a bell through the night

Grace had dozed against him, and he hadn't moved, despite wanting to go back to his Sanctum and think.

Sulk, he could hear Jess tease.

Hide from the world, Wong would point out.

Instead he'd somehow fallen asleep, falling into half-remembered snatches of dreams, nothing lingering long enough for him to acclimate, until he'd nearly fallen off the couch.

What time was it? What woke him up?

“Shit, shit, motherfucker,” Grace chanted, rescuing her shoes from over the couch and incidentally giving him a good view of her ass in yoga pants. “I need to run, Stephen, I am so sorry, I will come back after this, it's a litigation against a slumlord, and I get to explain every fucking corner he cut and how it got people killed.”

She'd lost her illusion as she slept, and her ears apparently twitched in distress. It was oddly adorable, especially with half her hair snarled up.

“I'll most likely be in the Sanctum, coordinating with Wong about what everyone has found,” Stephen said, sitting up and trying to crack his back. “You can meet me there?”

“Of course,” she said, stilling for a moment. “No new symptoms?”

He took stock- still no pain in his hands, put all of the rest of his bones were as they'd been when he'd had his encounter with Eternity. Even the shoulder that complained when he didn't treat it kindly. Interesting. “Nothing yet.”

She nodded. “Right, then, see you in a couple hours.”

He waved her off, seeing her dash for the elevators.

~

“So Alistair was gambling with the Order's money?” Stephen asked, frowning at the paperwork.

“That's what it looks like,” Sara rubbed her temples. “If he wasn't dead, I'd recommend a lawsuit. At one point he'd lost seventy-five thousand pounds on something, most likely a combination of terrible stock choices and horses.”

“How did he get the money back?” Wong asked, leaning forward.

“He snuck it back in, it looks like,” Sara said. “Smaller transactions, then larger as he realized no one was really auditing his work. This would have been about four years ago.”

Four years... Stephen thought back. “About the same time Dormammu was bound to that splinter dimension?”

“Probably a couple of months later, it was before my time,” she said, pinching her nose. “So you think this was meant as some sort of trap?”

“Trap or symbol of a bargain,” Stephen mused. “The spellwork was well-hidden, after all, so they didn't want us to know the source of the curse until it was too late.”

Alistair keeping it would add to the messiness of tracing why someone was cursed this way.

He rubbed the back of his neck, which was starting too ache. His eyes were starting to blur, and he cursed the thrice-damned vanity that kept him from using reading glasses in front of anyone. Though given Alistair's record keeping, he couldn't be sure they'd help.

His mother had warned him that reading by whatever terrible light was available would ruin his eyesight, and it turned out she was right.

(He'd finally reached the point of needing them a month before Eternity, and the timing might have annoyed him at times.)

“You alright?” Wong asked, gruffly.

“Just tired,” he admitted. “And avoiding Morgana, who tried calling me four times today.”

“Did she say why?” Wong looked amused. “Perhaps she saw that you had a date?”

“Vishanti, she would do that, wouldn't she?” he shook his head. “She didn't mention anything, but her voicemail said that nothing urgent was going on, so I'll pretend to trust her judgment.”

Sara ducked her head, not hiding her grin. “Maybe there is about to be another book?”

Stephen scowled at her, leaning on the arm of his chair. They'd piled it in the kitchen, the better to make endless cups of tea and snack while working. “If there is, I will turn her into a toad, I swear. I will make the novices deal with her ability to find any malevolent being in the tri-state area.”

Wong shook his head. “The novices do need testing, I agree, but that might be mean-spirited.”

“And I'm on the edge of a screaming headache, I might be about to turn into something terrible, and the odds are good I'll need to speak to the ex-girlfriend I drove away,” Stephen countered. “I'm entitled to a little ill-will.”

“Honestly we've been hoping you'd get there sooner,” Sara said. “I think your apprentice had plans if it lasted much longer.”

Stephen sighed, then let it go. “I'm sorry for taking it out on you, however. I cannot leave her alone, given her ability, and I need to let her know I'm not interested.”

