I Think I Need A Doctor

You wake to the smell of green tea. Maybe Wong has made it stronger this morning, maybe your sinuses are clearer or it’s a better morning or something - you don’t know. But it’s nice to wake up to a smell rather than a feeling. A deep inhale through your nose, your toes curling in the bed sheets. The pain is subsiding.

You love to bask in these moments - sometimes brief moments of waking or quiet moments in the afternoon when everyone else in your house is out or at work. Stolen moments from the universe where your body doesn’t fight you, and you can soak in rest and textures and indulge in breaths. Where you feel more connected to life, rather than stripped from it.

Even if only for a moment, even if these moments pass, you’re always glad to have another one. And they always come back.

Your shoulders brush against the covers, heels dig in against the mattress. Your limbs rest heavy like tethers to the earth - what comforting weight. Gravity pulling you in a soft and endless embrace. You’d like to stay here in this moment, and you want more of this moment.

You lazily open your eyes and look across the room, to the windows. There’s a desk you hadn’t seen before, with a study chair and another armchair off to the side. Strange is sitting there in the arm chair, quietly reading. He has papers in one hand and a handleless cup in the other, he’s biting both his lips in concentration with a raised eyebrow. It’s nice to see him so candidly - perhaps the first time you’ve really seen him.

A structured man, but languid. Good posture and muscle - he seems precise, controlled. But there’s little bits of him that aren’t so pulled together. Wisps of hair by his ears where his hair has gone grey.  His finger twitches where he holds it above the cup. One of his feet silently beats out a rhythm as he's lost in concentration.

You notice the cast iron teapot he has by his side is glistening warm. Something is different about the pot – you don’t know what it is, but the rim is almost red like a hot plate. And you’re not sure how long he’s been sitting in the room with you, but steam still curls over the spout.

Strange makes a coaxing motion towards him with a curling finger, holding his cup outstretched, and you watch the teapot rise into the air and float towards him, pouring a steady stream of tea into his cup.

That’s… a less regular sight.

“Uh… Doctor?”

“Oof, shit.” The cup spills in his haste. He stumbles to get the teapot back on the table.

You pull yourself up on your forearms. “What’s going on?”

“Eh,” he’s a bit busy, shaking hot tea from his gloves and papers. “Currently being boiled alive.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s exactly where I wanted my tea.”

“What’s the teapot?”

“Well, it’s a teapot.”

“I’m asking ‘how did it do that’, exactly?”

“Give me a moment,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He makes a few aborted hand motions, wiping tea from what he can and shaking out his arms, pinching clothing from his body to give it airing space.

"It was floating."

Strange huffs and looks back to you. He takes a moment to consider your position, he hesitates, flicks some water from his glove. You look between he and the now motionless teapot. He dips into a pocket and pulls out a penlight, coming over to inspect your eyes. He asks you to look from one side to the other and you do.

“Are you prone to hallucinogenic migraines?”

“They’re called auras, and no. Not… like this, at least. Auras don’t look like that.”

He pauses. Looks between himself and the mess. “I think you’re seeing things.”

“I’m seeing something, I know that. What was that? Just tell me.”

He hovers on the precipice of explanation. And then he’s trying to hide a smile, pride creeping at the corners of his mouth. There’s something cheeky in his demeanour, like a secret, a secret sense of pride. It’s infectious. And then he explains it to you, and his explanation is… ridiculous. “It’s a minor enchantment, really.”

You scoff. He just looks at you.

“Strange.” You say in a warning tone.

“The world is stranger than you think-,”

“Doctor.”

He looks up at you, exasperated by the state of his clothes and… being caught out?

“Do it again.” You say.

He’s taken aback, but sees the look in your eyes – you’re not going to let this go. You’re determined and challenging and - oh, does he like to be challenged?

“The teapot. It was… do it again.”

Strange licks his lips and lifts the teapot by its handle.

“No, that’s not what I mean. You were holding the cup. You were...” you bite your lip. “The teapot spilt.”

“Stubborn,” he mutters. He sets the teapot down again, and with a small gesture of his hand, it rises.

There's nothing holding the teapot keeping it afloat, and nothing below it keeping it supported.

“I haven’t had hallucinogenic migraines before.” You mutter.

