Sympathy for the Devil

N. Clevenger (July 2017)

Notes: So I got the urge to do a Doctor Strange story, but – good news, my beloved Daredevil fans – it seems I'm utterly incapable of not whumping on Matt Murdock, even when writing in a totally different fandom. Have no fear, though: Strange also suffers. It's kinda what I do. This one's set after the 2016 Strange movie and post DD s2, probably the only time that I'm ever going to acknowledge the existence of that season and its happenings in my fic. (Boo s2.) As far as the Avengers… no idea. Some nebulous time in the movie 'verse. They're only making cameos anyway.

Netflix-Marvel/MarvelMovie canon. I'm not a doctor or a New Yorker, though I frequently poorly portray both in my fanfiction. And I make no money doing this, because these characters don't belong to me.

Stephen hates the cold.

It's a fairly new development, like most things these days another item to be relegated to the Pre/Post Accident checklist. He used to love winter, getting away from the city for some skiing, some sex and snuggling in front of a blazing fire. The crisp bite of the air, the way a new snowfall could temporarily make everything seem so fresh and clean. Now, though, the first thing he equates winter with is pain.

His hands always hurt, another new normal that he still spends too much time and energy cursing. But the cold multiplies every twinge, intensifies every cramp. He can point to the position of each one of those surgically implanted pins without the aid of his anatomical knowledge or the x-ray images that are burned into his eidetic memory. When it's cold he swears the metal feels intrusive. Foreign.

But then, since the accident, so do his hands.

And maybe the appendages have nothing to do with the performance of his magic, but for something so supposedly unintegral he certainly moves them a lot in the process. The intricate patterns his useless fingers trace may be somewhat separate from his conscious control, but they still demand a real physical effort that his hands are now rarely able to easily give. It's not something he usually notices in the midst of things – though he often suffers for the exertions for days afterward – except when it's cold like this. In the frigid air, every twist sparks a distracting complaint. He has to force his his fingers into every tortuous turn.

So when Captain Rogers had called to tell him that the Avengers could use his help with something happening in Antarctica, Stephen had honestly been tempted for a moment to refuse. He couldn't, of course – this is apparently who he is now, though he's still baffled most days as to how exactly that happened – but he'd wanted to. He'd just gotten back to the Sanctum for chrissake, hadn't yet had time to take off his boots let alone shower. Running on three days with almost no sleep, he'd crossed the equator four times just since yesterday afternoon. Standing there in the blissful stillness of his adopted home, the only irritation the too-earnest voice of Rogers in his ear, it had been hard not to simply hang up the phone.

The Cloak had tightened briefly around his shoulders like it knew what was going on. What he was thinking. Stephen had been able to force out a reassurance that he was on his way before slamming down the old-fashioned handset and groaning his frustration into the silence.

But, as Romanoff flies past to crash motionless into a snowbank beside him, Stephen grudgingly acknowledges that it was probably for the best that he'd come. Sometimes it feels like Rogers only calls him along on these missions because he mistakenly assumes that Stephen needs something to do. Or maybe it's that every now and then the good Captain gets off on exercising some kind of imagined authority. Either way, there have definitely been times that Stephen was sure that the objective could have been accomplished without him. More than once he'd barely refrained from reminding Rogers in no uncertain terms that this Master of the Mystic Arts was most definitely not a member of his shiny superhero team.

He risks a glance away from the battle to check on Romanoff. Her red hair moves across the snow in a brilliant contrast as she sits up on her own; maybe a little dazed, but she's moving. Stephen turns back to the fight, pins one of the shockingly tall alien creatures long enough that Barton can nail it. Those explosive arrows are effective, if messy.

He hadn't gotten much of a briefing when he'd stepped through the portal to find the area already in chaos, doesn't know who these creatures are or what they want. Has no idea how long they've been here or why they're green. There had been no time to gather enough information before being forced to choose a side, and he'd simply had to trust the Avengers' assessment of these aliens as a threat. It's beyond difficult for Stephen, this blind uneducated trust. And he's still having a lot of trouble reconciling his new oaths with his old one.

First, do no harm.

Admittedly though, it's much easier to choose sides when you arrive to find giant green things attacking your sometime-coworkers. Maybe it shouldn't be, but Stephen can't find the focus right now to debate it. He's sure there'll be plenty of time inside the insomnia to berate himself for it later.

Thankfully, it looks as if they might have the situation nearly wrapped up. Because of their size and vibrant hue the creatures are pretty easy to spot, and Stephen only counts two, perhaps a hundred feet away, near a cluster of small dwellings. The houses are a tiny defiant patch of life out here in all this empty white; one of the roofs is half crushed in, and he wonders where the people that lived in them have gone. It's a fleeting thought, a musing he doesn't really have time for. Shaking it off, he turns to pull Romanoff out of the snow.

He offers her a bent arm, angling the extremity so that it's more natural for her to grab his elbow than his hand to pull herself up. She does, and he takes in the shallow gash at her hairline and the glassy gaze as they straighten. He has his doubts for a moment as to whether or not she'll stay on her feet, but the Cloak helps by curling around her waist in support when she wavers. A look back toward the action shows Rogers and Barton shoulder to shoulder, too close to the unjolly green giants and looking very much like the underdogs. "Are you alright?" he asks her. They need to get over there.

"Let's go," is all she says, releasing her hold on his arm and taking off at a run toward the fight.

The best Stephen can manage is an uneven jog, and he feels old as Romanoff quickly and gracefully increases the distance between them. It would be ridiculous to waste his dwindling energy to use his sling ring to get over there, but he has to tell himself this repeatedly as he drags his exhausted body through the slushy snow. It's not that far. He'll be there in another few seconds.

But he's flagging, shredded by too little sleep and the already creeping after-effects of yet another magic battle. Plus now that his hands have lost the diversion of their focused continuous motions, they're bitching at top volume; every step sends a fresh jolt through painful bones down to throbbing fingertips. Stephen keeps his eyes on his destination, puts one foot in front of the other and tries to hold it together for just a bit longer. When he stumbles, the Cloak is there to defeat gravity's attempt to drop him to his knees.

He reaches the small group just as the two creatures fall almost in tandem, and he doubts he's inventing the disapproving look Rogers throws his way. He definitely doesn't imagine the scalding scowl from Barton, despite its rapid shift into a wince as the archer folds himself protectively around his forearm. Romanoff pinches the bridge of her nose, a thin scarlet trickle trailing down the side of her pale face.

Dizzy and shivering and more winded than he wants to admit, Stephen clenches his jaw against a surge of worthlessness. He can't even offer to put in stitches.

The feeling of inadequacy fades swiftly, though; he hadn't exactly been a spectator in this fight. Stephen has no idea where Stark and Banner are, but it's hardly his fault the team's down two of its star players. Maybe that's why they'd contacted him, like he's a benchwarmer waiting to be called up. Whatever. They'd asked for his help, and he'd shown up and done his part.

And it had taken just as much of a toll on him as on the rest of them, even if he's doing his damnedest not to let it show. They stagger toward the Quinjet together – Barton and Romanoff so close that Stephen wonders briefly if they've ever been lovers, before deciding that he doesn't really care – the Cloak steering him gently but necessarily in a relatively straight line. It drapes itself subtly around his arms, loosely hiding the uncontrollable fluttering of his hands. Wrapped in its insulating warmth, they feel like blocks of ice defrosting, a million tiny pin pricks of agony. Residual magic energy thrums nauseatingly through his blood.

