New York State of Mind
drewbug (July 2024)
Notes:
For LMDrums.
An already way too long unfinished fill for Tumblr's Whumperless Whump event day 4, "It's Every Day, Bro" and day 27 "Concussion." Whump purely for whump's sake, a side-step during Multiverse of Madness set before Earth-838. For LM Drums, whose well-timed kindness kept me coming back to this one. There is more, but be warned that it's not done yet. Spoilers for Multiverse of Madness. The title is a 1976 Billy Joel song. I own nothing.
He hits the ground hard, rolling a few feet before his momentum dies. For a moment there's only the pain, throbbing up and down the length of his body to bang out a crescendo in his skull. Dirt in his mouth. Stephen brushes at it with his tongue, spits. He's trying to convince his eyes to open when he suddenly remembers the kid.
His eyelids come up with a snap, the light instantly sparkling and way too bright. A couple of blinks dims things a little, brings into more focus the roots of a tree, the sunlight-speckled forest floor. He gets his arms under him, pushes himself up onto wobbly elbows. Everything smears sickeningly when he shifts his head to look for her.
She's ten feet away, not moving. This gets him up on his knees, though his body objects to the speed; he falls forward onto his hands with a grunt, the jolt zinging through reconstructed bones and tendons, buzzing as it gradually fades. It isn't until his fingers finally lower the volume on their complaining that he's finally able to force his body to move. He crawls toward her on knees and the heels of his hands, green and brown slushing nauseatingly around his head. Has to stop halfway to throw up.
It takes a lot more effort to get going again, but the kid's hurt. He doesn't know where they are, needs her to get the hell out of here.
She's stirring by the time he gets to her; Stephen slides off his knees to sit on a hip by her side. "Easy…" he murmurs, as her eyes open in a squint and she tries to sit up. He slips aching fingers under her shoulder in an attempt to help. She seems to be having an easier time of it than he did, but he checks her pupils anyway. "How do you feel?" he asks, as she pulls away impatiently.
America waves him off distractedly, surveying their new surroundings. "Wow. This is… different."
He looks away from her face to follow her gaze; a rogue beam of filtered sun hits his eye and spikes his headache. It occurs through his irritation to wonder where they're supposed to be. Nepal? New York? The trees grow tall and close around them, not a single skyscraper or mountain in sight; he can hear nearby rustling, the chirping of birds. "What happened? Where are we? We have to get back to Wong, to Kamar Taj. Now."
She shrugs. "It's New York, probably. I don't know how to get back."
The confirmation sits like a rock in his stomach. "What do you mean you don't know how to get back? What do we do now?" Christ, he's looking for guidance from a child.
The rustling noise inches closer, suddenly more ominous. She glances nervously over his left shoulder. "Um… right now I think we should move. Somewhere away from here. "
Stephen twists to check behind him as he pushes to his feet; he doesn't see anything yet, but he's as unwilling as she is to wait around for whatever might be about to burst out of the forest at them. Unfortunately – intention aside – his equilibrium is still screwed. America says something his brain doesn't translate as the forest starts to tilt and grey, and he catches himself against the rough bark of the nearest tree, the impact ricocheting across his hand and up his arm.
He remembers waking up on that shop floor, ears ringing. Has no idea how long he was out. And that was before the showdown with Wanda. He can't tell yet just what that fight cost him. Not when everything feels like one giant bruise.
"... just please don't pass out," the girl's saying. "Come on… I really don't want to leave you here."
It's a useful adrenaline surge; he has no way out of here without her. "Rude," Stephen coughs out, pushing himself off the tree. The world settles into a tentative stability. "Nobody's leaving anybody. Let's go."
She chooses what he's fairly sure is a completely arbitrary direction and sets off through the trees. Stephen follows, doing his best to project more energy than he actually feels. He keeps his eye on the kid as they tramp along – making far too much noise, should anything be stalking them – but he's not seeing the forest. Just the memory of scorching sigils and fallen bodies. The expression on Wanda's face. He can still clearly hear the shouts of pain, the sizzle of the magic. Smell the burning wood. Flesh.
