Chapter 4
You sleep better than you have been – you’re not sure if it’s because you feel welcome in this place and undisturbed by your rowdy, inconsiderate housemates, or because the pain is finally subsiding, but it’s wonderful.
You drag your heaviness out of bed and into the ensuite – the bathroom is already a thousand times better than the one at home on the merit that you don’t have to share it, but also by the fact that it’s clean, and there’s enough bench space to put clothes and a towel, that the shower has its own closing glass door rather than a discoloured curtain, and the tiles don’t feel grimy under foot – it’s heavenly. There’s even a new toothbrush set in a little cup beside the sink for you.
In the cupboard you find towels and – just as Strange said – some changes of clothes. The fabric is bit coarse, but you can’t get past the thoughtfulness of the gesture. You aren’t merely a patient; you’re being cared for. Cared about, even. These offerings are a kindness.
The shower is easy enough to figure out and the pressure is wonderful. You suppose, if you were a sorcerer and could give yourself anything in the world though, why not give yourself decent water pressure? Why not lush towels and lovely spacious rooms and teapots that move themselves. Magic seems to be luxury in these simple ways.
Your head starts to pound again under the hot water, and you know that this migraine isn’t going to go away on its own – it’s a sticky persistent one, no matter how much it fades, the pain needs medication. And if Strange isn’t a doctor anymore and can’t prescribe you anything, then you’ll just have to face going back home to grab your things at some point. At least to grab the medication if nothing else.
You begin to grow weary under the water, no matter how nice it is. The water warms your cold limbs, brings heat back to your fingers, but your legs are soon aching and tired, so you sit on the tiles to wash your hair as best you can, scrubbing the grit from your arms and legs with your hands. You’d love to stay in the heat if not for the way it seems to pull everything out of you. It warms you up, but oh it drains you right back down again. You feel like you’ll need a nap just to recover - and the sun has only just begun to rise.
When you’re out and dry, you do need to rest. Wiping the condensation from the mirror reveals dark bags under your eyes. You have to lean on the sink to brush your teeth and you stumble over your feet to get back to bed. You prop yourself up against the headboard, limbs lax and splayed like a jellyfish.
You don’t want to sleep – come on, it’s morning. You can’t. Even if you try, you don’t know that you’ll be able to, despite the exhaustion. It’s a weight that’ll drag you drown, a heaviness that’ll leave you wanting and breathless, but it won’t let you sleep. Not yet.
So, the other option is to do some… other things. Hopefully tire yourself out in different ways – mentally, though without overdoing it – so that you can sleep well later. That’s the hope, anyway.
After a short rest you pick yourself up on your feet again, letting yourself get stable, arms coming out to steady yourself wherever you can or need to grab onto anything, and you cross the room to open the blinds and windows.
The rain has stopped, but the morning sun is still diffused through bright, grey clouds. The world is still wet with rainfall from the past night and there’s dead leaves sticking all along the path. Your room faces the front of the house, the street. You can’t see any spots of blood from where you’d slipped on your arms – though you’re not sure why you expected to, or if you really expected to. Small things like that don’t have that kind of permanence.
There is fresh air, though. That’s a wonderful feeling, if a cold one. A shiver sneaks down your spine, rippling just like the involuntary twitches do, but softer. And this is another one of those stolen, calm moments. Letting yourself be cold, letting yourself breathe. Wind picks up and stirs the tops of leafless trees and the morning feels timeless. There’s rent to pay, jobs to find, things to do – but no. You could also sit here forever, be at this window, do nothing and watch this tree be stirred in the breeze. That’s a thought beyond sickness, and it’s a comforting one.
When you shiver again though, you decide to close the window and just watch. And then you leave the room – maybe there’s more you can do with the day.
Walking careful footed along the puzzle-box corridor in socks, you find Strange in the open room. He’s hunched over a book, head in his hand, expression pulled into a frown in concentration. You watch him for a moment, wondering if you should step in and risk interrupting him before he turns the page and looks up, catching you hovering at the edge of the room.
You raise a hand. “Hi. Sorry, can I be in here?”
“Of course. Uh,” He looks around him as though he’s suddenly lost his bearings, looking for something misplaced. “I wasn’t expecting to see you up and about, but you’re not confined to your room.” -your room- “You’re welcome to be around and be wherever you like, really. To read if you want to, or explore? You’re not a prisoner but… actually, if you do decide to wander, please don’t touch things. And then there’s some rooms that you shouldn’t…” Strange pushes out his chair, going to stand and his red cape zips across the room to rest over his lapels – had it always been doing that? Had you just not noticed? – “Maybe it’s best I accompany you if you want to wander.”