Barton and Romanoff slowly climb the stairs to board the jet, and Stephen questions if he should be the one to point out that their lovely assassin most likely has a concussion. Surely a plane this fancy can virtually fly itself. He doesn't know. He's never been on it. At best, the extended use of concentrated magic in a battle like this leaves him ridiculously drained. At worst, the picture's more like hours spent in the fetal position whimpering and vomiting blood. Once he suspects he might've even had a seizure. An unpredictable vulnerability that he's not willing to share with these people; with anyone, if he can avoid it. He's not going to trap himself in that confined space and take the chance that someone might glimpse something he doesn't want them to see.

Rogers stops at the base of the steps, the heel of his hand pressed against a pectoral wound that Stephen's just noticing now. The captain doesn't appear at all concerned, even as the blood inches outward across the fabric of his uniform. "You'll meet us back at the Tower for debriefing?"

It's presumptive and possibly a bit too authoritative, and the doctor wonders if that perpetually placid expression Rogers wears would change at all if Stephen threw up on his boots. "What's your ETA?" he asks, swallowing hard and working to keep his voice steady.

Rogers glances toward the open doorway of the jet like he might hunt down Romanoff and find out. "Let's just say tomorrow; it's a long flight, I know that much. Of course, if you rode back with us, we could just get it out of the way now."

He's long suspected that it rankles Rogers that Stephen doesn't simply fall in line with rest of his soldiers and fly home with the team. Probably because it underscores his position as an outsider. And therefore an uncontainable element. But the tremors from his hands now radiate up to his shoulders, and the Cloak's shifting with a nonexistent breeze in a laughable attempt to obscure this. The need to rid himself of his audience lends a bite to his tone more reminiscent of his former self. "I'll be there tomorrow."

He turns to go, to get anywhere that can be remotely classified as away. It doesn't matter where. Stephen seriously doubts he has the strength or focus to conjure a portal home at the moment, but if he can at least get out of sight he can collapse and rest until the strength can be summoned. He tries to keep his head up and his back rigid, but his first steps still feel unsteady. He hopes Rogers can't tell.

"Strange, wait. There's something else you can help with, if you're heading straight back to Manhattan."

Facing away from the Captain, Stephen closes his eyes and exhales a sigh through his frozen nose. "And what would that be?" he asks, not bothering to turn around.

"There are reports of odd energy readings coming from a warehouse at the southeast end of Hell's Kitchen. Since you'll be getting back so quickly and Tony's, uh, unavailable, I was hoping you might be able to check it out."

Despite how rotten he feels, the mention of Stark piques Stephen's curiosity. It definitely sounds like there's a story there. But his interest doesn't last long; when he blinks open his eyes the sky's too blue, too wide, too bright in its reflection off of the snow. The Cloak stiffens to balance him as he sways, swept through with a rush of vertigo.

"Strange?" He hears Rogers' boots crunch through the snow, but he still doesn't expect the hand that lands on his shoulder. Stephen flinches, stiffens, and the hand immediately slides away.

"Are you okay?" Rogers asks anyway, close to his ear. Hushed, like there's anyone around to overhear.

"Fine," Stephen snarls, annoyed by the multitude of his own weaknesses. He doesn't need Rogers' pity any more than he needs his leadership. "Don't you have your own guy out there? The one they call The Demon or something?"

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He's not exactly an Avenger."

"Neither am I." It slips out, though he restrains himself from adding, But I seem to be at your beck and call.

"There haven't been any verified sightings of him for a couple of days," Rogers explains from behind him, nimbly dancing past a discussion that Stephen doesn't really want to have anyway. "Lots of rumors, but nobody seems to be sure of anything."

"Nineteen seventy-seven," Stephen mumbles automatically. "Fleetwood Mac's eleventh studio album."

"What?"

"Rumours. Forget it." His legs are trembling, plainly not willing to hold him up for much longer, and his vision's beginning to narrow in a way that as a doctor he's definitely not comfortable with. He wonders if Rogers would follow him if he simply walked back to one of those little houses and shut himself inside. Wonders if there's a bed in one of them that he could lie down on. "I'll check out the building," he tells Rogers over his shoulder, "but I'm not wandering around Hell's Kitchen all night looking for your missing not exactly."

"I'm not asking you to." Rogers' voice is tight, but Stephen can't tell if the cause is pain or irritation. He doesn't look back to find out.

"Don't let Romanoff fly. She's probably got a concussion." He's not sure if it's a concession or simply a change of subject. "And there's something wrong with Barton's arm."

"I'll take care of it."

Whatever that means. Stephen's vision darkens entirely for a microsecond, and he grinds his teeth against a vicious twinge that pings from the distal end of his fourth metacarpal up through his wrist. His stomach churns. All he has to do is not black out before Rogers gets on that plane; too bad the man won't actually leave. "You should go," he says, his voice sounding embarrassingly hoarse even after he clears his throat. "You've got a long flight."

"You're right." Two steps away, a step back. "You sure you're okay, Strange?"

Just. Go. Already. "Yes."

"You're not leaving?"

"In a minute. I'm going to take a look around." Apparently he's going to have to be the one to end this interaction. "I'll see you tomorrow, Captain."

Rogers doesn't try to stop him, and Stephen starts back the way they just came. He has no idea if the man's watching him, but the jet hasn't yet taken off; he concentrates on making it appear as if his boots are tracking across the snow, an act when after less than ten feet the Cloak completely takes over the effort of propelling his body forward. His eyes aren't even open anymore, closed tightly against the migraine-inducing glare as he trusts the Cloak to get him some place safe, some place away. To keep him from falling face-first into alien entrails.

The jet's engines finally roar to life, eventually rise up and gradually fade away. The moment the plane's in the air, Stephen's coughing hot bile into the snow. The crisp air whirls around his head, and he just wants to sit down. But not out here. Christ he's tired of being cold. When he takes a teetering step on his own, the Cloak gets the hint and they're moving again. Not three feet later Stephen's knee folds suddenly and awkwardly underneath him, but the Cloak keeps him off of the ground.

He vaguely registers crossing through a doorway, the blurry sight of a piece of furniture that looks like it could pass for a bed. He isn't sure later whether or not he makes it over there before he loses consciousness.

Stephen wakes drenched in sweat and terror, his lips still moving with a familiar refrain. Dormammu, I've come to bargain. The clinging breathless panic only swells when he doesn't immediately recognize his surroundings, and the room spins as he scrambles to sit up.

His vision remains disconcertingly bleary, and he blinks at the small room as he fights to gain control of the hyperventilation, his tachycardic heart. The Cloak strokes a calming, repetitive path over the skin at his temple, a comfort sneaking into routine after countless moments like this one. Antarctica, his fuzzy mind insists. You're in Antarctica. But his body continues working hard, doing its best to keep the adrenaline coursing through his blood.

Stupid body. So frustrating that he can't simply think his way past these physical reactions, especially when his brain continues to offer up proof of the obvious. It's so bright, so white; he can see snow through the open door. He's alone, indoors. Dormammu was never this creative in his tortures. And Antarctica would go a long way toward explaining why he's so miserably fucking cold.

