Chapter 2
You wake. Not in arms, but a bed. And a linen covered quilt and soft blankets. You’re nestled under covers and… dry. Your neck doesn’t ache with the after effects of a hair-wet pillow, and your legs don’t feel tacky and damp as you expect they should be. There was a man that carried you to bed, and you were drenched from the rain, you remember that. You’re still clothed, but comfortably dry and cocooned under blankets. Your nose though. That’s cold. Ever a side effect of your migraines.
You try to come to grips with where you are and it’s… nice. Quiet. From what you blearily remember, it looks like the same place.
Your room has a window overlooking the street with drawn blinds, and three doors. One is ajar enough to show a small ensuite. There's another door next to that and the other door is by your bedside.
You crick your neck to one side, and then the other, testing for soreness. It’s… definitely still there. Aching and deep, and it feels as though whatever sleep you managed to have has done little for the deep seated migraine. Thankfully, it’s less immediately intense than you remember, with the pain bearable and settled for now. You only have to be careful not to stir it up again, like resting sediment.
A migrainous snowglobe, hah! Oh. Maybe you aren’t feeling better just yet.
You realise that you could, really, be anywhere in New York. Hopefully still in the same vague neighbourhood you were wandering lost in originally. Hopefully in the residency of someone as willing to let you go out, as they were willing to welcome you in.
You’re more in your own mind now than you were when you’d fallen asleep, but the pain is - pressing. The longer you’re awake the more it wakes up too, even though you aren’t moving. Sleep presses at you, and you want to fall back under, but your stomach grumbles in hunger more than nausea now, and you want to know more about where you are, at least while you can.
On unsteady hands you roll onto your face, take a moment to relish the darkness, and then push up on your forearms. Your shoulders protest but you blow away their whines with slow, circular rolls of your scapula, readjusting your body as if it’s some amorphous gloop of substance instead of a structured being with proper muscles and bones, letting your legs come to the floor slowly, slowly, your head rising gradually like you're some monstrous being come to berth.
Standing, that’s even more of a process. You think of deer, quick out of the womb, or foals, tumbling out in a mess of limbs, then shaking and standing, leaping forth into the world. You’re not sure what a tortoise birth is like - probably quick and small like a turtle, but you think of tortoises anyway. Blind and reaching bears, pandas. Animals that are as slow and as unsure as you feel. There’s no pain in your feet, so you put your weight on them. And then some more. And more. It’s a testing and teetering edge of pain and stability.
Oh. You're sure a tortoise feels nothing like this.
Your feet manage to do their job and you’re standing - one hand vice gripped to the bedside table. This is very good progress.
You step to the door beside the bed and poke your head out. “Hello?” You croak into the empty hall.
No reply.
Hand a visor for your eye that's still beating with the pain of a steady drum beat against your head, you step out into the hall and call out. “Hello,” again.
There’s still natural light coming in to you from wherever you are in the building. It’s reassuring that you’re not cut off from the world, at least. Not being held underground. You'd like to know where your sunglasses are though.
The halls are made of a warm, reddened wood, panelling the ceiling and floor - it feels a bit like you’re inside a puzzle box. The halls are spacious though, thankfully not claustrophobic and tight. Of all the places to stumble into… Did the man you’d met say he was a doctor? Could this be a practice, maybe? A retrofitted surgery, with a living space, right in the middle of New York. His rent must be astronomical. You would be so lucky.
You pad a little further on protesting feet, curiosity getting the better of you. You can’t hear any humming of instruments or electrical equipment nearby, no dull buzzing of conversation, but the house doesn’t feel empty. From furnishings alone it’s eccentric and scholarly - a collection, a curation? It doesn’t exactly look like a museum display, with the way things are placed, but somewhere between a haphazard university student’s need for a free surface for books, and scrolls, and paper weights, and a fine china enthusiast’s love for display and dusting.
The small hallway opens up into a larger open room with more tables and chairs and bookshelves - and much more light. You wince against the light and knock steadily against the wall. “Is anyone here?” The cool room stifles your echo, but you finally hear some movement from a staircase leading below.
A stoutly built man in red robes appears, small frown creasing his features as he concentrates on steadying an over-filled teapot and a tray laden with cups and toast with melting butter.
When he speaks, you’re sure it’s not his East-Asian accent that answered the door and lulled you upstairs before. “It’s about time you’re awake.”
You frown. “Im sorry? Has it been long?”
