Stephen has been feeling better, and for that he's also been feeling worse. He's still on track, though -- the Vicodin he's taking isn't a full set of doses, just enough to get him through each night as he acclimates to life without it. Unlike some people, he's strong enough to do this without supervision for now.

So the irony is that he's actually one of the first to drop off to sleep after they arrive at the clinic and he lets Peter borrow his bucket, and he remains comfortably snoozing while Bluestar is dying in the next room. Peter's voice registers faintly in his sleeping mind, but it's not until that strangled cry for help that Stephen jerks awake in darkness, disoriented for a moment in that way he is every time they sleep somewhere new.

"Peter??" he calls back even as he's clambering up from the bloodstained mattress, feeling groggy and unreal, fear coiling under it all -- are they under attack? Is someone hurt? He beelines for the bathroom when he sees Peter's silhouette in the doorway, holding --

holding --

"Oh, god," he gasps, reaching out like he's going to grab Bluestar from Peter's hands -- CPR, his brain supplies, the window can't have passed --