Eventually his heart begins to slow, his breathing to deepen, as his body finally begins to understand what his brain figured out long minutes before. He's not in the Dark Dimension. He's in Antarctica. Safe. Alone. He isn't sure what time it is, but judging by the muddled state of his head he's guessing that the dreams have only granted him the usual hour or so of sleep; not nearly enough after three days without, but probably sufficient replenishment of energy to get him home. Tremors shiver through the clawed hands cradled against his chest. The Cloak stops its petting to curl itself softly around them.

He takes a deliberate breath and stands shakily from the low bench he'd slept on, the sweat-dampened fabric of his clothes clammy and uncomfortable in the chilled air. He's definitely ready to get the hell out of Antarctica. Lethargy drags at his muscles as he raises his arms to perform the motions to open a portal, and he remembers Rogers' errand in Hell's Kitchen only at the last moment. Stephen considers returning to the Sanctum first, but decides he should just get it over with. Wouldn't do to let Rogers think he can't hold up his end of things.

And he probably won't be able to sleep if he goes home anyway.

The abrupt transition from day to night is a little startling, but the warm breeze that brushes his face as he steps through the portal feels amazing. He closes his eyes for a moment to savor it, wavering with light-headed exhaustion. Get on with it already. Stephen sighs as he surveys the three abandoned-looking buildings in front of him.

Of course Rogers couldn't have been more specific. This was going to take forever.

The thought reminds him of Dormammu, and he forces the shudder into a snort of amusement that he doesn't actually feel. Ridiculous, though: forever. An absurd exaggeration considering this person he's turned into. As if it can hear this darkening mental monologue, the Cloak gives him a slight nudge in the center of his back; not enough to shove him forward, but getting its point across. Stephen picks one of the buildings at random and starts moving, his steps shuffling over the cracked sidewalk.

By the time he's searched two of the three – finding nothing but rats and dust, used needles and the lingering smell of urine – he's decided that forever is a relative concept. He's also decided that if there's nothing to be discovered in this last derelict structure, he's hanging up on Rogers the next time he calls.

He'll take a sabbatical. Let the damn Avengers save the universe on their own for a while.

There's not much left but a few steel carts and imprints in the dust where machinery must've stood, but it's obvious as Stephen enters the third building that someone has been here recently. Recently recently. The air feels still-disturbed in a way he can't quite define, and it puts him on alert as he creeps across the wide empty room. If the Cloak hastens his pace a little, it's backed by Stephen's own impatience with his unshakeable malaise. He doesn't protest.

His instincts are justified when he finds four unconscious men sprawled in the next room; he's not sure what happened to the other three, but one of them's sporting a nasty open humeral fracture. Stephen kneels beside the body for a closer look, finding that someone's apparently taken the time to tie a strip of dirty cloth into a sloppy tourniquet in an effort to slow the blood loss. One of the others? He doubts that the guy would have been able to do it himself.

Fatigue washes through him as he pushes back to his feet, and he debates his options. He supposes he should check out the rest of the building while he's here, but despite the well-intentioned intervention the man at his feet is still going to be DOA if he doesn't get more help soon. If he returns to the Sanctum, he can direct aid from there. Point Rogers in the right direction and let the captain do the rest of the leg work regarding whatever was going on here. Stephen sucks in a breath as a brutal spasm shoots unexpectedly from his left trapezium across his palm, clutches the hand futilely to his chest. It takes a long time for the cramping to die down; he's panting, utterly wrung out when it finally begins to fade.

He wants to go home. He's going to go home.

If only he can manage to summon a portal out of this disappointing shower of sparks. Stephen scowls, tries again. But the process that's become mostly second nature now continues to elude him with its sputtering light display. It's true that the sling ring requires an enormous amount of power and focus, true that he's only human. But he's also a Master of the Mystic Arts. This inadequacy feels completely inexcusable.

When he hears the distant sound of sirens, the failure becomes even more pressing. They're probably not even headed this way – he doubts there's a big emergency response presence in this part of town – but he should come up with some sort of alternate exit strategy in case they are. Not everyone knows or regards him as one of the good guys, and he's got no interest in trying to explain his way out of this situation if the arriving officers aren't fans.

Or if they are. It's disturbing when people ask for his autograph.

It registers that the sirens do seem to be getting louder, growing closer as he's been standing here staring pointlessly into space. The room gives a watery shimmy when he tries to focus his eyes, and his empty stomach flips. He needs to get out of here.

A stumbling investigation of a long hallway reveals a fire exit on the rear side of the building. Locked, and the burst of magical manipulation required to open it leaves Stephen sagging against a filthy wall. Inexcusable. He staggers through the door into the night, emerging into a chainlink-enclosed concrete expanse that looks like it used to be a parking lot. The sirens are definitely moving in this direction; he's way too easy to find out here if there's any kind of a search. Desperation pushes him to attempt another portal, a pathetic effort that sends his questionable equilibrium into a sickening cartwheel.

He knows he's overdone it when there's no space between that moment and this one, when he blinks to find himself suddenly and rapidly ascending through the air. There's little time to process anything besides the motion, the nauseating vertigo, before the Cloak deposits him on the building's roof and his stomach rebels completely.

The sirens whoop to a halt on the street out front, and Stephen indulges in a useless moment of self-pity. But there's movement in the shadows on the other side of the roof; the Cloak must register this at the same time he does, judging by the way he's harshly yanked from his knees into a more defensible position. Stephen peers in that direction, unable to see anything in the jarring revolutions of the emergency vehicle lights. Still, he's certain he heard something scrabbling around over there.

He moves cautiously, wobbily, toward the shadows as car doors open and slam on the street below. It could've just been a rat – Stephen's seriously had his fill of rats tonight, even as a New Yorker – but the memory of the sound echoes something bigger. He's ridiculously unprepared when the something leaps out at him from a completely different direction than he'd been anticipating. His arm rises reflexively to block a subconsciously-sensed swing for his head.

The weapon is cylindrical and solid, and when it connects with the middle of his ulna it sends liquid fire up and down his right arm. Stephen falls back, a howl crashing against his clenched teeth, and manages to conjure a brief flare of energy to shove his opponent reeling away. There's a fleeting impression of leather as the figure quickly disappears into the darkness behind a protruding ventilation tower.

His immediate attempt to follow is a joke that nobody finds funny, and it's purely the Cloak's reaction time that keeps Stephen more or less on his feet. The vibrations still travelling his right arm pulse shivery electric shocks along his ulnar nerve through his pinky finger, and for a few seconds he can't do anything but stand there, breathing in short puffs through his nose as he waits out this new variation of weakness. He resents every one of those seconds, but his brain uses them to color in details he doesn't realize he'd seen. A costume, a mask? Could it be that he's found Rogers' missing freelancer?

Two for two. He's still got it after all.

Assuming, of course, that this isn't some other wacko playing dress-up on the roof of an abandoned building in Hell's Kitchen. Stephen starts to walk slowly toward the ventilation tower, the Cloak resettling itself autonomously over his shoulders as if to remind him that he's not exactly one to throw stones. The background squawking of radios and human voices hum through the sounds coming from in and around the building.

He approaches the fixture warily, not looking forward to being forced into defending himself again. Especially if they're supposed to be allies. "Hello?" he calls in a loud whisper. "Look, I, um, I think we might be on the same side…"

Silence, but nothing comes flying at him out of the dark. Interpreting this as implicit invitation, Stephen takes a chance and inches around the edge of the tower. He hears the guy before he sees him, hissing respirations rattling and shallow.