He bobs his head a bit as he comes to the landing, unable to settle between expressions of ‘yes it’s been a long time and you’re quite a burden on my hospitality’ or ‘no, it hasn’t been long at all and I’d like you out before you’re a burden on my hospitality’.
“You came in yesterday sometime,” he says. “It’s now mid morning. I was worried Strange had forgotten his medical practice entirely and was hiding a body in one of our spare rooms.”
Embarrassed, and somewhat afraid of the connotations you hurried blurt out “oh no. It’s just a migraine.” Though ‘just a migraine’ doesn’t feel quite right. Something about this one seems… sticky. You offer to take something off his hands but he just tells you to get the door to the bedroom and asks you for your name.
“Good." He replies. "It’s nice to know what to call you instead of ‘body upstairs’.”
You wince. He pours two cups of tea. “Is it okay that I’m here?”
“You cannot move. You are sick, and you must rest. Strange doesn’t think things through, is all.” He hands you a cup and looks into your eyes. “My name is Wong.”
You realise this is an offering. He’s not trying to kick you out. Wong may be grumbling, but he’s taking care of you, has brought you food and tea, you’re in his space but he’s not dismissing you. He’s gruff, but kind.
“Thank you.”
Wong nods and settles into an arm chair that faces you. You blow and sip the weak green tea and settle into the bed a bit more.
He settles in too and seems kind and unobtrusive. You expect questions, somewhat of a grilling. You’re used to people not believing you - with these phantom sickness that can’t be seen and don’t show up on tests with the few doctors you’ve been able to see and few tests you’ve been able to afford. People had more pressing problems during the blip - you were told that a dozen times - and after they came back. As far as any one was concerned, if you could function on your feet during a world wide crisis, then you were fine.
This was a surprising change of pace. Enough for it to feel off-putting. Then again, you'd collapsed against the door. But that begged the question all the more - why wasn’t Wong grilling you for explanations? Didn’t he want you to give him your long practiced speech of vaguely understood medical history?
He sat there peacefully, content to drink his tea.
“Is this your place?” You break the silence.
“We take care of it.” He replies. “Only the two of us at the moment. Our resources are spread thin.”
We? Wong must be a doctor too, then, or a practitioner of some kind. And stretched thin — does that make this building a sort of chain a practices? A doctoral chain of practices though... you haven't heard of that before.
Lost in your thoughts and unsure of what to ask, you miss Wong finishing his tea with a loud sip. He pours himself another and mutters some things in lieu of conversation that leave you entirely more confused than you already were — that he’s not going to be a butler, and Strange will have to tend to you if he wants to keep you here, but as he’s busy Wong thought he’d better check you’re alive.
He then asks if you want some toast, as if he’s not talking in half sentences with no explanation. You’re very confused. But yes, you’re growing stomach agrees to the toast.
The melted butter is almost too much for your taste currently, but it’s good and plain and filling. You try to eat the crusts but find there’s too much chewing involved for your aching jaw, so you settle on shoving as much of the rest into your mouth as you can and swallow hard. You really are ravenous, and want to down as much of anything inoffensive to your stomach as possible before the nausea realises what’s happening and comes back harder.
You lick your fingers clean of butter and crumbs in the absence of somewhere to wipe them, then settle back into the covers. “Is it alright if I lay down for a while? I don’t want to be a burden, only I’m exhausted.”
Wong nods, he downs his second cup of tea with the same loud finishing sip as his first. “Rest. Strange will come for you when he can.”
“Strange?” You ask. You heard Wong mention the name before but only now does it strike you as, well, strange. But Wong is taking your plate of half eaten toast and leaving, he doesn’t answer your question.
He must have a short tolerance for people, you suppose. You were intruding in his space, after all. He said he wouldn’t be a butler. Surely he has other things to attend to and other duties other than to answer questions that would be answered later. If he called the man Strange, then maybe the doctor’s name was Strange. Wong is surely fed up with redundant questions, and keeping you company, and having to look after you and, — and maybe you should stop assuming things and go to sleep. You shiver and shake your head, hoping the thoughts will go and you can focus on something else like rest and sleep and the fact that he said you were allowed here, instead of into whatever look you though you saw.
So you settle down, arms under the covers and scrunching your fingers into your pants. It takes a while for your mind to slow, but it does. Sleep eventually catches like a loose thread snagging on a hook and consciousness unravels beneath you.
_________
You go back to bed. A nap, oh yes.
