curl his body around the whole damn thing.
Banner notices. "You're not okay, though," he says.
"It's fine," he insists, dropping his hands into the Cloak's lining. The other man doesn't look convinced. Stephen shrugs. "Like you said. It's just like this."
"If you're sure," Banner says. "We, uh, we should probably get back out there."
Stephen nods, gestures for Banner to lead the way. He's not certain he's going to be able to open a portal at all, let alone hold it open for long enough to get everybody through. But he doesn't have any other ideas.
The storm's gotten worse since he was last out here, the wind whipping the rain along the riverbank. The Cloak presses its high collar against the back of his neck, pointlessly trying to keep him dry. Lightning flashes, the thunder close behind. Already fingers of water run in rivulets away from the bank. A flash flood feels like a distinct possibility.
He follows Banner over to where Rogers is standing with Stark and Romanov. May or may not imagine the irritated look Rogers throws his way. He doesn't care. He needs to focus.
"We need a portal," Rogers is saying. "A way to get these people out of here now."
Already resigned to the idea, Stephen just nods tiredly. "Wait," Romanov interrupts, turning their heads. "We need a plan. We've got to do this as quickly as possible."
She doesn't clarify if the urgency is because of the rain or for his sake, and he appreciates it. "What's to plan?" Stark asks with a shrug. "Everybody who can't walk gets carried by someone who can. Seems simple enough."
"How do we communicate that to them?" Rogers wonders.
"They're pretty smart," Stark says. "I bet they'll figure it out."
"The girl in the jet?" Banner remembers.
"Strap her in and take her to get medical attention when you fly out of here." The steady throbbing at the base of his skull twists the suggestion too close to a snarl. "If you want to do this, we should do it now. Where are we going?"
He's not the only one who flinches when thunder rumbles directly overhead. "Somewhere we can keep these people safe until we rendezvous with the Shield team," Rogers says. "The Tower? Tony?"
"Still under construction," Tony answers. "We could fit them at the Malibu place."
Stephen doesn't want to explain how much he doesn't want to be stuck in Malibu. "Better idea," he mutters. With a deep breath and a whole lot of conscious effort, he opens a portal to the grand foyer of the Sanctum Sanctorum. At least now he'll be home at the end of this.
The circle of sparks wobbles, stabilizes. Romanov shoots him a look that he refuses to acknowledge.
He isn't aware of much of the next half hour. Only the thumping in his head and taste of iron in his mouth, people in motion. Their exit and the importance of keeping it open. Beyond wet, beyond exhausted, he'd be on his knees if the Cloak wasn't holding him up. He wants to vomit, but he's afraid to cede the focus and risk losing the portal. Holding on by his teeth to this one, he doubts he's going to be able to conjure another soon.
Somehow he manages to hold the portal until all the refugees have gotten through. It flickers when Romanov puts a hand on his shoulder and confirms this. He gets the impression she's been trying to get his attention for at least a few minutes. Stephen just blinks at her.
"Time to go," she says. "You riding in the Quinjet or are you going that way?"
Thick mud sucks at his boots. By some miracle the portal's still open; shrinking faster than he'd like, but still open. Everyone else has disappeared from the riverbank, though he can still see a lot of them crowding his foyer. "This way." He's not passing up the chance to go home.
"Okay. See you when I see you." She trudges through the water and mud to get to the cockpit.
He doesn't have time to watch her go. Not if he wants to take advantage of this portal before it closes. Ducking through, he steps into the Sanctum. Instantly he's enveloped by the noise, the smell of all these people. The portal snaps closed behind him. The release buckles his knees.
Catching him before he hits the marble, the Cloak makes a decision; a blink, and Stephen finds himself floating effortlessly up the stairs. He's not going to argue. Anything to get away from this crowd. There's a glimpse of Rogers amongst all the bodies, a call that could carry the syllables of his name. He ignores it.
Reaching the second floor landing dulls everything below him to a pleasant murmur. He's barely aware of where he is.