“Oh, no, please.” You step into the room and gesture for him to sit back down. He looked so focused and busy, and really, you aren’t sure you can bear to walk much more at the moment. He also might be overestimating your curiosity in his... Mystic Arts. You’d really rather not be too involved or get too focused on anything relating to the extra-terrestrial or otherworldly nature of the things that go on in… the world. New York. Everywhere. Sitting in quiet company and reading sounds just fine. “This is good. I’ll wander here. Books are good.”
Strange offers you a half smile and settles back down. His cape comes off his shoulders again and drifts away, the uncanny shape of shoulders remaining in its form as it moves.
You find and flick through a few books. There’s a surprising lack of dust for how old everything appears to be. All the books you come across look handbound and handwritten. Some with old leather covers and paper that’s clearly hand pressed and pages that curve from age. You sneak a look over your shoulder and Strange is sitting at the desk, studiously stuck in whatever he’s doing.
You open a few more books – a few are in English, but others – is that Sanskrit? It may as well by hieroglyphics for all you’re able to read them. Some have ink drawings of ancient structures or diagrams like scientific illustrations you can’t wrap your head around. As though the picture is slippery, actively trying to get away from your mind. You decide not to dwell on that.
You choose a book written in English, without offending brain imagery, and linger to look around the walls and piles of bumf.
There're maps on the walls that don’t make sense - they aren’t geographical maps. You can’t tell what they’re detailing, if they’re supposed to be maps at all, or some charts depicting something else entirely, but the lines are fluid and interesting. Intentional, leading onwards. There are vases with painted lacquer war scenes and artefacts – is that a tooth? A dagger? You decide not to touch them, but they’re interesting to see. This house, or whatever it is, would be the envy of museums for everything in this room alone.
You settle into a tan leather couch, worn with age with a woven tapestry thrown over it as a blanket. You’re not directly in Strange’s line of sight – you’re off to his side, but you’re sure he’s still very aware that you’re there.
Does he mind that you’re there? He said you’re welcome, but you’re hesitant over the intrusion he didn’t expect. Should you apologise? Perhaps he still held the slight from yesterday in his mind, thought of it as a slight. You glance up at him again and he’s making a note – he couldn’t be paying you any less mind if he tried.
So you settle in and try to read – you really do – but the book is… dull. Really dull, it’s bland and you’re pretty sure the last thing you read was more contemporary to this by about three hundred years, so it’s hard to follow the sentences. And you’re tired. Your head is very heavy, and this couch is very soft.
You realise when Wong comes up and starts talking to you that you’ve been drifting in the middle of sentences. It doesn’t matter though, if he asked you to recall the first thing about, uh, the orbiting gravity of black holes, you couldn’t say a damn thing.
“You’re awake!” He says. You and Strange both look up, Strange sharing a look with you as though Wong interrupted your shared silence.
“Morning,” you smile. “Still alive.”
“It seems Strange hasn’t forgotten all of his medical training, then.”
“It’s not like it just goes away.” He scoffs, returning to his book. “I’m a doctor, not an office clerk taking some first aid course over the summer.”
Wong doesn’t answer his quip. Strange goes back to his work. Wong comes to sit by you and asks what you’re reading. You try to make it sound like you know, but the title has slipped your mind.
“Oh, it’s uh,” You’re turning the pages, trying to find the title page but coming up blank, “It’s a good one, I’m a bit out of it I’m afraid but… space. Very interesting. Lots of maths involved.” Your eyes land on dates and numbers but nothing useful to recite in a pinch.
“And are you interested in space?” He takes the book from you. “Ah, Fordyce Lamb’s Dark Matter Equinox Theorems. If you’re interested in black holes, I have better primers before this.”
You’re lost. “Of course. That sounds wonderful.” You have no idea what he’s talking about.
“This book is good, quite a specific branch subject off black holes, focusing mainly on Cygnus X-1 in particular as an example, but it's good.” He leans in close. "Between you and me, I think the author is too partial."
You give him a sheepish look. He’s fully aware that you picked a book at random, but gracious enough to guide you and not humiliate you. This man is lovely. Strange on the other hand harrumphs from where he sits. You and Wong look at him but he’s got his head down working. You look back at each other.
“Come. Let us get some breakfast and then I’ll see about another book.” Wong gestures for you to come with him and you follow him down the stairs to get breakfast, leaving the doctor to his work.