It smells like burning wood. Stephen staggers to a stop, finally looking around. "You smell that?" he asks America, breathing more heavily than he'd like. There's a twinge in his ribs, low on the right side, that he's just noticing now.
She sniffs the air. "Fire. But… people. I think I smell food."
He doesn't want to think about food right now, his stomach still churning. But it's good news. He wants to think about the forest burning down around them even less. Stephen swipes at the sweat on his upper lip with a shaking hand, trying to decide which direction it's coming from. He feels used up, wrung out. Two massive magic battles in one day, and there hasn't even been time to consider the possibility of a concussion. Could go a long way toward explaining why everything's so out of focus. The kid's looking at him now, a blurry skepticism that makes him stiffen his spine. "People are good," he says. He wishes it didn't sound so much like a question.
"Usually," America agrees. "You gonna make it?"
Stephen answers her with a glare. He starts off stubbornly in what he's guessing is the right way, has to correct when the girl angles in a slightly different direction. The foliage pops and snaps around them, but there are no longer signs of any impending threat. As best as he can tell. He's mostly concentrating on not tripping over any of the roots and rocks littering the ground under his feet.
This works for a while, until an errant stumble buckles his leg and he barely manages to keep himself from falling. The kid appears at his side like a gnat; if he wasn't bent in half with his hands on his knees just trying not to keel over , he might swat at her. The Cloak lies limply over his shoulders, not compensating for his dubious balance at all, and he realizes with a frown that he hasn't felt it move since they got here.
He straightens, reaches back to pull it off. Now that he's paying attention, he notices that there's an oddly dulled energy to the artifact as it twitches weakly under his fingers. There's an ugly rent down the middle of the cloth, a parting shot from Wanda when they jumped dimensions. Stephen wonders if that's the problem. Wonders what the hell he's supposed to do. Swinging it back over his shoulders, he's more than a little worried it's just going to fall to the dirt. But the Cloak shapes itself around him, if a lot more slowly than usual.
America's talking at him, probably has been for a while. Stephen turns his head only enough to blink at her, working to sort out the shapes of her words. "... 'cause no offense but you're kinda a mess. So what's wrong? Was it coming through the portal? Or did you get hurt in that fight?"
Something pinches in his neck as he recalibrates his slumping posture, grinding the answer between his teeth. "Been a long day, kid. Don't worry about –" Past her, in the distance, there's a smudge of brown that seems a variation on all these vertical trees. "Look over there. Tell me what you see."
She turns, peers in that direction. Glances back to grin up at him. "Treehouses?"
Stephen has no idea. He gives her a tight ambiguous smile, gesturing that way.
They walk for twenty minutes, thirty. Time is a lot more relative for him than it used to be; he disregards the actual number in favor of a simple determination of too long. The kid is marvelously quiet for most of it, but that leaves him alone with the sounds of the forest and the beat in his head. With his memories of a desperate battle that get louder with every step.
He needs to get back there, find out if Wong's okay. Find out how many they've lost.
The elevated structures begin to distinguish themselves from the supporting trees of the same material, and a protest from his hands makes him understand that they're curled into fists at his sides. Stephen flexes his fingers as he studies the unexpected settlement. He feels America's sideways look. Lets his hands fall slack.
"Home sweet home," he deadpans, slapping at a bug that lands on his wrist. His reflexes are disturbingly sluggish. He misses.
"Be happy they look like actual buildings," she counters. "Ooh, look – a ladder!"
She takes off again, closing the last of the distance to their destination. Stephen follows, wishing they had some kind of a plan. That she'd hold still long enough for him to ask a few more questions. That he didn't feel so out of his depth. He catches up with her, gets a good look at this ladder. Wooden boards running up the side of a tree to disappear into the platform above them; his fingers give a couple of angry spasms just anticipating the effort of that climb. He glances around them, hoping to find another way up.