“Um, should I go?” Grace said, peeking her head in. “Only, I think your Sanctum let me in...”

“No, not you,” he said, standing. She was wearing low heels this time, and was level with his mouth, as well as a plain black skirt that reached mid-calf. She'd also removed her illusion, and he smiled at her. “It's a sensitive who is remarkably terrible at taking a hint.”

“That would be why Stark calls her a stalker,” Wong said, under his breath. Stephen rolled his eyes.

“I need to get back to the records,” Sara said, standing. “Wong, I know you wanted to speak to Noor?”

Wong nodded. “I wanted to see if she could look up the records we have about Yardley and any spellwork we have of his. I know there were tales about a grimoire he kept, and even if he isn't responsible for the curse on Stephen, he is a menace waiting to happen.”

“I have the librarian at the Midnight Court looking up anything we have on that,” Grace said, placing her messenger bag down. “If we have anything on Yardley, it could be helpful, and it helps keep my mother from looking into anything else I'm doing.”

Wong nodded. “That will help.”

Once he and Sara were gone, Grace took one look at him, inky black eyes narrowing and hand on hip. “Now, Doc, I need you to tell me what's wrong?”

“Jus' tired,” he repeated, stepping forward. “Not dizzy, light sensitivity is normal, no nausea or shifts in my center of gravity.”

“Mmm,” Grace hummed, and the noise was like a cool breeze on his brain. “You have an illusion on.”

“I do not,” he protested. He wouldn't bother trying around Wong, and if Maddy stormed in and heard about it, his ears would be ringing until New Years.

Her look grew concerned. “I think you need to lie down, Stephen, it might be easier.”

“Will you stay?” he asked, the question seeming to come from nowhere. But he cracked a yawn, nearly stumbling into her and knocking her over.

“Of course,” Grace said. “Now, where's your bedroom?”

He lead her there, and he felt less exhausted with every step he took, even his headache seeming to clear.

“I'm better, Grace,” he said, sitting on his bed as she kicked off her heels. “And why do you think I have an illusion on.”

“Sorry,” was all she said before kissing him.

He froze in surprise for a moment before leaning back, one hand on the back of her neck and pulling her down with him, enjoying how she moved with him, skirt hiking up as she straddled him. She made a pleased sound that had him moving his hips, and then...

...there was a sting, and the taste of copper, and he looked up at her as she pulled away, mouth bloodstained and a second, briefer kiss that removed the ache of his bitten lip, black hair trailing onto his chest and framing his face.

“That was the best way to do it without the curse fighting back,” she said, pulling back until she was balancing on her shins, hands on her thighs as she balanced. “Are you alright now?”

“I'll get back to you in a moment,” he said, shaking his head. “And if I could check a mirror?”

She scrambled off of him, briefly balancing most of her weight on one thigh and nearly falling off the bed, revealing a scrap of something colorful under the skirt.

She'd kissed him to do magic, he reminded his libido. It had been a trick.

“It's fairly subtle,” she said, assessing him. “In terms of transformations.”

“So far,” he said, before turning to the mirror.

Shit, he thought, seeing the shimmering light that traced along his circulatory system, veins and arteries and capillaries all looking like a they were filled with the curse, creeping up his arm, shoulder, and showing on his neck and down the collar of his shirt, which he pulled off to better assess the extent.

It hadn't gone that far, had it? It looked like it was confined to the area around his shoulder. He'd think it not unlike Barnes' damage and metal arm in scope.

“Do you feel anything?” Grace asked. “Fever, pain?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I feel fine- better than fine, actually.” No more headache, and the aches of bending over a table and trying to read Alistair's writing were gone.

“The first lesson of the rose,” Grace murmured. He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, a lesson on cursebreaking and other fun stuff. I had to grab a rosebush as tightly as I could- it was an enchanted kind we use for various healing supplies. And then I was given the salve made from it, which was all the more wonderful for the bit where I had a bunch of bloody thorns in my hand.”

