Spellbound

Chapter 3 - Dolente

dolente: sad; mournful

It had been three days since Stephen had fallen asleep in your arms. He woke up before you, and by the time you were fully conscious he was gone. You remember him pressing a kiss to your forehead, and a murmured thank you.

You hadn't talked to him since. If he needed space, you would give it to him. You would do anything he asked just to bring him some sort of comfort.

But when you got a call in the middle of the night, you knew something was wrong.

Stephen, for all the time you've known him, never called during the night.

Never.

Time seemed to slow as you reached for your phone. Bringing it up to your ear, you let out a sleepy "Hello?"

The person on the other line said your name as a question, making sure they got the right person, and you gave a noise of confirmation.

"You are the only person in Mr. Strange's emergency contacts. What is your relation to him?" the monotonous voice inquired.

You shot up out of bed, any sort of weariness evaporating from your body. "I'm his friend. What's happened?"

"Mr. Strange was in a motor accident. He is currently being transported to New York Hospital. As you are the only known family or friend, we are allowing you to visit. He will be in surgery by the time you get here, so be prepared to wait."

Then the line went dead and you were bolting out the door. New York Hospital was about two miles away. You could wait for a cab, or bike there, in the middle of the night, alone.

Fuck it.

Hastily shutting the door behind you, you grabbed the unused bike that's chained near the side of the house. You took off, armed with a phone and sheer will. Your pajamas flapped wildly in the wind, the baggy flannel pants and loose t-shirt catching every tiny gust of wind.

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You made it to the hospital in less than 10 minutes, thankful for the many downhills you got to glide through. It was nearly two in the morning, so traffic was minimal. You earned a few angry honks when you cut in front of people, but you were unbothered.

By the time you made it to the hospital, your face was burning from exhilaration, and you parked the bike near a post. You really didn't care if it got taken; it was practically falling apart.

Doing a quick jog inside, you stumbled to the receptionist's desk.

"Hi," you painted, very much out of breath, "I'm here to see Stephen Strange."

The receptionist gave you an almost judgemental look before he began to type into the system computers. A few awkward seconds passed before the receptionist cleared his throat.

"Mr. Strange is currently in surgery and is expected to be out in about two hours. If you'd like we can give you a call and you can go back home?"

You shook your head, "No, my bike won't last another journey. Is there any way I can just wait in the lobby? I promise I won't be a bother. I'll just go into a corner and sleep."

The receptionist sighed, too tired to really put up a fight. "Fine, I guess. Just, don't do anything stupid."

You nodded, already leaving to the lobby that connected to the receptionist's desk. Finding a relatively sheltered spot, you put in your earbuds, blocking out the stressful noises of the hospital.