Swith shut the golden door.
"We're back, Cornelius. Now you return to being Thriller, and I return to being Swith." He wasn't in any condition to protest. She didn't have a bedroom anymore so she brought him to Naomi's room, settling him in on her bed. She didn't have the energy to carry him any further, and used her remaining strength to dig through a portal for the antidote. "Right as rain by tomorrow, I promise," she said, then pinched his nose and poured the fluid down his throat.
She borrowed clothing out of Naomi's drawer and sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating the events. Thriller began to snore, so she rolled him onto his side and covered him with Naomi's quilt. "I used to do this for Bran," she said, and felt a pang in her chest. "I miss Bran. He's a son to me. I bet you didn't know that, Emperor Popcorn. He's always a cheerful human, unless he's depressed, but he's plucky. And gullible. You'd think he'd learned by now not to drink what people hand him, or volunteer for stupid experiments. What am I going to do with him? I wish you two got along better. You're both stubborn assholes sometimes. That's okay. I don't mind."
She found herself reminiscing on old times, when it was just her and Bran and no sisters or wives or children. They had the best adventures back then. Her mind shifted to Malal and his cultists. They were weird roommates who slept all damn day and night. She almost wished they would turn into Bones, Totenkopf and Herr Doktor with a loud pop. Of course, they'd be wide awake but far less communicative than the sleeping cultists. She realized she'd left her favorite guest blanket in their apartment. She vowed to ask NVE to break in and steal the blanket for her one day.
Her bleeding wounds, physical pain and fatigue bested her. Swith lay down on on her side next to Thriller and tucked her legs up, leaving him plenty of room. She cried herself to sleep, partially from the horrific pain and partially because it felt good to be alive.