Another blink and he's on the floor of his bathroom, wedged between the toilet and the old claw-footed tub. He doesn't remember how he got here. There's blood in the bowl; disturbing, but not unprecedented. Sitting back on his heels, Stephen rests his head against the porcelain behind him and closes his eyes. The room spins around him in the darkness. Maybe he'll just sleep here for a bit.
"Strange?"
He opens his eyes enough to squint toward the door; it sits ajar, but the Cloak's appointed itself a barrier to entry. He can't see who's on the other side. Stephen knows that voice, though. "Better let him in," he huffs, closing his eyes again.
"What's going on? Who are all those people downstairs?" Wong asks, entering the small room.
"Having a party," Stephen mumbles. "Brought a few friends home."
There's the faintest hitch of breath as he gets closer, a sign no doubt that Wong's seen the blood. Stephen really should have flushed that. "You're a terrible host," the other man chides instead of commenting. "I had to show Captain Rogers the way to the kitchen."
"Mmmmm…"
"He told me it's been hours since he last saw you."
"Yeah, well –" As if on cue his stomach bucks, and he leans forward to cough more blood into the bowl. "Been busy," he gasps when it finally stops.
"So I see."
"Go away. Don't need an audience."
The whisper hiss of a portal opening and closing. "Drink this," Wong says, crouching in front of him.
"If I do, will you go away?"
"We will see."
"What is it?" Stephen peers skeptically at the thick vial of yellow liquid. "Looks repulsive."
"Drink it. I believe that we are close."
He groans, reaches out a trembling hand. "Fine. But don't blame me if I just throw it back up."
"I suggest you try not to." Wong pulls the cork from the bottle and hands it over.
"You sure you never went to med school?" It smells worse than it looks. Holding it away from his face he takes a deep breath, before swallowing the whole thing down. It's cold, viscous as it coats his esophagus. "Disgusting," he complains as he hands the empty vial back.
Wong looks unsympathetic. "First we work on effectiveness. Then we can work on flavor."
Stephen drops his head back against the tub. "Easy for you to say."
The other man stands. "Come. You'll be more comfortable in your bed."
"Not yet." He's still waiting to see how his body's going to react to this latest concoction. "Maybe you should go downstairs and keep an eye on things. Can't have anybody reading from the wrong magical text or something."
"Hmm."
"Seriously. Plus you can run interference for me with Rogers. Tell him I'm on the way down."
When there's no response, Stephen opens one eye to peer at him. Arms folded across his chest, Wong looks like he's doing an impersonation of himself. "Knew you'd see it my way," the doctor says, compulsively pressing his lips together. They may be going a little numb. He jabs at the lower one with a finger. The finger immediately starts to lose sensation as well. "Huh."
Flexing his fingers spreads the anesthesia to the rest of his hand, sends it creeping up his wrist. A pleasant change from the pain that was there, maybe, but still disconcerting. He lifts it into his eyeline without moving his head, turns it this way and that as he examines it. There doesn't seem to be anything unusual about it.
"Strange?"
He pokes at the hand with the fingers of the other, fascinated as the feeling in that hand begins to fade too. It's got to be psychosomatic, right? It crawls its way up to his elbows. "This stuff is either very very good or very very bad," he announces sagely.
"What is it?"
"Can't feel my hands. S'nice." Just as long as it doesn't spread to his lungs, his heart. Not much to do but wait and see. That thought bounces around his head, makes him laugh out loud. His brain might be going a bit numb too.
Wong turns toward the door, the Cloak slipping out of his way. It hovers at Stephen's right shoulder. "Wait, where are you going?" he asks.
"Downstairs," Wong answers as if it should be obvious.
"Oh. RIght. Yeah." He wants to sleep. "I'll be, uh, I'll be right there."
"Don't hurry. I can keep Captain Rogers busy."
"Thanks. I owe you."
"Yes. You do." Wong leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Stephen sighs, flushes the toilet with clumsy unfeeling fingers. He doesn't want to get up. Just a couple more minutes with this blessed absence of pain.
As if he'd said it out loud, the Cloak folds itself into a pillow and wedges itself between his head and the tub. He closes his eyes.
end.