“You still aren’t. I believe they’re called auras, though.”

“That’s… not this.”

The cast iron teapot rotates slightly in the air, steam rising in wisps. How... wonderful to be untethered by gravity, you wonder if it feels as weightless as it looks – all pressure gone, floating and gliding along at peace. It makes your knees ache to look at it.

“Can you— Can it come here?”

Strange motions his hand and the teapot glides smoothly across the space and into your open hands.

“Ohh,” you coo as it settles in your palms. You chuckle nervously. “It’s warm.”

You feel whatever weight he’s holding release as the full body of the iron and water drop. You feel your wrists give ever so slightly. Gravity returned, you suppose, disappointed. “What’s going on?”

“Right,” he raises his eyebrows, sucking in a breath. “I suppose any sense of pretence is gone now, isn’t it? Uh…Magic?” He offers simply.

You glower, waiting. It’s too simple. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Strange hums and sits on the edge of the bed. “Okay, well how about you tell me what you think it is.”

Well, that’s not fair. “No, I’m—,” you rub your forehead. This is getting painful. “I’m not an idiot, I just don’t understand what’s going on. I want you to explain it to me. I want to understand.”

“I told you. Magic.”

You squint at him. “Explain ‘magic’ to me.”

Strange draws his chest up. You ready yourself for the pride of a doctor – some lecture full of large, pointless words and an explanation ultimately ending in ‘this is why my simple statement is satisfactory and should be trusted’. But it doesn’t come. “I have an innate sense of magic within me that allows me to do a wonderful myriad of things, great and small. Useful things, such as moving the teapot.”

“Oh.” You say simply. “So, you’re like… a sorcerer?”

“I am.”

You squint. “Mmhmm. And where does that magic… come from? You said it’s innate?”

“Some of the spells and tricks I have, for lack of a better word, have come from practice. Research and reading, countless hours of study.”

“Ah, so you’re a wizard!”

“Mm, no. Some of my other abilities are pulled from other planes of existence, or beings—,”

“Like a warlock?”

“You’re just pulling these out of a hat, aren’t you?”

“By definition though, that’s how it works isn’t it? If your power was innate, you’d be a sorcerer, if you got it through study, you’d be a wizard, and if you were given your powers from a patron or higher entity, you’d be a warlock, right?”

He glares, though very lightly and humoured. “I thought you knew nothing about magic.”

“I said I don’t understand, and I’m still not sure I do, but… okay.” You nod your head. Because sure. Yes. Why not. If a Norse god can come from outer space and tear up New York, why can’t there be a medical magician in the middle of Greenwich Village? You drum your fingers on the teapot. “So, What are your… magical pronouns?”

“You can call me Doctor, but I’m a Master of the Mystic Arts.”

“Mystic Arts,” you mutter, somewhat holding your breath. “Alright. Are you like Merlin? Here to protect an Arthurian type burdened with destiny?”

“Here to protect this reality and dimension.”

“This dimension? Hah.” You’re beginning to feel a bit woozy.

“You’re looking a bit sick. Do you need some tea?”

“I’m afraid it’s gone cold.” You say, patting the teapot in your lap like it’s a comforting companion.

“I can fix that.”

“Oh… Yeah, right. Great.”

Strange takes the teapot from you and you lay down again. He leaves and you're alone for a bit. Left to process... whatever all this means. He brings you some toast with jam on the side this time, 'in case you're feeling up to it', and fresh tea – made in the traditional way, with a kettle and electricity. 

He explains a little more of his magic to your dull, roaring ears. You’re not sure how much you take in, if anything, though you do manage to catch the mention that Wong, too, is a Master of these Mystic Arts. A Sorcerer Supreme, actually. Whatever that is. Different names and different roles, something about Nepal and realms and – you almost feel like he’s intentionally trying to overwhelm you.

“This isn’t a doctor’s practice is it?”

He looks thoroughly amused. “… No?”

“This is a lot.”

He at least has the gall to look apologetic. “It is. You weren’t meant to see, though. In my defence.”

“And that’s an excuse?”

He frowns. “You seem defensive.”

You shrug. You suppose you feel defensive. You’re not a fan of change. You were just trying to get groceries and go home. You just wanted to get someone to help with the pain of your migraine and then go home and be left alone. You didn’t want to know about magic and dimensions and war and protectors and pain. “It’s a lot.”