You sleep, both deeply and restlessly, like diving down into the ocean and being forced up for air all too soon and all too often.
You’re woken in the evening by the barest purr of a voice, humming at the edge of your consciousness. It calls your name. And again. You open your eyes to see the man from yesterday - you think - crouched by your bed.
You thumb drool from the corner of your mouth and shuffle your body to face him, wincing as the movement flares pain up one side of your neck again, blooming up into your skull. You dig the side of your head into the pillow.
“Still in pain?”
You groan, your sleep-weary throat coming out in a scratched measure of: “uh huh.” This is worse than before. Before you had been able to sit up and eat and talk, now you hardly wanted to open your eyes. How was it worse? Why was it worse? You just wanted to curl up. Be left alone.
“Yesterday you said you had a migraine, are you sure?”
You nod and mumble along.
“Have you had them long?”
“Mm, a while.”
“Are they chronic? Result of an injury?”
“Ohh.” This is too many words. He’s saying too much. You turn into your pillow, shovelling your head in. Maybe the pressure will make it better - there’s already so much pressure in your head. You want something pushing against your head. You want something to crush your skull to make it stop feeling like your brain is going to leak out. You’re parched and gasping and wretched inside. “Can I have some water?” Your voice is muffled in the pillow.
There must’ve been some by your bed, because he taps on your arm and hands you a glass. You scull down half of it and hand it back to him - is he shaking? - and slump back to find the right position for your aching neck.
Your seeking fingers press across your scalp trying to find soothing pressure points. You hiss when you graze a patch of sensitive scalp. “You don’t have any triptans on you, do you?”
“No, I don’t. And I’m afraid they’re a prescription drug.”
You groan again, feeling helpless. Your eyes are stinging and chest is hovering in tiny stolen breaths. “Ohh.”
Strange must’ve heard it in your tone because he coos your name. “What can I do?”
It takes you a moment, but you roll over onto your back and reach for his hand. They don't feel quite like the texture of hands - smooth all over and creases too thick and wrong. Ah, they’re leather. They’re gloves. He’s a little reluctant, but when you tug he let’s you press his hand against your forehead.
“Can you push?”
“What?”
“Please?”
“I’m not sure that that’s a safe practice.”
“It’ll help,” you beg. He readjusts so the heel of his hand is on the middle of your forehead, then presses. Lightly.
“No I mean it, crush me into the pillow.”
He pushes harder, properly forcing his hand against your skull, and laughs softly. “This can’t be helping.”
You relax under the weight of him. Finally able to feel some of the pressure taken off your head. How does it work? You have no idea. Why? You aren't sure. But it's good. So good that the rest of your limbs practically melt into the mattress. “I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t help.”
“Strange woman,” he mutters.
“You’re strange.”
“Doctor Strange. Afraid I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself earlier.”
You hum, “This has to be one of the strangest ways to meet someone.”
“You’d be surprised,” He chuckles softly. “But it is… odd.”
You tap on his arm to tell him to ease up, and he pulls away. You hiss at how quickly the pushing is gone and the pain returns.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Slow breaths. Just big, slow breaths. But it isn’t working. Not without medication. It’s all back at your place, who knows how far away. It’s evening now, you’re in a stranger’s bed, your belongings are somewhere else, even if you wanted this doctor to go to your house and get your medication, you don't know where your keys are or the limits of his patience, and your short tempered housemates certainly wouldn’t take kindly to the intrusion. It's all too much, and still too much pain.
“Deep breath,” Strange consoles. “That’s it. Deep breath. What else can we do?”
You reach for his hand again and guide it to your scalp, hissing as his fingers brush the sensitive patch of skin. You guide his fingers to where the pain beats in time with your pulse, where the scalp isn’t sensitive but instead needs the pain - the tension, the pull - and you squeeze his fingers around a few decent locks of hair.
“Um—,”
“Can you tug?” You ask.
“Really?”
“Please,” your voice is a breathy groan, “just pull outwards or upwards. It really takes the pressure away.” So he does. Strange’s fingers get a firm grip on your hair and he pulls until there’s the barest amount of tension on your scalp. It’s not nearly enough, you can hardly feel it.
“Harder?”
“I’m trying.”
“I don’t feel like you are.”
“I don’t want to rip your hair out or hurt your scalp.”
“You won’t, you’ve got a good handful, it’s not like it’ll all come off or peel away. Really just… pull. I can tell you if it’s too much.”