He doesn't see one. Only more ladders, speckled about the trees. The community stretches in either direction twenty, twenty-five feet over their heads, fades off into the forest. It appears they've found the edge of it, a line of border construction. It's eerily quiet. Still, he's pretty sure they're being watched.
Annoyed, he grabs at the first spell to come to mind. They want to hide? He'll make the front of their damn houses transparent. That'll show them.
The magic sparks, splutters. Fails with a shock of backlash through his fingertips.
He hisses with the pain, pulling his hands to his chest. "What was that?" the girl asks.
Because of course she can't just leave him be. "Didn't work," he says shortly, eyeing the structures suspended from the trees. He's even less excited about climbing up there now.
"Why not? You out of mojo?"
"You writing a book?" he snaps, whirling to face her. She flinches, her expression instantly closing off. Stephen sighs, reminding himself that she's just a child. He presses the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose and tries to soften his tone. "Like I said, kid, it's been a long day."
He can feel her weighing this. Making himself drop his hand, he turns back to the ladder. Bites off a groan at the length of it. "I bet you'll feel better once we find food," America decides brightly. She darts past, starts climbing like a squirrel before he can argue the wisdom of letting her go first.
"Sure. Good idea." He gives the edge of the Cloak an experimental flutter, looking for a little help. There's really no way he's going to be able to convince his fingers to wrap snugly around those wooden rungs, let alone grip well enough to pull up his body weight. And the girl's already halfway up the fucking thing, dividing and coalescing in his growing double vision. He needs to get up there now. "Yeah… any time…"
The Cloak lifts him a foot off the ground, drops him.
Disoriented, Stephen staggers a step or two to keep his balance. Again there's that dampened energy, muted and sick, and he wonders how much of it has to do with the tear down the center. What he needs to do. This is far from the first time it's been damaged – though certainly before to a lesser degree – and it's always seemed relatively unaffected until now. Maybe it just needs to recharge?
He needs to recharge. Stephen just hopes the kid can sew. He definitely won't be doing it himself.
"Come on. Just need a lift to the top." Nothing. "Hello? Are you sulking? I swear, if –"
Another failed levitation. He's getting really worried now.
America's almost reached the overhead platform, and he's got no idea what she might be facing up there. Desperation conquers reason and persuades his fingers around the first of the ladder rungs, pulling a low moan between his teeth as he drags himself up. Sweat's already collecting on the back of his neck, between his shoulders. His hands shriek and his arms burn. His fingertips, conversely, almost immediately begin to go numb.
He isn't going to make it. Not when it already hurts this much. One more. There's only one more. His teeth squeak against one another with a tic of his clenched jaw.
He gets to four before his grip gives up completely, fingers scrambling uselessly against bark as he feels himself start to topple backward. A flash of panic catches in his throat as momentum stops, jerks upward. There's no time to appreciate the intervention; the Cloak surges like a drunken thing, propelling him to the top as if they're in a race, and it's all Stephen can do to not give into the vertigo that's exacerbated by the choppy speed. They barely clear the platform, his boot clipping the edge as he's tossed into a heap on the wooden boards.
He can't do anything for a moment but pull in shuddering breaths, the pain roaring up from his hands to race through his arms. They twitch erratically, cradled protectively against his sternum, as involuntary tears gather at the corners of his eyes. He's trembling beneath it all. He thinks that the Cloak might be too.
An undersized, scuffed pair of Chuck Taylors moves into his line of sight and Stephen blinks furiously, trying to will the incriminating moisture away. Ignoring her, he uses the push of an overworked elbow to roll himself onto his back. After recovering from three surgeries, he's had to learn how to do a lot of basic things without the use of his hands. Ribs voice their objection as experienced abdominals help him sit up. America just watches, a silent shadow looming over his bowed head.