Definitely wearing a mask, and the points on the top that might be called horns seem to confirm the man's identity as that of the missing Devil. He's crouched by the low wall that surrounds the roof. Obviously severely dyspneic, but as Stephen moves into his line of sight he transforms into a flurry of disjointed motion, backpedaling frantically. He doesn't have to retreat far before he hits the other wall; with nowhere to go he presses himself into the corner, holding the staff-like weapon between them as he gasps for air.

"Okay, maybe you didn't hear me." He's unwilling to raise his voice any further for fear of their presence being detected, so he holds up his hands in a universally nonthreatening gesture as he continues to approach. With his own outfit, Stephen's a little surprised that the guy hasn't yet drawn a line between the dots. "I think this is just a misunderstanding. You're the one they call the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, right?"

"Who're you?" It's a growl. The splashing lights paint him tensed, trembling, that weapon still at the ready; his other arm hangs limply at his side, the unnatural slope of the shoulder hinting strongly at some kind of dislocation. In the poor illumination he looks like he's barely standing, and Stephen's not really surprised that no one's seen this guy for days. He doubts all of the man's woes can be attributed to the gang downstairs; even from here he's betting on the respiratory issue being at least borderline pneumonia, versus trauma.

"Doctor Stephen Strange." He drops his aching hands. "We haven't yet been introduced. Terribly rude of Rogers not to have some kind of cocktail party, when you think about it."

"Rogers. You're an Avenger?"

"Absolutely not. But I do offer my assistance when they need it."

"How…" The question breaks off into a thick ugly cough, and the staff lowers as the guy tries to smother the noise in the crook of his elbow. There's nothing Stephen can do but wait for it to end. "Where'd you come from?" the masked man rasps when it does.

"Antarctica," Stephen answers, noting the way he's bent slightly to his right, elbow close to his ribs like they hurt. That left shoulder bulges grotesquely; if they can get out of here, maybe he'll be able to manipulate the joint back into its proper place.

"What?"

Stephen can't see his eyes, can only see the incredulous frown shaping the guy's mouth. It's understandable. "Really. An hour ago I was in Antarctica."

"Okay." The man clearly doesn't believe him. "But how'd you –" Another fiercely muffled coughing fit; it fades off into a groan as the guy drops to one knee in the corner. "Didn't... come up the stairs," he forces out raggedly, his head bowed.

Stephen can't tell if he's cyanotic, or if it's just an effect of the blue police light. Probably the former. "No. I didn't. I'm assuming it was you who took out the team down there?"

"They… they all still alive?"

There may or may not be a bit of extra stress on the word all; difficult to tell with the way the shortness of breath interferes with his cadence. But it answers a question Stephen had forgotten. "The tourniquet was you," he postulates.

"I don't kill people."

Stephen used to be able to make that claim too. Self-defense. "You called the ambulance," he guesses, another answer clicking into place as his mind flounders for a new line of thought. "Where can you possibly hide a phone in that outfit?"

The man twists his neck enough to scowl up at the doctor, but his head falls as he's coughing again. Stephen's shocked he managed to take out four guys in the state he's in. Impressed that he even made it out of bed. The shape of the man makes him feel much better about his own dubious physical condition, and like far more of a whiner.

"Why are you still here?" he asks, before seeing Rogers blindingly backlit by a field of snow. Look at him. You know why he's still here. "You might've at least gotten away before making the call."

"He was dying," the other man wheezes. Now his lips twitch with something that, if Stephen knew him better, might be labeled as embarrassment. "Thought they'd take longer to get here."

"I bet. So… dislocated shoulder, probable rib injury. How long have you been this congested?" He's still a physician, if not a surgeon.

"Great," the man mumbles. "That kind of doctor."

"Amongst other things." Hidden inside the folds of the Cloak, Stephen flexes the fingers of his right hand as best he can, trying to coax more sensation into his pinky and ring finger than just the current intermittent tingling. "In a former life, I was a neurosurgeon at Metro-General."

The man's head comes up sharply at this, but he moans softly and sways in his kneeling position to slump against the wall at his side. Stephen crouches in front of him, the Cloak supplementing his own tenuous balance. He should find this guy some oxygen, some antibiotics. The rotating lights glint off the sheen of perspiration that covers what little Stephen can see of his face; that costume looks stiflingly hot, even if one doesn't have any kind of a fever.

"I can get you to Metro-General, if that's what you want." Probably. It certainly seems like the most obvious idea, and surely by now he'll be able to use the sling ring to transport them there. He hopes Christine's on call; he's completely lost track of what day it is.

"No, no hospital," the guy insists, stirring. "Just used to know som—" He cuts himself off with a tiny shake of his head. "No hospital," he repeats.

"Then I hope you've got a private doctor somewhere. Pneumonia's not generally one of those things that just goes away on its own."

"M'fine." He disproves this by burying his face in the bend of his elbow and trying to hack up a lung.

Stephen stands, again feeling the weight of the last few days. He rolls his head trying to work out a knot in his trapezius; the Cloak ripples as it sets to massaging his neck and shoulders. Despite everything, he's a bit surprised that the guy hasn't mentioned it. In his limited experience, everyone has a comment about the Cloak.

"Take off the damn mask at least," he says when the coughing tapers off, when maybe the guy can actually hear him. He's frustrated by the level of pain he can read in this stranger's clenched jaw. If he had any kind of resources, he could do something.

When there's no response, he leans in to pull the thing off himself; it's necessary, for his benefit, and aren't they all part of the same big club anyway? But the guy explodes just as Stephen's trembling fingertips are about to brush his cheekbone, the weapon coming up to knock his hand away. It cracks across three of his knuckles, and he tastes blood as his teeth clamp down against the noise that surges up from his throat.

He staggers backward a few steps before the Cloak stops him, dimly registering the guy's snarled, "Stay away from me," as he tries futilely to scramble farther into the corner. Stephen's ears are ringing, his hand screaming. Involuntary tears welling up in his eyes. Though he's nearly insensible as the Cloak lowers him gently a safe distance away, he's nonetheless aware of its support at his shoulders when he pitches sideways to retch up more bile.

Christ he wants to go home.

He spits out blood from his mangled lip, wipes his mouth with the sleeve at his wrist. The other man's wedged into the corner like a wounded animal, that threatening stick held again between them, and Stephen curses himself for what was clearly an idiotic approach. The guy hasn't even offered him a name yet, alias or otherwise. It should have been obvious that he's a bit protective of his identity.

Back to the start then. Stephen raises one palm in what he hopes remains a neutral gesture, the hand that took the hit still cradled guarded against his abdomen. "Okay, you're right," he concedes in a hushed voice as he climbs slowly back to his feet. "I can't force you to accept help. But you'd be a lot more comfortab—"

"Sshhh," the guy hisses from his corner.

Stephen frowns, stops moving that way. "Look, I'm guessing your body temperature is dangerously elevated," he says, in a quieter version of his best Trust me, I'm a doctor tone. "You need –"

"Shut up," the masked man growls, springing up from the ground and lunging at him. Whatever his intention, imbalance sends him lurching directly into the doctor's arms; startled, Stephen catches him awkwardly. Heat blasts from the miniscule patch of exposed skin over the lower half of the guy's face. He groans close to Stephen's ear as his injuries are jostled, but his right hand comes up immediately to push off of the doctor's chest.

"They're searching everything, even the roof. Headed this way," the guy explains in a hoarse whisper, teetering on shaky legs. "We have to leave."

Stephen can't hear anything new, can't pick any words from the distant voices. "How do you know?"