He grunts a sort of unhappy noise and places his free hand in yours. “Squeeze my hand if it’s too much. We want to make progress here, not cause you more pain.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He pulls your hair slowly until there’s a nice solid tension and you feel the pain being lifted from your head again. You breathe a slow sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He murmurs. You stay like that for a while, teetering between getting him to pull tighter and ease up just by pulling you head closer or away.
“This is…”
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“I feel like I could lose my medical license for this. Hair pulling? Pushing patients to the bed?”
“It’s remedy in lieu of medication. I was begging.”
“I suppose.”
You decide not to torture him. Maybe he really is uncomfortable with it, being a professional and such. You give his hand a light squeeze and he releases your hair, slower this time. “Thank you, though.”
“Mm,” is all he offers.
The migraine isn’t gone, but is dulled enough for now. The window shutters are still lowered, but you can tell the sun has almost set. Evening is well settling into night, and you can really only see the outline of Strange’s features. The fact that he has light eyes, but not what colour they are. He wears dark clothes, has dark hair.
“And thank you for helping me, by the way. Yesterday, I think? I didn’t know where else to go.”
He takes his hand back from yours and stands. “Wasn’t a problem. You needed help. I was hardly going to turn you away with the state you were in.”
“Still, I’m… thankful.” You watch as Strange crosses about the room and stands just beyond the edge of the bed.
"You're welcome."
You smile at him, hoping he can see it in the darkness. The tension on the left side of your face makes you wince though, and you close that eye. Roll to your side. Tears prick your eyes - this is ridiculous, you feel ridiculous.
"I'm sorry I don't have anything to give you." You shake your head, digging it into he pillow. You just want to go to sleep. If this man would crush your head like a watermelon maybe all the pain would come out. That sounds so nice. "I don't have anything heavier on hand but I can offer you paracetamol?"
You know it won't touch the migraine but maybe it'll calm down some other pain. "It might take the edge off. Do you have any sedatives? Anything drowsy? Flu meds? A good antihistamine? Night time tea? Maybe I can sleep this off.”
“You’re not here for drugs, are you?”
“I just really don’t love being in prolonged pain.”
You peek at Strange and see his hands twitch. He seems genuinely on edge. Perhaps you can’t blame him. If he isn’t a ‘migraine’ area doctor, and hair pulling isn’t a typical practice and now you’re asking for sedation, maybe he’s out of his comfort zone. Still, “give me a moment,” he says, and leaves, and you’re blessedly thankful when he comes back with… something.
He brings you regular, brand-less paracetamol and the same tea you had in the morning. You don’t remember feeling at all sleepy from the tea, but then, you had gone back to sleep soon after.
“Are you sure?”
“Just try it.”
He doesn’t hand it to you, but sets it on the bedside table for you to take at your leisure. Something about the gesture though speaks to his hands, or yours. That he doesn’t want to hand it to you. Doesn't want to touch you again.
You take the medicine and drink the tea, and this time you’re asleep in moments. It’s the strangest sensation though, and you know you’ve felt it before. Once again it's like everything in your body goes lax, all panic bleeds out of you, pins pulled out, marionette with strings cut. Whatever that tea is this time, it's magic.
_________
Again, awake, in the bed. It’s more comfortable now. Pain considerably lessened. And as you blearily come to, eyes adjusting to the warm light of the room, you see Dr. Strange sitting in the early morning sun rays by your bed, reading the papers in his lap.
It’s a moment before he notices you looking. His eyes flick up to you without his head rising. “Would you like me to close the blinds?”
You mumble a soft, stirring grunt, stretching awake. “Mm, no. It’s not bad.”
With slow inching movements you work your way up to propped position and sigh. Gently closing your eyes and stretching your neck, long and languid to the side. It’s the most you’ve been able to do in a few days, you want to stretch yourself out and mewl like a dinosaur but you’re not sure how well it’ll go over in present company or present pain, but even this small soft stretch in the warm morning, a stolen moment where pain isn’t the overwhelming feeling? It’s blissful.
Eyes opening in a daze, Strange is looking at you. “Neck pain?”
“It’s better for now. Tender though, like a bruise?”
He nods slowly, fingers moving over the edge of the papers he holds. He nods to the bedside table. “Tea is hot, if you want it.”
“It won’t put me to sleep?”
He chuckles. “Not this time, no.”
You go to grab your tea cup and your hand seizes, gripped along your tendons, fingers curling back momentarily as your hand shakes. It’s only a small shaking tremor, and you’re far familiar with the sensation by now. Used to it gripping you far worse, sometimes over your shoulders, up whole sides, curling toes up or your neck into your chest.