No one's appeared yet to investigate their arrival, but he doesn't intend to be on the ground when they do. He manages to make it up onto one knee before he wavers, a palm coming down reflexively to keep himself from toppling over. It contacts the wood, feels like it shatters. Stephen slips from one knee down onto two, lips compressed into a thin line to keep the strangled howl lodged in his throat. His breath comes in sharp puffs from his nose.
He needs to get up. He can do this.
"So that looked like it sucked," the girl says, miniature hands stretching to try and wrap around his arm.
He eyes them dully, tempted to shake her off. But he wants up more. "Wasn't fun," he admits, stumbling to his feet with as little help from her as possible. Not that she can do much anyway, what with their size difference; he drags his weight off of her small frame, lurching the few steps to find the support of the nearest wall. Hits it with a thud. Slumped against the wood, he breathes through the fire in his hands. He wonders why no one's come out to see what's going on.
Must be empty. A hypothesis confirmed a moment later when America starts rattling the door handle with no effect. His lagging brain chimes in late with its warning. "What are you doing?" he hisses.
"Trying to get in."
"What if somebody had been in there?"
She shrugs. "Maybe they'd have food."
"You're obsessed." Stephen shakes his head, feels pieces of damp hair sticking to his forehead. Is that sweat or blood? Christ, everything hurts.
"I'm hungry, " she whines. "Aren't you?"
His stomach twists in on itself. Swallowing, he shoves himself off the wall with a shoulder. "Sure. Come on. Let's go find something."
He makes her knock at the next door rather than just try and burst her way in, but there's no answer from this building either. Or at the following six. The doors are surprisingly solid and seemingly locked, and all remain frustratingly closed in their faces. But the entire place can't be deserted. Stephen thinks he can see people moving around on platforms deeper in the forest, flickering shadows that could just be a trick of the air and dappled sun, of the glittering light show going on inside and outside of his head.
When America comes to a split in the platform sidewalk and suddenly veers left, he has no choice but to go after her. Together they cut further into the settlement, Stephen doing his best just to keep up. A few minutes more and she finally finds an open door; the girl's through it before he can even tell her to be careful. She's going to get herself killed.
She's going to get herself killed, and he'll be stuck here.
The thought rushes him through the doorway, hands coming up as he readies his magic. But it's only a shop, a clean cozy room filled with shelves of unidentifiable goods. Which is good, because the magic's still not responding. There's that same fizzling electric sensation in his fingertips, on the back of his tongue. It feels different than just the usual exhaustion after a big fight, more smothered than depleted. Like something's blocking him.
His head whips around like the something might be standing behind him, but there's no one here except the kid and a woman, nothing but sacks and jugs and a pile of what he's thinking might be vegetables. They blur together into a lumpy mass, separate. Ovals, shiny and purple, thin dark stems. Fruit? Stephen still can't tell.
America's talking to the woman like they've known each other for days; she looks human, if a bit weathered, and he watches as she hands something to the kid with a smile. Stephen smooths a palm over his hair and crosses the room to join them, trying to look charming. He's not at all optimistic that he's going to be able to conjure something up for them to use as trade.
The girl gives him a grin, holding her prize up to show him. Little bumpy balls like pebbles wrapped in a leaf, drenched in some kind of goo that smells like stinky cheese. "Want some?" she asks, her mouth full. "It's really good…"
It's too close to his face is what it is. He waves her away, the odor curling its way up his nose. Turns to the woman, only to find her offering him some more. Stephen shuffles an unintentional step backward, his hands up between them to ward her off. "Oh. No. Thank you. I'm fine."
"You sure?" the shopkeeper asks, wagging the leaf bundle at him. He nods, swallowing hard, and finally she takes it away. Begins picking at it herself.
"This is Helen," America tells him, leaning against the counter as she shovels the snack into her mouth. "She lives upstairs. Most people on this side of town have moved."