This apparently isn't deemed worthy of a response. The guy cocks his head at an indecipherable angle for a moment, turns purposefully to Stephen's right. "This way."

Stephen's offered no hint as to the details of his plan, has no clue as to what lies in that seemingly arbitrary direction. He doesn't even know what direction that is. And he still can't hear anyone coming. "Because you say so."

"Because it's the direction to go."

He can only see roofs, jutting buildings. No jetpack, no helicopter, no ladder to the ground as far as he can tell. Maybe that suit flies, like Stark's toys. "Invisible jet?" he guesses flippantly.

The man sways slightly, stumbles a tiny backward step before finding his equilibrium. "Rooftops."

Stephen makes an undignified noise as he chokes on a barely-squashed burst of laughter. "You're joking." The only answer he gets is a frown. "Your left arm's nonfunctional; you're clearly unsteady to say the least. Have you looked over that wall? It's a long way down."

"Do what you want," he grumbles, holding that arm close to his body as he brushes past the doctor. "I'm leaving."

Stephen considers just letting him go, but knows he'll probably feel a bit guilty if he hears from Rogers later that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen fell off one of these buildings and cracked open his stubborn skull. But he's not going to chase this guy from roof to roof, either; he'll offer passage to the Sanctum, and if it's refused then the guy's on his own. The masked man's not moving very quickly, but he disappears on the other side of the vent. Stephen sighs, follows.

And finds him almost instantly. The guy hasn't gotten very far at all, slumped against the other side of the tower struggling to breathe. He doesn't look up as the doctor arrives. "Thought you were leaving," Stephen can't resist saying.

The man growls something unintelligible and likely unflattering; it triggers another episode of coughing that leaves him gasping and curled in on himself, and when he looks like he might topple over Stephen reaches out to steady him. He flinches away violently, and the doctor drops his hand. He tries to listen for sounds of the search, but it's hard to hear anything beyond the other man's desperate wheezing. He's thinking about chest x-rays and amoxicillin dosages when the Devil finally finds enough air to speak.

"S'pose… s'pose you have a better plan?"

"I always have a better plan."

Without further explanation, Stephen turns with intentional drama and opens a portal to the Sanctum three feet in front of them. He can't help feeling smug as he looks through the window into the beckoning serenity of his home; he doesn't think about what he would've done if that hadn't worked.

The guy's only response is a slight tilt to his head and a ghost of a frown. It's incredibly deflating.

"Nothing?" Stephen asks, gesturing to the portal in disbelief. He doesn't know what reaction he'd been expecting – surprise, awe, relief, gratitude – but he'd been expecting a reaction. Now the guy does frown, but he still doesn't say anything. Stephen wishes he could see more of his face. That menacing mask gives almost nothing away.

Suddenly the man's moving, pushing out of his contracted position; he overbalances and nearly topples over in the other direction. Stephen's arm twitches, but he stops himself from touching the guy. "What's your plan?" the man hisses. "They're coming."

Stephen just blinks at him for a second. "You follow me, and we figure out the rest when we get there." He says this with an exaggerated slowness, but he reminds himself he should probably cut the guy a break. He's likely a bit muddled with the pain and the fever.

"Complex," he observes flatly.

"Doesn't always need to be." Maybe he's nervous; Stephen can't truly recall how he felt when he'd gone through that first portal. So much was new and overwhelming at the time, and there have been so many since then. "Just follow me. No different than stepping through a door."

He thinks that incomprehensible radio chatter is getting closer; he glances toward the stairwell door on the other side of the roof, expecting to see it open. It doesn't, but there's no reason to wait around. Stephen steps through the spinning sparks, the guy directly on his heels like he's afraid of being left behind.

The lack of response to the portal's appearance was disappointing, but the masked man makes up for it as they enter the Sanctum. Stephen whirls around in surprise when the guy crashes into a small side table, his head snapping back and forth bewildered. It's briefly gratifying, and Stephen smirks.

But the guy doesn't calm down. "Where are we?" he demands urgently, his breathing tight and fast. His fingers gripping that weapon as if he thinks he might still need it.

"Greenwich Village. Bleecker Street." Stephen wonders what he thought was going to happen when he stepped through. The books lining the walls of his favorite study surround them silently, and he takes a deep breath of their familiar scent. "Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum."

"How –?" The question is aborted, rerouted. "You… what? Live here?"

"Yes. I'm the current guardian of the place."

"Guardian."

"Pretentious, I know." The man's not so much relaxing as gradually crumpling. In the light from the wall sconces, his skin is shockingly pale under the stubble along his jaw. "There's no one here but us. Take that stupid mask off; I promise your secret will be safe with me. Confidentiality, blah blah blah."

"No." He coughs, cringes, his right hand starting for his ribs before it wraps around his left elbow to hold the displaced extremity close. He's still clinging to the staff in that hand; it runs along the length of his arm. "I have to go."

"A bit of medical advice: stay here and rest for a while first. Because otherwise I doubt you're going to make it wherever you're trying to get to, and I'm going to have to explain to Rogers why I let you leave. At least let me see what I can do about your shoulder."

The guy drops his hand like he's been caught at something, and does his best to straighten up. "It's fine. And you can't keep me here."

If this is supposed to sound dangerous, the wheezing somewhat dampens the effect. "Uh... doctor?" Stephen reminds him, pointing to himself. His index finger trembles, and he quickly hides the hand back under the Cloak before the other man can see. "It's not fine; it's obviously dislocated. And I can probably help with that. What, are you planning to try and fix it yourself?"

He doesn't answer, but the abruptly grim set to his jaw suggests to Stephen that maybe he's done it before.

"As for keeping you here," Stephen continues, "I'm honestly not even going to bother to try. This conversation has already lasted longer than some of my consultations, and I want a shower. So: yes or no. A little free healthcare between allies, or can I show you the way out?"

The Devil looks like he might be considering the offer – though who can actually tell under all that rubbery leather – and for a few seconds Stephen hopes he'll refuse. His side trip to Hell's Kitchen has left him no less exhausted, and he really does want a shower; he strongly suspects there might be bits of alien intestines in his hair. Though if the guy leaves now, freeing him of further responsibility, he might just skip the shower and head directly for his bed. He blinks open eyes he doesn't realize he'd closed.

The other man doesn't seem to have noticed, looks like he's staring at his shoes. When he wavers, rocking back onto his heels, he has to stabilize himself with a frantic grab for the table; the wide vase that sits there wobbles a little with the impact, but remains otherwise unaffected. Stephen sighs and rubs at his eyes with a shaking hand, willing him to just make a decision one way or the other.

"Yeah. Okay," the guy finally agrees begrudgingly. "The shoulder."

"Good thing there's nothing else wrong then." This earns Stephen a scowl but no comment. "Alright, follow me."

He leads the man out of the study and down the hall, the peaceful quiet of the sanctuary filled with the guy's loud ragged breathing. For someone who apparently hates to be touched, he seems incredibly tactile; gloved fingertips snake out to brush the edge of the occasional piece of furniture, the doorframe as they enter one of the bedrooms. Maybe he's simply off-balance, dizzy. The way he keeps minutely tipping his head makes Stephen think that his ears are probably congested, at least on one side.

The room is small and sparsely appointed, but there is a tiny adjoining bathroom with a shower. "Sit," Stephen says, motioning toward the bed. "I'll be back in a minute."