Strange crouches beside the bed on the balls on his feet, leaning in to where your head is pressed into the pillow. “What can I do?”

You peek at him. “Are you a doctor?”

“Yes. Doctor Stephen Strange. PhD, MD. You’ve asked that. Do you have memory troubles? Head trauma?”

“Brain fog, yes, but don’t be rude, I’m— I mean. I maybe want,” Oh, why is this hard. You suck your teeth. “Help?”

You hate how shameful this sounds in your head - you hate how desperate it feels. That you’re at your end and you’re running out of options. Running out of money and resources and time. You don’t know this man and you can’t do anything for him in return – you’re sure that’s where the guilt comes from. There's a little buzz in your brain that supplies you with the currently useless information: shame is learned behaviour, guilt is based on our actions. Great. And what are you supposed to do with that?

It's shame, then, that makes you reluctant to speak. But, you'd promised your mother you would look after yourself. So, “I need a doctor,” you admit.

“You have one.” Strange says. Simple words, yet your throat is already caught up and tight. He puts his hand out across the mattress, palm up and open, offering to hold yours. “I’ll do what I can. I’d like to, if you’ll have me.”

You nod, squeezing his leather-clad hand.

“Gloves?” you ask. Maybe you can draw a another more confessions from him.

“Yes.” He says simply. “Now,” he stands, removing his hand from yours. Nothing further to say about that. “It’ll do us well to access your medical history if we can. Do you have many printed records or a filing system? I still have connections, so it shouldn’t be too hard to get a hold of them, regardless.”

You nod dumbly, still kind of overwhelmed. The pain is coming back, you notice.

Strange crosses to the desk, rifling through papers, pulling a pen – literally – from the air. He asks for some personal details, asks if he can access your medical records, if you won’t mind.

You tell him that you don’t, but that there won’t be much to find.

“How’s that possible?” He looks up like whiplash, pulled from the reverie. “You’re clearly so sick, how can you not have records? Have they been wiped? It was the Blip, right? Something about the gap in your history?” Without an answer he’s back to work, head back down and burrowing through for information, searching for whatever it is he wants.

You squint at him, incredulous. An edge of anger sets in against your skin and you feel that, oh yes, your assumption about doctors has yet to be disproven. You gave him the benefit of the doubt, but with how flippant he is now, you feel privilege coming off him in waves and it sets you on edge.

‘Clearly. So. Sick.’ He said. The sheer audacity of the man is suddenly overwhelming.

You have to fight not to curl your lip, to clench your jaw. You’ve come up against more than enough of this medical snub in the past few years. He’s just a man. “No,” you say tightly. “I just don’t have many records. Doctors are… expensive.”

“But necessary, I think you’d agree. Especially if it’s affecting your quality of life to the point where you’re bedridden with migraines most days.”

“That doesn’t mean I can afford it.” You bite.

"What, so you've Googled your symptoms before, I assume?" He chuckles. "WebMD, that sort of thing?"

You feel a flush of heat and rising tension in your shoulders - oh, how you want to tear him off his high horse.

Strange pauses over his work, one hand holding papers mid-air as he looks over a book. His eyes look up at you, but his head doesn’t move. “Mm.” He bites his lips in thought for a moment, then goes to speak. “Look…” but he has nothing to say.

He has no idea what you’ve endured or fought. You’ve got something building up inside you, and maybe he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s sitting there so lax and privileged, and he doesn’t understand. No one ever understands and you just want someone to damn well hear you for once.

“I have spent everything I have trying to be better, but I still don’t understand why I’m sick, or how— I guess I know how. But I’m just sick, okay? And yet, I’m not made of money. Even when I had an okay amount, I was trying to get better, but even then, it’s not your business what I did with that money or what my priorities were, because you don’t know what I had going on in my life, and maybe health wasn’t my biggest priority.”

Strange draws himself out from the chair and starts to come around to the bed. It looks like he’s trying to find a moment to jump in, but you won’t let him.