“The moral?” he asked, checking for any other differences. His teeth might be more sharper, but that might also be paranoia and the remnants of blood from Grace's attempt at illusion-breaking. There were shadows under his eyes, but those also might have been from the night before.

“Well, the salve also was spiked with something that made me sleep for a day,” Grace grinned. “A lesson in how the best way to keep you from fighting a curse is by making it seem like a thing that helps you.”

“It's possible,” he hedged, feeling the truth of what she said in his mind. “Do you have any way of telling where this is going?”

“None that I'd be willing to do without someone else to act as spotter,” she said, before sitting on his bed. “Blood magic is sympathetic magic, and this curse might effect me if I go too deep.”

“Sensible enough,” he said, reminding his libido that they had more important things to do than remember how easily her skirt ran up and exposed lush thighs. Even if she was leaning back a bit to better study him. “Maddy might be willing to help, if you are more comfortable with her.”

She nodded, and his eyes tracked her throat as she moved, and a stirring of uneasiness started in his gut.

“She'll be a good idea. I know that my type of fae doesn't exactly have a great reputation...”

“Silly siren,” he laughed, taking a step closer. He felt warm, all of a sudden, and a bit tipsy. “You're still worried I don't trust you?”

“More getting punched by the woman with the glowing fists,” Grace tilted her head, eyebrows furrowing. “Stephen...”

He pounced, pinning her under him and grabbing her wrists and holding them above her- he was fairly certain his height had changed, she seemed smaller, as did the bed. “I swear, Grace, I mean you no harm,” he said, and his teeth were sharper, scraping where her jaw and neck met. He needed to stop this, but the idea of walking away made him want to hold her closer, so he needed to figure this out.

She closed her eyes, seeming to fall into what was going on. Or preparing to knock him across the room. “Then what do you mean?”

“You broke the illusion on me,” he said, trying to reason out what he wanted as he adjusted his grip so he held her wrists with one hand, bracketing her torso. He was decidedly taller, he thought, as least four or five inches, and even with the loose fit of his sweatpants, he was aware of the cuffs of his trousers creeping up. He took a long, shaking breath. “I don't want to hurt you. None of me wants to hurt you. Possess...” he trailed off, trying not to blush at the... situation? Images in his head? The way she was sprawled out, violently red blush creeping down her neck and over as much of her chest as he could see?

Not enough, part of him thought, and fuck, this was tumbling downhill fast, his hands...

He sliced her shirt open with a dark claw that reminded him of obsidian, and she huffed as he saw the blush continue down past the berry-purple bra and splattered down to her stomach.

“Do you mean in a 'I really didn't think we were that far into our relationship' way, or in a 'I'll be the demon burrowing in your meatsack' way?” she asked, lightly.

“First,” he breathed, focusing. “Whatever it is, I think you make it want to coil around you and not let go, I don't know why... fuck, your healing spell?”

“My magic got in and mitigates the shitty parts of the transformation?” she continued, wrinkling her nose as she tried to puzzle it out. “So therefore part of you knows that having me around means you...”

“Part of it was about breaking me down and making me easier to control,” he guessed. “They want me living and my state a warning. You have a gift for disrupting compulsion spells.” There was something purring in his chest. “It wouldn't break the curse entirely...”

“But helps you keep your freedom,” she said, slowly. She wiggled a bit, frowning. “If I promise not to leave this bed until you allow it,” she asked, a wicked grin on her face, “can you let go of my wrists? The comforter's bunched up under my one side, and my blazer makes it worse.”

He let go as if burned, and she propped herself up a bit as he moved off of her, pulling off her blazer and tossing it on a chair.

She looked down at her ruined shirt and sighed. “I'm going to have to mend this.”

“I didn't...” he shook his head. “I'm not entirely certain what is going on.”

She looked him over, one hand skimming down along the darkened veins, which now extended nearly to the other shoulder, down nearly to his navel. “Do you think that me breaking the illusion might have accelerated it?”