Stephen spots the ladder now, leading to an upper floor. His palm twinges from one side to the other at the sight of it. "Huh." He's not sure what he's supposed to do with this information.
"Your daughter tells me you come from Outside," Helen says, and he swears he hears a capital letter. "We don't get a lot of new people wandering in here."
"She's not my daughter." The correction slips out before he can decide if that was an assumption they might've found useful. "We came through the forest. What is this place?"
She pops a pebble into her mouth, studying him. "I wasn't sure if there were any people still out in the forest. They call this place New York. On account of the history, you know."
He doesn't know. But something's telling him that now's not the time to admit it. Helen's expression is more curious than hostile, but Stephen's feeling undeniably unsettled. Especially without his magic, the Cloak.
"What history?" the kid chirps, licking sauce off her fingertips.
Helen frowns at her. "They say it was built on the same spot as the old city. The one that was here before the trees came back." Her eyes cut to Stephen, back to the girl. "Don't people still tell stories about the old cities?"
"We're not around a lot of people," he uses as an excuse. "And she's not very bright." America scowls at him around another handful of food.
He sees the woman accept the lie, the lined skin of her forehead relaxing. "Me, I like strangers," she says. Stephen wonders if this is why she hasn't yet asked for any kind of payment. She eats a few more of the pebble things, and he realizes he can hear both of them chewing. He scrambles to smooth out his features when they spasm in disgust. "But there's plenty around here who think everybody's better just keeping to themselves. They're talking about building the Wall again."
"Are they," he says flatly. He should probably think about finding them some local clothes; Helen doesn't appear to provide them. If he could access his damn magic, he could disguise them himself.
"Doubt they'll ever get around to it. And it's been so long since anybody really came out of the forest anyway, other than the occasional half-dead straggler. Not like when I was a girl. Back then people were just friendlier. It wasn't a problem to have adventurous travelers hanging around town."
Stephen freezes, no longer seeing the shelves. "And it's a problem now?" he asks, his tone as conversational as he can make it. America abruptly stops chewing.
"Not exactly. Not really." It's hardly comforting. "I mean, they haven't made laws about it anyway."
He shares a glance with the girl; she's still leaning against the counter, that leaf in her hand, but her muscles are tensed. She looks ready to bolt if they need to. "Sounds like maybe we should keep moving then."
Helen shrugs, setting down her own makeshift bowl. "I'm not going to tell you what you should do. I'm just saying that not everyone around here will be friendly if they find out you came from Outside." She picks up a cloth sack and starts moving around the room, adding things to it from the shelves. "Either way, you're going to need food. Watching that girl eat, I'm guessing you're out of supplies. You should take better care of her."
"Not my kid," Stephen grumbles to remind her. He scratches at the raised bite on his wrist.
"Either way," she repeats, handing him the bag. It's heavy, and he has to knot his gnarled fingers deep into the gathered cloth at the top to compensate for his weak grip.
"I appreciate this," he tells her, "but we don't have –"
Helen shakes her head, returning to her food. "You two just showing up has made my day a whole lot more interesting. I'm serious. Consider our trade already done."
Stephen can only blink at her for a moment, trying to imagine walking into a store in his dimension and simply being given what he needs. "You really don't get a lot of visitors."
"Just take care of that girl. Like I told her, this part of things is mostly deserted these days. Only a few rogue mages and anybody else who's got no place to go. Not the safest section of town, but odds are good you can find some place abandoned to hole up in for a bit, if that's what you're looking for."
He imagines being here for days. Weeks. Months. It weighs down on him, pressing into his shoulders like the Cloak's gained ten pounds. A wave of exhaustion washes through him, closing his eyes for a moment. They crack open again as something suddenly registers. "You said… rogue mages?"
She nods. "They can't do anything, of course, because of the Shield. But they can still believe. No rules against that yet, either, but you can bet they'd be making them if they could."
"The shield."
"Sure. I thought all the towns had them. Where'd you set out from, anyway?"