“We aren’t all made of money and privilege, and we can’t all go waltzing through life and breezing through doctors' clinics and specialists' appointments. And… we can’t all just be diagnosed and healed and fixed – I don’t know if you’ve ever heard this, but maybe you don’t have all the answers! Doctors don’t have all the answers! Some of them suck! And maybe I got tired being told ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to help you and I clearly don’t care about your health as much as you do’ by some asshole that goes back to their three-story inner-city mansion and sends me home still not better!

“But you’re a doctor. I don’t expect you to know what that’s like. We can’t all afford to be pulling our degrees from other dimensions and out of our asses and – Nghh—,”

A violent twitch starts in your shoulder and rips up your neck, pulling your mouth into a snarl. You groan as the spasm seizes you and breathe through clenched teeth until it slowly releases. You take a deep breath and rub your jaw.

Shit. You can’t get so worked up. It’s not worth it, he’s not worth it.

You look at Strange. He’s staring at the wall, brow furrowed, hands stuffed deep under his arm pits.

“Sorry.” You mutter.

“No. I was being thoughtless. Rude and—,”

“I meant about the twitch thing. I know it’s not nice to see. I can see it’s bothering you.”

He purses his lips. Something is clearly bothering him.

“You were being rude, though. Definitely.” You say.

He laughs – almost. It’s a breath of air through the nose, but his shoulders relax. Stephen goes to speak but you cut him off in a flurry of words. Again.

“I can stop it. I don’t have to spasm, not like that. I could suppress it down to a twitch or two, maybe a few. This is just a flare. It’ll settle.” Though… it’s been a while now, and it hasn’t settled yet. A few weeks of flare on top of a brutal few months of your symptoms getting worse, on top of a few years of you getting more and more sick. “It’ll settle. I only need to rest. Not stress so much.” You offer a meek smile. A twitch niggles at your neck but you ignore it.

He waves away your explanation. “No, it’s fine. You’re… stressed. You’ve got plenty going on.” He meets your eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. My assumptions—,”

“We don't have to talk about it. I'm... I shouldn't have.”

Strange wets his lips. His stare is heavy too, and you can tell he’s restraining something within him - be it some measure of frustration or disappointment or righteousness. “Okay.” He says.

You don't apologise, not exactly. You know that you’re being rude, you’re just… tired. You want to have some measure of backbone in the world. You can’t give up on all the fight within you. It's just everything. It's overwhelming. That spasm though – was it worth it? It’s really kickstarted the migraine pain again. You rub at your temple.

“I’m going to need medication. If… If I am staying here. Or if I’m not. If you’re treating me.”

“Do you want to go home?”

Honestly? You don’t. You do. You don’t know. It’s complicated. Home is familiar – you’ve got your medications, your comfortable blankets and pillows, your little air conditioner to keep you cool. But your housemates… are hellish. There’s three of them, they’re loud and inconsiderate, they leave dishes in the sink and the bathroom isn’t clean and one of them loves to burn incense that triggers more migraines terribly.

You don’t even love living there if you’re honest, but finding rent that you can afford in New York in your current condition is… hard. And moving in your current condition? Looking for somewhere to move? It’s far easier to put up with where you are. You've gotten used to pushing a towel against the bottom of the door to keep the light and sound out.

But the thought of going back there now? Of moving from here? You hate that.

Yet how can you ask to stay? Strange said you were welcome, but now you’ve just gone off at the man, and no matter how justified you might feel, it doesn’t exactly endear him to you. There’s no good options here.

“You know,” Strange starts, “it’s awfully quiet around here. I think I’m beginning to irritate Wong, too. So much so, that he might start looking for boarders just to get away from me. And me, I’m… bored.” He nods to himself. Scuffs his shoe against where wood panels join in the floor. “You’ve dropped out of the sky at a good time. I miss being a doctor, so you might turn out to be a blessing. To me.” He turns to you and yes, he means it, and no, you wouldn’t be a hinderance if you wanted to… stay?

“Are you asking me to stay?”

“I’m saying that if you wanted to, I wouldn’t object to it.”

“And I could stay here?”

“You certainly wouldn’t be in the way.”

You nod, so small and slight, holding your breath as though if your movements are too big or you’re too enthusiastic he’ll change his mind. “Yes please.” You give him a meek smile. “I’ll, uh." You clear your throat. "I’ll go off at you less. I promise.”

“I suppose I’ll have to be less of an asshole.”