“If it was a slower transformation, one that alternated between pain and ease,” he mused, lying back and resisting the urge to pull her close, the whisper in the back of his mind that she was safety and his ability to win this. “And slowly changed my instincts, that would be a slow torture. Meanwhile this is remarkably painless, except to my dignity.” He gave her a sheepish smile as she lay on her stomach, feet kicking in the air.

“Doc, I started it breaking the illusion how I did,” she pointed out. “And if this was happening in a week or two, with no curses, I'd be fine with it.” Her blush returned. “More than fine, really.”

“I feel the same,” he told her. “Now, what to do next?”

Which, of course, when when a flash of flame lit up the center of his bedroom.

The woman who appeared was on the shorter side, with elfin features and a wiry muscle from dealing with the various monsters of the Dark Dimension. She'd let her hair grow out, slightly, reaching just below her shoulders, and her violet eyes were as open as her gaping mouth.

“I apologize, Madelyne Pryor said that you were dealing with an issue that seemed to come from my home,” Clea said stiffly, and Stephen wished the bed would swallow him up.

“Yes, well,” Grace said, looking between them in a way that had to hurt her neck, but then he was why she couldn't rise without further embarrassment. “You can see what the curse did so far.”

Clea swept her eyes over him, not betraying any emotion, and he felt the slightest twinge of guilt. Okay, more than a slight twinge. “Yes, though I cannot tell you at a glance what the end result would be. These kind of things aren't how Dormammu and his lackeys usually worked.”

“A compulsion spell was entwined, I think,” Stephen offered, not wanting to get up. If he got up, any changes would be something he had to deal with. “At the very least, there was a spell to hide the changes.”

Clea raised an eyebrow at that, mouth quirking up a bit at the corner. “How would that be possible?”

“Being fair, it was mostly the veins when I first broke it,” Grace said. “Everything else happened in the past few minutes, from what I can tell.”

Clea blinked, settling herself on his reading chair. “That's... not good. Stephen, what happened?”

“I believe it was attached to an old puzzle box that was left with the papers of a dead sorcerer,” Stephen said. “Further inquiries suggest that he was frequently in debt, and borrowed the Order's resources to keep the wolves from his door. It would be an old motive for betrayal.”

“Ah, and this is all making you deeply uncomfortable,” Clea said, grin more obvious. “You get very formal when you're uncomfortable.”

“I think I'm a good four inches taller, if nothing else,” he said, ruefully. “I'm going to need to borrow trousers from Thor until this is fixed, and they'll look like circus tents.”

“He is very... rectangular,” Clea agreed.

“Built like a brick shithouse,” Grace finished, sounding a bit more comfortable. “I can probably steal something from the Court's odds and ends closet.”

“And I'm not enchanting my clothes to undo it in a couple of days,” he said, deciding that sitting up wouldn't be too terrible. He didn't have to face the mirror. “It's terrible on the seams.”

“Undo...” Clea's face was regretful, and he realized what she was about to say.

“No,” he said, “don't tell me I can't undo this. I'll have Maddy do as many transformation spells as I can, but I'm not just giving up.”

His voice had descended into a snarl as he finished, and Grace was worried enough to leap up and grab his arm.

“I'm not mad at her,” he told her. Facing Clea, he said, “you said you don't know where this is going to end. I'm not going to give in until I know that we've done all we can.”

“At the very least, we've scrambled the spell around,” Grace said, holding her blouse closed.

Clea looked at her mouth. “Blood magic?”

“Baobhan sith,” Stephen said. “Blood magic and an understanding of compulsion spells.”

“Only to break them on him, though if the daft bastard dive bombs me again, I might need to hit him with one to save my ribs,” Grace said, shooting him a mock-glare.

“Given the transformations and how they might effect his balance and coordination, that's probably a good plan,” Clea said, and almost passed for serious.

“You know,” he said to no one in particular, “I miss rattling around in this house with very little to disturb me.”

Clea snorted. “You were determined to cling to your solitude five years ago.”

He deserved that.