The guy just stands there, hunched and misshapen, looking at him obstinately. Stephen rolls his eyes and leaves the room.

He heads for his own bedroom, deliberately ignoring the bed he hasn't slept in for days. He doesn't have to look over there to know that it's neatly made, the sheets tucked into perfect corners; the day to day housekeeping tasks are managed by a group of novices that Stephen rarely sees. He'd argued when he moved in for rehiring the woman who'd taken care of his condo – Elena, a flurry of cheer and efficiency whom he'd had to let go of after the fourth or fifth surgery – but Wong had assured him that this was the way things were done.

There had been a long complicated explanation attached. Stephen had tuned most of it out.

He grabs the bottle of low-dose aspirin, a daily prophylaxis after a couple of scary clots in his hands; his grip on the bottle is unreliable, and he drops it with a clatter into the empty sink. He meets his own eyes in the mirror, immediately glances away. At least the damn easy-off cap didn't pop open this time, spilling pills everywhere.

Stephen doesn't have a lot of clothes these days – barely enough to warrant a dresser, let alone his old walk-in closet – but he digs out a clean pair of soft sweatpants and a t-shirt in case the masked man decides to stick around after all. The sweats will most likely be ridiculously long on him, but they've got to be more comfortable than the outfit the guy's wearing now. There's an aggravating wave of weakness when he straightens, the Cloak stiffening to support him as the air gives a liquidy shift and the room goes briefly insubstantial, and the nausea suddenly returns full force. He steadies himself with a twitching hand on the dresser as he breathes through his nose and waits for it to pass.

His feet are dragging on the way back to the guest room, and the Cloak flutters anxiously – comfortingly, reprovingly – at his shoulders when his toe catches in the carpet and he stumbles. "Yeah, I know," he mumbles, picturing his bed. He should probably eat something; it's likely that his blood sugar, amongst other things, is frighteningly low.

First things first. He curses Rogers in several languages as he shuffles down the hall.

The Devil sits slumped on the edge of the mattress, his head bowed; he jerks when Stephen enters, and his hand darts toward the weapon lying on the bed at his side. The room's lights bounce off the opaque lenses that cover his eyes. It looks like it would be hard to see out of those things, like they'd give the world an annoying tint. He can't ask before the guy's helplessly doubled over coughing again.

He watches a thin droplet of sweat fall from the end of the man's nose. "If you won't listen to reason and take off the mask," Stephen says, heading into the bathroom, "do the gloves at least come off? The boots?" He piles the clothes on the corner of the small counter; there's a clean glass tumbler sitting on the other side of the sink. The Cloak scoops it up before Stephen has to make the attempt, holds it under the faucet while it's filled. He's grateful. It's difficult enough to convince his hand to twist the knob to turn on the water.

The Cloak carries the glass back without him having to ask, and he's surprised to find the guy actually listening when he returns to the other room. The relieved exhale as he tugs the first glove off validates Stephen's assumption that in that costume he's dangerously overheated.

Also validated is his guess as to the man's altered mental status; there's no move to take the pill bottle Stephen holds out, no comment regarding the fact that he's being offered water by a presumably inanimate piece of clothing. The guy just sits there, like maybe he's staring off into space. Stephen should've thought to grab the thermometer when he was back in his bathroom.

He drops the bottle into the man's open palm; the bare fingers jump before crawling up the sides of the plastic. "You don't have an aspirin allergy, do you? You really need to try to bring your fever down."

"Why are you trying to help me?" the masked man asks, rolling the bottle in his fingers without opening it. There's a momentary burst of envy as Stephen watches the effortless movement.

"Doctor," he explains, taking the glass from the Cloak and leaving it on the nightstand. "And fellow defender against the forces of evil. Plus whenever possible I like to save myself the headache of Rogers' sanctimonious lectures. Reasons enough?"

"Mmm." The pale hand clenches around the plastic as he smothers a couple of coughs behind compressed lips. "That… the way we got here…" The bottle's abandoned on the duvet when the hand comes up to rub at his sternum. "S'that how you got on the roof?"

The guy must've missed Stephen's accessory-assisted arrival from his vantage point. "No. Sit up so I can get a better look at your shoulder."

He does, rigidly, and Stephen runs quivering hands lightly over the area. He hasn't tried to do this since med school, when his drunk idiot of a cousin had fallen out of a tree. He'd had infinitely more sensitivity, dexterity, then. But he's still got his training, his knowledge of anatomy and function; the Cloak gives his arms a quick squeeze. Taking a deep breath, he doesn't give either of them any more time to think about it before swiftly manipulating the joint back into place without warning.

The Devil just grunts; deeply, and with a shudder, but Stephen's still impressed. Or he would be, were he not distracted by pain of his own. Though in retrospect it might've been predictable, he's unprepared for the cramping that the sharp pressure ricochets through the overworked muscles of his right hand. Abductor pollicis brevis, flexor pollicis brevis, opponens pollicis, adductor pollicis, his brain ticks off, grasping for clarity and control. Even if he hadn't committed them to memory a long time ago for a different reason, he'd certainly know them all by now.

For a few minutes it's just the two of them breathing. Stephen's doing his best not to vomit on the carpet; from the looks of the guy's clammy skin, he might be doing the same.

"You're injured," the other man unexpectedly grinds out, his head hanging. He massages the bicep of his abused arm with strong purposeful fingers. Stephen's attempts to do likewise with his hand just start the other one complaining. "I'm sorry. If it was…"

"It wasn't you," Stephen says, when the apology drifts nowhere; he's not sure if it's meant to assuage or invalidate the man's sense of responsibility. He makes an effort to wipe the pain from his expression, lowers his cradled hand. "How's the shoulder? Better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Stephen wonders if his voice is this gravelly when he doesn't have a major respiratory infection. "Anything else you want to admit to?" he asks, grabbing the discarded aspirin bottle off the bed. The guy twitches when Stephen reaches past him, but thankfully doesn't go for his weapon. "Say, the ribs?"

His hand shifts that way, stops and curls in and out of a fist. "That's old. It's fine."

Stephen palms two of the pills, swallows them dry. "Three or four days old, I'm guessing." The guy's head comes up with what he interprets as surprise. "There's been some gossip about how no one's seen you in a while. I'm betting it's because a couple of broken ribs knocked you around and set you on a slippery slope to pneumonia."

The masked man growls, clenches his hand back into a fist. "What're they saying?"

"I have no idea," Stephen shrugs. "You'll have to ask Rogers. He'll want to know what you found at the warehouse, anyway."

"Nothing. I should've gotten there sooner."

There's self-recrimination in his voice; Stephen hears enough of it in his own mind lately to be able to easily recognize it in this stranger. He tosses the aspirin onto the duvet and turns abruptly for the door. "Take four of those. Stay. I won't bother you. If you want a shower, there's towels and some clothes in the bathroom." The air feels thick and heavy on his head, his shoulders.

"I have to go. You said… Greenwich Village?" Stephen glances back to see the man standing unsteadily; the weapon is dismantled by splitting it at its center, the chained pieces somehow attached to his belt. "What about…" He sways, takes a couple of uneven steps toward the doctor and the door. "What about Hell's Kitchen? Can you, uh… do that again to get me back to where we were?"

The phrasing of the last part sounds uncertain. "I can. But I feel it's my duty to point out one last time that, as a brilliant doctor who used to be highly respected and made a lot of money, it's my recommendation you don't go jumping off rooftops just yet. Instead we should both get some much-needed sleep, and then if necessary we can face down the infallible Captain Rogers together."