He's saved from having to answer by the arrival of a group of young men. Likely early twenties, if they were on his Earth. They crowd into the shop with their bodies and noise, greeting Helen like they belong here. Five sets of eyes land on Stephen and America – separated and pushed to the edges of the room – and it's obvious they think that the two do not.
"Who're you?" one of them asks, shoving into Stephen's space.
"We're leaving," he says, part of his mind speculating on how long ago the guy had broken his nose. It was badly set, whenever it was.
"Not what I asked." He pokes at Stephen's tunic, the Cloak. "Never seen clothes like these before. Who are you?"
His fingers feel hot and swollen, already cramping in the folds of the sack. "Nobody you know. And, like I said, we're leaving."
"Harry," Helen calls, "I've been saving these terens for you all week. Get over here and take them before I decide to give them to someone else."
The mood shifts. Not a lot, but enough that he lets himself hope that they won't have to fight their way out of here. America's wiggling her way through the bodies and heading for the door; Stephen's got his eyes locked on the guy in front of him, while trying at the same time to keep track of the entire room. Harry glances back toward the counter, clearly torn.
Whatever these terens are, they must be good.
Harry gives him one last look that Stephen supposes is meant to look threatening, before pushing through his friends to get to Helen. Stephen takes a backward step, still watching, then turns and walks out of the door. America's waiting just outside, and there's only the tiniest squeak of protest when he throws his free arm around her shoulders to hurry her further along the elevated walkway.
He has no idea where they're going. Doesn't really care as long as it's away from where they came. The folds of heavy cloth crush his fingers together awkwardly, metal pins pressing against nerves. He needs to find them somewhere they can regroup. Somewhere he can set this stupid sack down.
But the concussion's still making him dizzy, messing with his balance. When indecision stops him short at another intersection he wobbles dangerously, is forced to reach out for the stability of the railing with his free hand. It's an instinctive motion still, but also still a mistake. Pain ripples through his fingers, spiderwebs down to his wrist on contact.
"Whoa, are you okay?" the kid's asking, but Stephen's focused on the way his fingers spasm painfully in their weak approximation of a decent grip. HIs hip hits hard as his weight slams into the railing, and he hooks a desperate arm around it instead to keep himself up. "You look like you're gonna puke," she says.
"Not if I can help it." His ribs have started to really ache now. He doesn't think anything feels broken, but it still won't be fun to aggravate the injury. "We need to find somewhere to hide out for a while," he tells her, after a couple more watery swallows. "We need a plan."
America shrugs. "I guess. I mean, plan all you want – we're still stuck here until we're not. I told you, I don't know how to get back."
It makes him want to be sick all over again. "Right. So you said." Over her shoulder he can see someone approaching. They're some distance off, but they definitely look to be heading this way. "Come on. Let's get going."
He leads her in the other direction, moving as quickly as he's capable without tripping over his own feet. It doesn't seem very fast, but their tail doesn't appear to be gaining on them. Maybe they're not actually being followed. Maybe he's just being paranoid. He doesn't want to take the chance. "Start trying the doors again," he says. It feels like the walkway is swaying beneath him.
"Geez, make up your mind."
"Just do it. But knock first," Stephen reminds her.
Both of her stick out their tongues.
He's uncomfortably warm, sticky. Definitely not in the mood to be babysitting. The limp Cloak is an accessory, a smothering weight, but he needs to get them somewhere safe before he can take it off. His hands up their volume to best his ribs in their prickly bitching, and a glimpse through the trees reveals a grey sky thick with clouds. Looks like a storm's coming.
Christ, he wants to sit down.
The third doorknob she tries turns easily under her small hand, and the breath he releases is audible. Again America plunges inside before he can stop her. Stephen's heart thumps as he follows. She might not know how she did it, but she's still his only way out of here. He's afraid to let her out of his sight.