*****
You haven’t seen this part of the house – or any further than the room you were just in – and you’re stuck in a daydream wandering behind Wong, looking at the moulding on the ceiling and the shapes of wood where they’ve been joined and decorations where lines intersect. The giant spinning globes at the end of hallways, high rooves, windows in strange places, and light fixtures like candelabras or lanterns.
The kitchen is more homely than the rest of the house, with a small dining table against a wall, pots and pans a-clatter all over. Full stocked and kept clean, there’s even a sweet terracotta window box with herbs.
Wong pops you some toast down, he shows you where they keep things – fruit and snacks, cups and cutlery. He tells you to help yourself to anything until he’s physically helping you to help yourself, putting things in your hands. He ends up telling you to sit down and makes you breakfast. Toast and scrambled eggs and tea – black tea? You ask. He scrounges around and gives you a low-browed stare but manages to find some.
You sit down to eat together, his middle still wrapped in a half-bodied, red, gingham apron from cooking. You feel more at ease with Wong. With the way he teases Strange and talks to you and treats you – he’s clearly more of an everyman, not a proud, snobbish doctor. The man is making you breakfast, for goodness sakes. There’s less reserved pride about him, he doesn’t hold himself to higher, lofty airs but is grounded. If he’s upset or doesn’t like you, you’re sure it’ll be for a decent and understandable reason, like that you snore, or have poor house manners, or he thinks you don’t appreciate his green tea enough.
Tension doesn’t exist in the air around him. He’s a lovely, unobtrusive person to be around. Even in your own house you don’t have this. You can’t say that you’re friends with your housemates, but sitting in this small, sunny kitchen eating breakfast with Wong, it feels like you’ve met a stranger at an overcrowded café and have had to share a table – a sweet, opportune meeting that neither of you acknowledge, but recognise quite fondly.
You peek at him and he – no, he clearly doesn’t feel how nice and relieving this is. Wong is busily eating his eggs and cutting into a tomato. Your food is getting cold. You should eat.
You’re a few bites in before you speak. “So… you probably heard I was rude.”
“Who would I hear that from?”
Ah, shit. “Well, um. Strange? I was a bit rude. But he seems to have a stick up his ass, right?” It’s a moment before you realise you might be treading on unsteady ground. These two men are probably friends and quite close – they live together!
“Strange is a proud man, but I wouldn’t say his flaws outweigh him. He’s also the one that insisted on keeping you here.” Wong stops between a mouthful of food, seemingly less interested in conversation than eating. “I wouldn’t tease him too much if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Do you like to be teased?”
“No, but there’s something about him, isn’t there?” You press.
He sighs. “It’s not my place to say.”
“But?”
“You should be kind to people who show you kindness.” Great. Theory confirmed: you’re the asshole here. “Curiosity isn’t only harmful to curious people; it can hurt others too. Best leave it be.”
It’s not so much curiosity that makes you spike up at Strange, it’s… the doctor thing. Unfortunately for you, you want a doctor, kind of need one, and you’ve even asked for his help. He’s offering help. You’re aware that you’re biased against him, but why does he have to go and be so… frustrating? He’s such an ass.
And leave it be? You suppose you can... You can choose not to react, or not to blow up quite so much, not to needle into him or… whatever. You don’t want to dwell on it anyway. You really don’t. You’re just… irritated by him. And there’s something about him niggles at your brain and won’t let up.
Strange still rubs you as smug, as proud, but these aren’t the worst things a person can be. Your past experiences have coloured your perception. But, for the sake of a peaceful house? And being given care? You can definitely afford him the benefit of the doubt. It isn’t as though this isn’t your own pride striking up within yourself, too. Your mother would hit your arm with a dishtowel, if she saw how you've been acting. You absently rub at your forearm.
Don’t be so pig headed, you hear her say.
*****
Strange is upstairs, right where you left him with a fist to his forehead and head near buried in his work.
You rub your neck as you approach him and your words, “I feel like I should apologise. For yesterday, for yelling at you. I said some things… some of the things I said were out of line, I’m sure, and-.”
Strange looks over his shoulder at you, “Why are you still thinking about this?”
You pause. “You’re not?”
He gives a thin-lipped smile. Shrugs. “You were wrong on a few parts, but you’re… it’s not worth the fight. You’re good company.”
“I yell at you and I’m good company?”
“You’re good company despite your yelling at me.”
“Is it because I’m unconscious the rest of the time?”
A smile sneaks onto his face. “Mm, might have something to do with it.” He stands and takes a small, folded pile from the side of the desk before coming to you. “You keep shivering. You look cold.”
