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On sick days, Stephen remembers his mother.
Or, well, the days when she had been a mother to him, anyway. That Beverly Strange was different. Stephen remembers these were the days before the grief of Donna’s death consumed her, and like a knife she had turned that blame on Stephen, which in all fairness wasn’t unaccounted for. They were better days, days that existed in the realm of before; before she had turned to liquor for comfort, before she had turned into a stranger, before the disease took her for good.
He can vaguely recall being a young boy, swaddled in blankets and soaking sweat into his bedsheets, sicker than he’d ever been, how her gentle hand had felt as it brushed against his forehead; a sweep of cold relief against his overheated skin. She would sit by his bedside and stroke his hair, gently dabbing his sweat-soaked face with a damp cloth. And her soup—he could never forget the taste of her chicken soup, the one that she had always made when either of them were sick, the one that always warmed him inside and out, the homemade kind that he or anyone will never be able to perfectly replicate.
These are the memories that drift in his feverish mind that moment, the cool tiles underneath him a grounding anchor to reality. It takes a while for his sluggish brain to remember he’s in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, back against the tub. He’s not so sure how he got here, just that he feels too weak to move anywhere else. He drifts there for a moment, not really knowing how long—he’s been experiencing intermittent waves of hot and cold all afternoon, but they seem to wash over him continuously now; chills going up and down his spine, all through his aching muscles. There are spikes penetrating his brain, pain pulsing in his temples. He tries in vain to will together some strength to stand, at the very least, but finds that he cannot.
After a while he realises someone else is in the bathroom with him, a palm pressing against his forehead.
“Jesus, baby,” says a familiar voice, “You’re burning up.” Both palms are cradling his cheeks now, and he makes a soft noise at that. “Wong told me to come over.”
It takes a while to find his voice, to push it through the surprising dryness. “Traitor,” he mutters, “I told him I’m… fine,” he manages.
A snort. “Sure you are.”
“He needs to tend to his duties.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. To babysit your sick ass.”
Stephen scowls at that, but he doesn’t exactly have full faculties of his facial muscles at the moment, so for all he knows it might just be a slight twitch of his face. The hand is feeling along his cheeks, which must be more than a little warm.
“Let’s get you up and into bed, baby.”
“Can’t,” Stephen says. Another chill goes through him, and he shudders at it.
“I know,” says the voice understandingly, “Me and Red are gonna help you up, ‘kay? Come on.”
His arm is slung over broad shoulders, and that, along with the cloak supporting his weight, manages to lift him off the floor, before he is being led out the doorway.
“You should’ve told me,” the voice—Tony, he remembers now—says, “I would’ve come.”
“I don’t need any help,” he protests.
“Sure. You’re doing just fine back there, sitting miserably on the bathroom floor.”
“I was,” he counters, somehow managing to open his eyes to slits, peering up at the man through his bangs. “Doing fine,” he clarifies. The look on Tony’s face betrays his tone; there’s an obvious crease of worry digging between those brows, and this time Stephen does manage a successful scowl. Tony just searches his eyes, and the soft sincerity there makes Stephen look away.
Slowly they make their way to the bed, and Stephen has no choice but to let Tony tuck him in. The cloak bundles him up, a little too tightly. It doesn’t budge despite his noise of protest.
“Wong told me you’re a flight risk, but considering your state I doubt you’d even be able to walk on your own. But just in case,” Tony says, “Cloak here is putting you in blanket jail. Isn’t that right, Red?”
The cloak tightens around him in response.
“You’re suffocating me.”
“That’s just your clogged nose.”
“This is murder.”
“Oh, stop it, you big baby. Just rest, alright?” Tony drags a nearby chair beside the bed. “I’ll just be right here.”
Stephen huffs as a last attempt at saving his dignity, digging further into the bed despite himself. The combination of fatigue and—he is loathe to admit—the comforting weight of the cloak lulls him into an obliterating, all-consuming, full sleep.
—
He grapples back into consciousness with some struggle. He must have dreamt of something, and it comes back to him in hazy sense-memories: gentle fingers, the heat of steam rising from a bowl of broth, the waft of scent; a blend of something warm and salty and herbaceous. Absently he registers several sensations; the damp, lukewarm cloth over his forehead, the blankets over him, the soreness of his throat. The cloth lifts, is dipped into what he assumes is a bowl of water. He hears it drip as it’s being wrung, feels when it returns, gently draped over his forehead.
Something here feels familiar. He puzzles over this, trying to put his finger on it.
“Ma?” he croaks out.
“What was that, baby?” mumbles a voice that doesn’t sound like Ma, but it can’t be anyone else. Stephen doesn’t remember anyone else having ever spoken to him quite so softly.
“Ma,” he rasps again, and there are blessedly cool, callused fingers sweeping across his cheeks now, up along his cheekbones, higher still to brush away his bangs. Stephen is sure of it now. That hand couldn’t belong to anyone else; it is so gentle.
The tears come completely unbidden. He tries to open his eyes, but is too weak, they are sealed shut, too heavy to lift open. There's a gentle shushing noise above him, whispering little reassuring words.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby. Shh, I’m right here.”
“‘M sorry,” he murmurs, “‘M so sorry.”
That hand smooths over his heated face, his tear-streaked cheeks, soothing away the tears. "Nothing to be sorry for,” the gentle voice says.
“No,” he murmurs, because that isn’t true, he has everything to be sorry for. So many words he meant to say, so many apologies he owes. He’s a burden, he’s a failure, he’s failed her, he’s failed everyone, he could’ve saved her, it was his fault, and he’s sorry, he’s so so sorry, is all he can feel. He doesn’t know if he says part of that aloud, or if he says anything at all. He’s not quite aware of what’s leaving his mouth.
The shushing doesn’t stop, and Stephen leans into the voice, leans into the fingers carding through his hair. He presses a cheek against the pillow, feels it soak his tears, and slowly drifts back into the delicious, magnetic pull of sleep.