It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The building is dusty, apparently empty; he pulls in a relieved breath and sneezes. Slumped against the wall, his gaze skips over the wide counter, the handful of closed boxes, to find the kid eyeing the ladder to the second floor. It seems like he's got no choice but to let her check it out on her own. There's certainly no way he's climbing up there.
Upstairs is also empty, but not being able to protect her still rankles. He listens to her moving about above him while attempting unsuccessfully to persuade his fingers to release their hold on the sack; it takes the assistance of his left hand before he can manage it. He winces as the canvas bag hits the wooden floor with a thud. Hopefully there weren't any eggs or something else breakable thrown in there.
The noise brings the kid back downstairs so fast that she misses most of the rungs and lands with a thud of her own. Her eyes are huge. "Omigod I thought you passed out or something," she accuses when she sees him.
Stephen scowls. "Well I didn't. I'm fine." He tries to stand up a bit straighter, can't seem to separate himself from the support of the wall. "Anything interesting up there?"
She shakes her head. "More boxes. More dust."
"Great." He drags a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. Why the hell is it so hot in here? His doubled vision's starting to take on an upsetting fuzziness at its edges. He needs to sit down. Trying to breathe deeply, he wills his tachycardic heart to slow. "C'mon. Let's get away from the windows." It feels like his lips are going numb.
America's frown slides in and out of focus. "Are you okay? You're kind of pale."
"Fine," he grunts, stumbling away from the wall. She's on his heels as he rounds the counter, words he doesn't have the energy to interpret buzzing about his head. He sinks to his knees, motioning for her to join him when she remains standing. She doesn't. "Get down here."
"Why?" She glances back toward the window. "Are we hiding from those guys?"
"We're…" He sways on his knees, catches himself with a shoulder on the empty shelves that line this side of the counter. "I need a couple of minutes, kid. Okay?"
"Okay…" She sits on the floor beside him, and he allows himself to relax just a fraction. "You know, you really don't look so great."
Stephen lifts his hanging head to squint at her. "Weird. I feel fucking fantastic." Her face falls; he immediately regrets the tone. Shifting off his knees, he sits with his back against the hard shelves. "It's fine. I'm fine," he tries to assure her, closing his eyes.
"Okay. Sorry."
The room's doing a slow spin under the beat of his headache, not at all improving his mood. He's not used to having an audience for this part, for the fallout when he's overexerted his magic. Not used to jumping dimensions with a concussion. He's not accustomed to having a child around, period. Turns out he's not very good at any of it.
Christine, walking down the aisle dressed in white. They'd never gotten around to talking about kids.
A drop of sweat slithers its way from his hairline past his ear, and he makes himself blink open his eyes. A look at the girl makes him wonder if he'd checked out for a few minutes. America's got her arms wrapped around knees pulled up to her chest, her features set in a determined expression that feels forced and all too adult. Especially when the look in her eyes says that she thinks he might die any minute.
Stephen licks his lips, clears his throat. "You okay?"
"Fantastic," she mumbles against her knees. He winces. "What's going on with you?"
"It's –"
"Been a long day. Yeah, I heard."
His inhalation stabs at his ribs, pinching his voice. "Cut me a break, kid. We're not all still thirteen."
"Fourteen," she corrects him.
"Fine. Fourteen. My point stands." He suddenly realizes he's been sitting on the edge of the Cloak; shifting, he frees the trapped fabric. There's not even a flutter of thanks in response. Stephen pulls the Cloak from his shoulders, draping it across his lap as he studies it. There don't appear to be any marks on it other than the long rip down the back. Cringing, he traces a finger along the path of the tear.
"What's wrong with it?" America asks, refocusing his eyes from their vacant distance.
He blinks hard, the concussion immediately protesting when he gives his head a shake. He swallows. "Don't know. Probably nothing to worry about." At least half of that is a lie. And he's not really sure which one of them it's for.
"Maybe it's that shield thing Helen mentioned."