"No, I –" He wavers, and Stephen's close enough to reflexively grab his arm. The Devil shrugs him off, but not as vehemently as before.

"You have someone to get back to," the doctor supposes. He shoots a look toward the untouched water glass when the other man licks his lips. "Someone waiting."

"No," he rasps. "There's n—" He breaks off with a jerk of his head, angles his next shaky step around Stephen toward the door. "I'll leave from here."

"You don't have to," Stephen sighs. His scalp itches. Alien guts. "I'll open a portal."

But the guy's already on his way out of the room; Stephen winces as his left shoulder clips the doorframe. The snapped-off bark of pain starts an extended coughing fit that leaves him groaning and struggling for air.

"Well?" Stephen asks snarkily, thinking the answer obvious. "Still leaving?"

The masked man slides limply down the doorframe to collapse into a heap on the floor.

"Dammit. Why does nobody listen to their doctor?" He crosses the few steps to crouch next to the tangle of red kevlar; the guy doesn't react, as far as he can tell. He can't see in through those lenses at all. "Hello? Can you hear me in there?"

Nothing, not even a change in his breathing. Out then. The mask is tightly fitted and covers his neck up to his jaw, and Stephen can't maneuver his fingers between it and the guy's skin to get at his carotid for a pulse. There's barely space to reach the one at his wrist; the beat there feels tachy, maybe a bit arrhythmic.

"Sorry," he says - not really meaning it – before pulling off the mask. It's not the smoothest procedure given his flexors' reluctance to cooperate, and he's a little disturbed that it doesn't rouse the guy from his unconsciousness. He hums "Sympathy for the Devil" as he waits for the dwindling spasms in his fingers to fade. The Stones. Sixty-eight. The feverish color that's flooded down from the upper half of the man's face sits under his blanched skin in random splotchy patches, and he looks incredibly young.

There's a momentary flare of tinnitus in Stephen's left ear, and he's not thrilled with the thought of having to carry this guy across the room to the bed. He's dead weight when Stephen tries to get an arm underneath him, his head lolling on his neck.

"Maybe a little help here?" he asks, when the Cloak does nothing but sit there and watch him struggle. In answer it merely stretches out a corner to roughly jostle the guy's bad shoulder. The back of his head bumps lightly against the wood of the doorframe, but he doesn't wake up. "Stop it," Stephen chides lightly. "He's a friend. I think. Will you get him onto the bed?"

There's a pause before the Cloak uncurls from around him, and Stephen wonders if it's feeling a bit insulted that this stranger hasn't yet even acknowledged its existence. If so, he understands; this guy's definitely not the best audience. "If not for him, do it for me," he says wearily, using the wall to get back to his feet. "The faster we get this done, the sooner we can stop moving."

The Cloak brushes across one of his shoulders before floating around to scoop the man off the floor and levitate him across the room. There's not a lot of care in the way it dumps the unconscious body on the bed.

"Thank you," Stephen says anyway. He picks up the mask and joins them, slides off one of the guy's boots. The Cloak yanks off the other.

There are soft white wash cloths with the towels in the bathroom, and he soaks them in icy water. His mercurial hands are hot now, achy and edematous; for a few seconds he lingers, cooling them in the stream. Stephen studies the bruised smudges under his eyes rather than watch the appendages tremble. In the mirror's reflection he can see the Cloak over his shoulder, hovering at the foot of the bed.

The guy squirms when the doctor drapes the wet cloths over his forehead, his bare feet, but he doesn't open his eyes. With the Cloak resettled in its rightful place Stephen plods back to his own room to retrieve the thermometer, the cell phone Christine had insisted he accept. She'd shown up with it one random day, annoyed by his new tendency to simply open a portal and pop in on her with what she considered trivial messages when he couldn't get ahold of her through the landline downstairs. Sulking, Stephen had snippily pointed out his obvious inability to use the tiny keyboard to text. She'd referred him to the talk-to-text feature, and had left the Sanctum in something of a huff.

She'd softened a little when he'd figured out how to send her that emoji of a bouquet of roses. Occasionally he remembers to make an effort.

At the moment, though, he's only thinking about the unscheduled patient in the other room. Are you working? he sends as he returns down the hall. Might need you to put in an IV.

If he can figure out how to get the imposing costume off. Temp one hundred and two, skin turgor suggestive of drastic dehydration. The guy needs to be in a hospital; Stephen doesn't even own a stethoscope anymore, everything pawned in the end. Unable to figure out how the outfit comes apart, he shakes a few aspirin out onto the nightstand and sets to using the base of the water glass to try and crush them up. It's a laborious and pitiful effort when he's incapable of the necessary firm stable grip, and with all the water sloshing out of the glass the pills will probably end up half-dissolved into the wood before they ever approach anything like powder.

And of course the forced exertion hurts; he can't bite back the pained hiss when a sudden sharp whine zips from his carpals to his fingertips. The bottom of the heavy glass rocks as it lands unevenly on the nightstand, his hand flatly refusing to continue to grasp it. Water slops over the side to drip off the edge of the wood onto the carpet.

Stephen swears, wipes his jittery wet fingers on his pants. The Cloak silently assumes the task he'd been trying to accomplish. A lot more effectively, and Stephen refrains from swearing again.

The phone vibrates on the nightstand; Christine, the only person who has the number. "What's wrong?" she asks, before he can get out a syllable of greeting. "I'm at the hospital. Can't you get yourself here?"

"It's not for me. It's a… friend. Pneumonia as the differential, but he's shy. And not a big fan of medical treatment. I'd rather keep him here."

The truth is that at this point he's worrying less and less about the guy's personal preferences. He just doesn't want to have to find the energy to open another portal. There's a monster of a headache building behind his eyes, and the nausea still hasn't gone away.

"It's crazy here, Stephen. I do have a job, you know. Other than being your on-call physician."

The man on the bed writhes, mumbles something. "Christine, please. He's severely dehydrated, and I –"

Can't, they both hear. Even if he doesn't say it aloud.

"You sound terrible," she sighs.

He can hear the controlled chaos of the hospital through the phone, and there's a wrenching twist of instantly-submerged nostalgia. "I just need some sleep." And maybe the oxycodone sitting in his medicine cabinet.

"Somehow I doubt that." There's a pause, and he thinks he hears the garbled intercom in the background page Ramirez. Stephen rolls his eyes; Ramirez is a moron. "I'm here for a couple more hours at least," Christine continues. "Can it wait that long?"

The tinny ringing starts up again in the ear not pressed to the phone, blotting out the sound in the rest of the guest room. It'll have to. "I'll see you in a couple of hours," he says tersely. He's about to hang up, but remembers to add, "And fill a scrip for amoxicillin. Eight seventy-five, b.i.d."

It doesn't occur to him to thank her until after he disconnects the call.

With the help of the Cloak he drags the room's only chair closer to the bed, manages to prop the guy up and dribble some of the medicated water down his throat. Stephen doubts it's enough to make any kind of difference, but his options for palliation are a bit limited at the moment. He sinks down into the chair before recalling that he'd intended to take a shower; he groans audibly when he realizes this. Now that he's off his feet, he's got no desire to get back up.