You shake your hand out quickly, embarrassed, and miss Strange’s frown. There’s a small shiver of electricity, a hyped up jolt down your spine, then the feeling passes. This time you pick up the cup with ease.
“Sorry for the crying.” You say after a sip. “Twice over. I’m normally not so quick to tears, but migraines, yknow? They really mess with your emotions. Trigger something. I don’t know. I always feel more vulnerable and helpless when I have one.”
He cocks his head. “Perhaps it’s a symptom. Are you prone to feeling helpless?”
“Hah. I don’t know you like that.”
He smiles. Properly. Oh he’s good company already.
You go to drink again but shiver and still before the cup meets your lips this time. You see Strange watch you. You see him notice the pause, and offer him a quick smile to dismiss the worry you believe it’s caused him before drinking.
“It’s just a thing I have. The tremors, the twitches. It’s fine — I’m fine, really.”
His smile tightens. There’s the inexplicable feeling of having stepped in something you’re not supposed to have, despite you not having really done anything. You sip your tea, conscious to suppress any twitch that might come up, but Strange isn’t looking at you anymore.
“Look, I’m sorry for intruding—.”
“It’s really no burden at all.” Strange is speaking, but he’s also reading the papers in his lap again. He doesn’t look up until he’s finished the passage. “It can be slow around here. This is a nice change.” There’s a light in his eyes and you sense that you’re missing a joke.
“I’d hate to be a hassle.”
“No hassle, I promise.”
You nod, roll your jaw and look about the room. You still can’t quite get past what a strange residence this is. “Are you a doctor?”
“A neurosurgeon. Currently not practicing.”
“Can I ask why?”
A tight lipped smile. “Call it a diversion of interests.”
“Alright,” you shift in bed. “But you are a doctor?”
“The qualifications don’t leave a person, so yes.” He holds up the thin stack of papers he was reading when you woke. “If it makes you feel any better, these are migraine case studies.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I’m pursuing what interests me. Right now, it’s some of my doctoral profession. I want to help, if there’s a way to, if you need it.”
If you need it? Oh, you need it more than anything. Years of pleading, and being alone, and begging, and now a doctor has fallen out of the sky - or rather you’ve fallen right into his lap - and he’s the one taking an interest in you? Hard and desperate years and now here is, if not a solution or a saviour, at least someone. Throat aching with the effort to keep down rising emotion, you simply nod.
Strange tells you that you can stay until you’re better. That really, it’s no hassle. That they have free rooms, and you’re in no condition to move, it seems. If you’re comfortable, there’s no reason to move you, it’s good to care for a patient, things like that.
He shows you through your room, shows you how to work the shower in the ensuite, shows you that the other door you saw is essentially a linen closet but with a few changes of clothes - there’s even a toothbrush for you. He asks if there’s anything at all that you want - you ask if they have a compatible phone charger. There’s a few things at home you want but… they can wait a day or two. You don’t intend to stay here for too much longer, but there’s nothing to rush back to, and if something is taking mercy on you and giving you a medical vacation? If he can get you some scripts and let you sleep in peace without your stressful housemates banging around? You’re taking it.
There’s just… a few things you have to check.
“You know, Doctor,” you climb back into bed. Your small excursion surprisingly exhausting. “If you’re going to kill me, you have to tell me.”
Oh?” Mirth jumps to his face
“It’s the law.” You say, nervous edge to your voice but joking, surely still joking. He helped you, right?
“Which one?”
“Um.” You bite your tongue. “Well, if you don’t tell me, it means it’ll be manslaughter, because the act wasn’t premeditated, right? And that sounds far worse than murder. No one wants manslaughter on their record.”
Strange scrunches his nose, “That’s not nearly how that works.”
“—Or if this is some weird thing, if the doors are locked or the windows glued so I can’t escape or something, you have to tell me.”
Good humour in place, he crosses to the windows, parts the shutters, unlatches a lock, and opens the window an inch. “Satisfied?”
Even that small break of space lets a whisper of fresh air into the stuffy room. It’s a connection with outside again and it makes you feel safer. You realise he’s going out of his way to accommodate you - to make you feel comfortable. Safe. The look on his face says he's happy to - challenges you to ask again. To make use of him. “Thank you.”
He smiles with his eyes this time, and by the light of the windows, they're a warm blue.