Despite everything, this feels like something he should have thought of himself. Stephen scratches at the back of his wrist. "Yeah. Maybe." His thoughts crawl, stumble. "All the reason more… the more reason to get out of here."
A small hand reaches out to gently pet the edge of the Cloak. "Okay. And go where?"
The question twitches his right eye. "We have to figure out how to get back. Do you have any ideas?"
The girl shrugs. "Not really."
Stephen takes a breath, deliberate and shallow. It still hurts. "Okay, what would you have done with the other guy? The other me."
"We were usually busy looking for the Book. It was mostly running."
Unhelpful. As is the way the sound in his left ear keeps going muted only to then roar back. He struggles to concentrate. What had she said back at the restaurant? The portal gets summoned when she's afraid? This feels unhelpful too. How afraid is afraid? Both in his dream – not a dream – and with Wanda, it had been a fear for her actual life. How the hell is he going to replicate that?
Jesus it's cold in here. He's shivering, has to grind his teeth to keep them from rattling together. He slings the Cloak back over his shoulders, burrowing into the lining.
"So… are you, like, sick or something?"
"Doctors don't get sick," he lies automatically. He certainly doesn't feel well. But then he never entirely does these days. "I'm just tired."
The air between them wobbles as she examines this. Him. "My Strange used to disappear sometimes. After a big fight. He wouldn't ever say anything, but he looked like he was in pain."
A particularly ill-timed cramp travels across his palm, and he can't entirely hide the flinch. "Yeah, well, too bad for him, I guess. I'm fine. Not going anywhere."
"That's what everybody says."
Stephen frowns. "It wasn't your fault, you know? That he died?"
There's a tiny shake of her head. "I know. That's not –" He watches her brain reroute the question. "Do they hurt a lot? Your… hands? My Strange used to pretend like it didn't, but sometimes it looked like it got pretty bad."
The flush of embarrassment chases away some of the chill; he manages to maintain eye contact for two, maybe three whole seconds before he looks away. "Sure, sometimes," he murmurs. Truth is, most days "pretty bad" is closer to baseline. He's not about to tell her that.
His heart lurches when the only door opens unexpectedly. He motions for the girl to keep quiet. Someone enters, footsteps heavy; they close the door behind them, muttering to themselves. Having gone deaf again in his left ear he can't really make out the words. But something about the voice is agonizingly familiar.
America turns his way with a grin for some reason, shifting like she's preparing to move. He grabs her arm before she can. She sulks, but doesn't pull away. Still trying to place the voice, he remembers the discarded sack just as the footsteps and the words abruptly stop. He swears loudly in his head.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," comes the disembodied song.
And the answer clicks into place. Back in med school, when he used to record his notes. Studying anywhere and everywhere, he was always tired. Occasionally he'd throw silly bits of song in there to wake himself up. Stephen pushes himself up off the floor to meet his own startled eyes.
"Who the fuck are you, and what the hell are you doing in my house?" his double asks, dropping the backpack slung over his shoulder. A small knife appears in his hand.
Stephen might be more concerned if he hadn't stood up too fast, if the room wasn't dissolving like wet sugar into the grey around him. He locks his knees, willing it back. "We, uh… we didn't come to cause any trouble. We're not from around here."
"I'll say you're not." The laugh sounds a little unstable. A half-hearted thrust of the knife in his direction raises his hands obligingly; he wishes they weren't trembling so badly. "Who's we?"
The back of his neck feels clammy and exposed, the normally high collar of the Cloak lying flat. He motions for America to join him, wincing when she pops up onto her feet and gives the surprised man a little wave. That grey's not clearing. And now it has an accompanying whine to it, like a drill working the next block over.
"Who are you?" asks the man wearing his face. "What are you doing here?"
Gravity presses a big hand down onto the top of his head. He feels himself sway, grabs for the edge of the thick counter. The grey inches in closer. "Righ'now… mmmm… think m'gonna pass out. Take… take care of the ki–"