He stays slumped in the chair, watching the Devil's restless sleep and absently tracking the passing seconds by the beat throbbing through the hands that flit uselessly against his thighs. What little Stephen can decipher from the guy's feverish muttering seems to be mostly nonsense about the weather; he can't remember the last time he's seen fog in the city. To be fair, though, he hasn't really been around. He's thinking about the mists of Nepal when he drifts into a fitful doze of his own.

Blades pierce his clothes, his skin, the light sparkling captivatingly off the steel as they puncture, slip inside with an agonizing slowness. Dormammu, I've come to bargain. A claustrophobic bubble manifested around his body, deliciously oxygen-rich before the precious gas is abruptly and dramatically sucked out. Dormammu, I've come to bargain. Excruciating boils rising inexplicably from his flesh – Dormammu , I've come – a comically-oversized boulder flying from out of nowhere to crush most of his bones – Dormammu, I've come – acidic rain that burns for an eternity before he's finally granted release. Dormammu. Dormammu. Dormammu.

He jolts awake, choking on a yelp as his right hand bumps against the unyielding armrest in his flailing disorientation. The guy on the bed's moving too – Stephen realizes when he can see again – giving the jumbled impression of being just as frenetically discombobulated. They're both hyperventilating. The other man immediately pulls on the mask that Stephen had left laying on the duvet beside him, getting it secured only a second before he's folded over coughing violently.

When it finally it finally trails off and some of Stephen's confusion has cleared, he can see that the guy's also spitting mad. He might not have enough air to verbally express it, but the anger feels obvious in his jerky motions as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and grabs his gloves and boots. He's got to be blinded by either vertigo or rage, the way he gropes about for the missing pieces of his costume.

"It was necessary," Stephen justifies, as the guy shoves a foot into a boot and the heel stamps hard into the carpet an inch from his toes. "Sit back down and show some sense, for chrissake."

The man's first step falters, and a balancing hand comes down on the arm of the chair. He instantly pulls away as if scalded, takes a few more teetering steps in the direction of the door. Stephen twists in the chair to watch him. The guy's trying to muffle the coughing behind his closed lips, but the undeniable spasms rattle his shoulders.

"What time is it?" he hoarsely demands from the center of the room, without turning around.

Stephen finds the phone where it's wedged itself between the cushion and the chair's frame. "Just after midnight," he supplies. "And you can lose the attitude."

"You took my mask."

"Because your temperature needed to come down. You got it back. If I could've figured out how to get that costume off, you wouldn't have been wearing that either."

"You saw my… face."

"Believe me, I still have absolutely no idea who you are." Stephen decides not to mention the photographic memory. "Why, should I?"

"No. Forget about me."

He's tired of talking to a fraction of the guy's profile, but he doesn't feel like he should have to get out of the chair, be the one to make the concession. "Probably unlikely. We're in the same line of work, after all." The masked man scowls, rubs at the center of his chest with the heel of his bare hand. The gloves are still clenched in his other fist. "But, yes," Stephen assures him in a bored tone, "I promise to pretend we've never met, should we ever cross paths in public. Honestly I don't see it happening, but you never know."

As if he ever has the time or desire anymore to show up at social functions; often these days he's also no longer invited, forgotten about or intentionally snubbed. He hadn't exactly bothered with "friends" before the accident, and he's burned a lot of bridges since. Stephen slouches lethargically in the chair, trying to recall what it feels like to be clean and horizontal.

"Go find whoever you know at Metro-General," he says, unsure why he continues to give this guy unwanted medical advice. "Or ask for Doctor Christine Palmer. Tell her you're the friend I mentioned on the phone." This gets his attention, finally reveals the entire sharp profile over a shoulder. But he doesn't turn back around, and Stephen's in no mood to guess at all his unspoken questions. "You need antibiotics from somewhere, and soon."

"I can take care of myself." It sounds defensive, even without knowing him.

"Clearly," Stephen responds dryly. "You're obviously doing such a wonderful job."

The other man visibly bristles. "How do I get out of here?"

Stephen pushes himself out of the chair without a word and opens a portal in front of the guy near the door, offering him both options for egress. He can't help but gasp when an unexpected pain tears through his abdomen, fervently hoping – as he grinds his teeth and locks his knees and fights to stay on his feet – that the cause is something more metaphysical than physical. It's not that one's more comforting than the other; more that, if he's hemorrhaging internally, he's going to need Christine's IV for himself after all.

And she'll probably be pissed.

He really needs to take a break. To try to sleep. It registers that his tense body's bent at an awkward angle, that his grip on the back of the chair is cramping all of his fingers. That the Devil hasn't moved.

"Are you all right?" The question loses some of its implied compassion when the bastard still doesn't turn around.

"That'll get you back to the warehouse," Stephen grits out, wishing the guy would just go. "Hell's Kitchen."

The masked man purses his lips, finally nods and looks back toward the conjured doorway. With his head tilted at a curious angle, he lifts a tentative hand to the portal. Drops the arm back to his side. He hesitates, apparently oblivious to the effort it's taking Stephen to maintain the thing. From the Cloak's impatient flutter, the doctor strongly suspects that the guy's about to get shoved through those whirling sparks, if he doesn't step through soon on his own.

But he does, with a mumbled thank you that the doctor might be imagining. The aperture closes so quickly on his heels that Stephen's thinking about the possibilities of magical amputation when his own legs fold unceremoniously beneath him.

The room's gone grey and soft, and it'd be pleasant if it weren't for the tinnitic roar. His nose is bleeding; he doesn't notice the epistaxis until the Cloak tries to blot it away. He wonders vaguely if any of it got on the carpet. Wonders briefly what the novices say about him. He doesn't really care, hasn't really given it any thought before. He doesn't waste much time on it now, the musings scattered by the syncopal haze.

He doesn't realize they're moving until he catches a blurry glimpse past the Cloak's folds of a painting in the hallway that he's always particularly hated. He closes his eyes, but the image simply flares in detail behind his eyelids. He'd take the artwork down, but he's sure that Wong will somehow notice. They've already been playing a passive-aggressive back and forth game with an armchair in one of the studies for weeks now.

Before it seems possible the Cloak is laying him on his bed, tenderly tugging off his boots. Stephen sluggishly swipes at the traces of blood on his upper lip before pulling his knees up to his chest and wedging his complaining hands between them. He thinks he hears water running; an extended somnolent blink and there's a nudging pressure against his bicep. He drags open his eyes to see the Cloak offering him water, and his throat gives a dry spasm of a swallow. Uncurling with a reluctant moan, he pushes himself up and takes the glass with trembling fingers.

Downstairs, the phone starts to ring.

end.

End Notes: See what happens when Foggy's not around? See?!

Okay, so I know some of you are going to ask what exactly was up with Tony Stark and/or Bruce Banner to keep them away from the fight in the beginning – though hopefully that's not the only thought I've left you with, or I really didn't do a great job with the rest of the fic – and the disappointing answer is that I've got no clue. The truth is the vastness of the Marvel canon intimidates the hell out of me as a fanfic writer, and other than my personal version of Matt Murdock (which I mostly just manipulate around his apartment and through random alleys) and this brief foray as a stranger in a Strange land (sorry/notsorry), I feel completely incapable of writing in the Marvel Universe. But nothing would thrill me more than to read your story of what kept one or both of them away. Especially if it's TonyWhump. I could happily read TonyWhump for the rest of my days.

A lot of the hand anatomy was lifted from .com, and the Marvel wikia was obsessively consulted on pretty much everything else. The internet is a wonderful thing. It's difficult to remember how we ever did without it.