He hands you a folded hoodie and on top is a box of rizatriptan. “Where did you get this?” You ask.
He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “I have ways.”
You couldn’t care less. It’s not your normal brand but it’s perfect. You rip open the packet and pop the pill on your tongue letting the hard mint taste dissolve and bite bitterly against the back of your throat. Not a nice taste, but such a comforting one in how familiar it is. This is the usual process – this feels like a normal migraine again. Just the experience of taking the medication is soothing and comforting. Already you feel back on track and a bit more inside your own body.
You unzip the hoodie and put it on. It sits low and the sleeves hang over the ends of your arms. It’s… larger than your other clothing, which was a decent guess of a size – regular white linens, that smell clean and look fresh. This on the other hand is worn in and has the scent of - “Is this… yours?”
He hesitates, “Just until we can get you your own clothes. You look freezing. We can go now if you like, only I wasn’t sure if you’re feeling-,”
“No, no I don’t want to go there today. Hell, I don’t want to see them. Not like this. This is… great.” You have medication - that's the main thing. You can put off going home for another day or two. You give the extra fabric of the sleeves a wave. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“I’d also take that cape if you're offering.”
“That's not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, it wouldn’t go near you-,”
“Meaning I’ll have to settle with this pedestrian clothing?”
He scoffs, it’s becoming a familiar sound and you like how undignified it sounds. Making him exasperated? It’s a good feeling. “Do you want the it? I can take it back.”
“What? No. Look. Already wearing it.” You zip it up for effect. “It’s warm. Thank you.”
He nods, looking you up and down. “Good.”
He isn’t wrong about the cold. It’s been taking its effect. The twitches you get? Nasty. The other side of that? Some strange pain that makes your skin feel sharp and sore in the cold. It’s been okay for the most part, but him pointing it out has done no favours.
You pad along the wooden floors, back to the couch, placing your feet flat on the ground before you push down with any pressure. Your legs are sore today, more so than your arms or your back. Your muscles ache – some steps feel like your feet are going to fall out from under you, and there’s a distinctly unnerving feeling as though you don’t really have knees at all. It’s like all the tendons and ligaments keeping your legs steady aren’t really there, and your shins are delicate bones feeling phantom scrapes with every step, like your knee will buckle and femur will fall forward and tear up what bone there is each time there's the slightest whisp of pressure.
It doesn’t happen, but the feeling is there. Every step, every careful step. You had it before, but it’s easier to deal with things when you don’t think about them. The more stimulus the better, because it blocks out everything else. The cold and thinking about the pain directly? Very much not helpful. The warmth of Strange’s hoodie is a small blessing.
You notice Strange looking at you, you notice your jaw clamped tight and you make an effort to relax. “I’m okay. Just a feeling.” You settle on the couch again and pull the woven blanket over you, pick up the book. You don’t open it yet but hold it.
When your head settles, yes, when your head settles, then you’ll open it and read again.
You lay there for ten minutes, staring fuzzy eyed at a point in the middle distance before Strange speaks up. “Are you alright?”
You mumble a bit before you manage to speak. Your teeth ache and your tongue is heavy in your mouth like honey. “Mm, yeah, I’m good.”
“How’s it feel?”
“Um. Bit like a fuzzy stroke.”
“… What?”
You take a breath before you speak, and when your words come, they’re slow and measured. Like a wave receding with breath on the inhale, breathing out words and water onto shore on the exhale. “Well… one side of my body feels gloopy and useless, all tingly… The migraine is on the left side… and I can tell because even if the pain eases the rizatriptan… the side that the migraine is on goes all… funny? Feels a bit like I’m half-melting.”
“And you’re sure this is a normal side effect?”
“Oh yeah… every time. Feels horrid, but yes.”
“Tell me immediately if you’re feeling worse, yes?”
“Yeah… yeah.”
You will. You’ll tell him. You’ll summon up your honey tongue and ocean words and tell him how bad it feels if it gets there again. You could go back to your room – your room - but you want to be around people again. Orbiting around them like black holes. And if you’re sick again, if you get bad, there’s a doctor here - you'll tell him - and he might pull your hair or push you back down again like an ebb… or a flow…
A give and a take. A breathing. A wax and wane. The ever orbiting of something that’ll suck you in – or won’t it? You haven’t gotten to that part of the book yet.
The ever-orbiting doctor. Keeping you safe.
What’s this? Oh, this is the deep unconscious end of the migraine. Dive deep, in water and honey. You’re dragged into the black hole, and you’re asleep.