Chapter 5
It’s all so close to pain. Your skin feels like fire and your cheek aches painfully where your face pushed into the book you held when you fell asleep.
It’s darker now. You’ve been asleep for a lot longer than you meant to be. Evening is dimming through the large circular window. You’re squinting, struggling to orient yourself with the day and figure out what time it is when a spasm wracks your body, tearing up your side. You cry out and it echoes through the room.
You lift your head with a struggle. Strange isn’t there anymore. You grunt and twitch against the jolts running down your spine like electric shocks. Restless leg syndrome? Restless life syndrome. You grit your teeth and try to breathe.
You hear Strange call out your name. In the dim room it’s a siren call, a lighthouse, a seeking point, an anchor – “Please,” you whimper, to call him to you.
Strange comes into view, immediately he’s near and crouches beside you. “What can I do?”
“Do you have any bandages?”
He looks taken aback. “What have you hurt?”
“No, it’s not like that, I need the pressure,” You tense your body against twitches as you speak but your legs kick out. Strange’s eyes go to whatever limbs are moving and you wish he’d just look in your damn eyes. “I need to wrap my body up, get my nerves back in.”
Strange frowns, and you can see it doesn’t make a lick of sense to him – and of course, because it doesn’t make actual, physical sense to you, but it’s all feeling, and there’s so much feeling, everywhere – but he nods. He flicks his hands in a circle and orange sparks fly. At the light you realise there’s no immediate aching pain in your head. That’s good at least. As long as you don’t tense too hard, hopefully it’ll stay this way. He reaches into the circle and pulls out a handful of bandages – you’re not even going to ask.
You feel your nerves sparking outside your body, you need to push them back in. You want to wrap yourself all close again and compress. Pull these nerve endings back under your skin.
You’re almost afraid of how he’ll look at you if you’re wrapped up like a mummy – or ask him to wrap you up so – but the pain is all over. Your left hip is the worse. The joint feels weak and crumbling – you’re sure you couldn’t stand on it. If you stood, you fear your pelvis would slip right through and fall away to the floor. But the pain of the pressure on the nerves would send you careening first. Even open to the air as it is, your flesh feels raw and vulnerable, like you’re left to the elements, all sore and exposed. You wanted to be crushed into the earth, be held together, and know for sure that you have one solid mass for a body.
But oh, again the thought of something pressing against you? Even the thought of your own body weight against yourself is unbearable. Your molars ache from how hard you’re pressing them together.
Your nerves feel beyond your body, sparking into the air, electric tendrils stringing you up in the universe and cutting through your skin, connecting you to whatever else would flit through the air, come across you. Claim you. Let you feel everything else that exists, brushing up against you, and in you. You feel too much, far too much. You have to compress, and come in again. Be one. Be whole.
Strange brings bandages and wraps your limbs and torso, shifting your body where your own agony-struck hands can’t reach. Your fingers shake as you feel your elbows threatening to pierce through your skin, suddenly so sharp and rigid, and your skin so sensitive and alight with pain.
He presses a heat pack – that he’s brought from who knows where – to your stomach and rests your elbows there, brushing a thumb at the creases of your brow and humming soft words as he wraps soft bandages firmly across your back and shoulder, wrapping them down your arm and over the crease of your elbow.
Strange moves your limbs with care, bending you so you don’t break, easing away your worries. Each continual wrap of fabric chases the creaking pain further along the limb and he wraps, and wraps, and wraps, with careful concentration. Without a word or a complaint.
You exhale clenched sighs of relief as the weight of bleeding your nerves beyond your body is taken off your arms. Your feel the fractional relief of coming back into yourself and you sigh against the cool leather of the couch, pressing your face back into it as you relax, humming in calm if only for a moment. There’s a point you can focus on now where you aren’t entirely beyond. Your arms are here again, confined to your skin, held close.
“Thank you,” You grit out. He hums low in reply, and manoeuvres onto the couch so your legs are over his lap and he has the leverage to wrap them. It stings with fear when he bends your knee though. You swear the cold will break your join clean.
Tears spill over your nose and your feel your hot humid breath against the leather couch with hovering, slightly breaths as he takes your knee in his hand. He holds the end of a bandage against your mid-thigh with whispering touches that make you want to buck out of your body in pain. The barest touches are worse - like the whispering hairs on the back of your neck, slight and shivering. You need to be grabbed and held properly. Tightly.
You sob and tremble try to murmur what you mean, and Strange understands, adjusting his grip to hold you more firmly. He winds the bandage around, tight and firm towards your knee, ducking under and winding back, looping the fabric to create pressure and ease your sparking nerves.
His fingers occasionally brush against the flesh of your arms, of your side – soft touches of his skin, no gloves now – they’re bare and light, and it should be hellish, but you try to focus on the sensation. On the rhythmic repetition of it. The touches are agony, but the constancy of them is like a clock. And the more brushes of leather that you can endure, the further down the track of sickness you are. There will be an endpoint to this. Somewhere. You won’t have to endure these exact seconds again – and here, look, there’s another second. And another. Another. Another.
Strange has finished what he can with your legs, and it’s not nearly enough but it’s something. It’s a start. Your cold knees don’t feel like breaking; your Achilles’ tendons don’t feel like they’ll snap with the slightest movements anymore. He’s managed to wrap your ankles and up under your feet – tight like a brace.
Oh, you can breathe again.
Strange presses his thumb at the bulge of flesh at your thigh, made by the tight wrapping of the bandage. His touch isn’t featherlight but firm. He gets it; he understands. He knows what you need – and that’s something that’s less of the doctor about him but more intrinsic. Strange has a wisdom through him, he can read you. A sob gets caught in your chest again.
“I’m not sure I can wrap your hip like this,” he murmurs softly in the air. He’s so quiet despite your loud cries. You realise he might still be afraid that you’re sensitive to sound with all the pain you’re in – but it’s touch, it’s all touch at the moment.
“It’s fine,” you say breathlessly. The bandages have helped soothe enormously. While your hip is still bare and painful, all over you feel… okay. This is okay.
And then Strange lays his hand flat over your thigh where the bandage doesn’t reach, and presses, and you sigh in great, heavenly relief. You try not to think about the abnormal intimacy of doctor-patient practices of this all – after all, doctors get into all sorts of bodily topics with their patients, and here’s your medical saviour. You’re not going to turn him away in your hour of begging need. But, with your panic slowing now and your breaths becoming a little bit deeper and your muscles relaxing into the couch, you realise it’s a bit different to that - here is some comfort in the world, finally. Here is someone willing to help.
The large, warm hand pressing on your thigh is the presence of someone seeing your need and responding. Hearing you knock on their door and answering. You swear this soft, evening moment of being wrapped in bandages and murmured elicitations of comfort is the softest and kindest thing you’ve felt in years, and it’s from a near stranger.
It’s compassion.
And, oh… Fuck, you’ve needed that. Pure and simple. And here it is. Here he is.
More tears drop to the leather and you sniff, clearing your throat of emotion enough for you to speak.
“Doctor Strange?” you mumble.
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
He’s still, and you settle again into the comfort of being cared for before he answers. “You’re welcome.” He takes it as a dismissal, you suppose, because he goes to remove his hand.
“No, no please. Please stay.”
He does. Settling his hand back where it was. Pressing against your body, firm and warm.
It doesn’t take long for you to be lulled to wisps of a half-sleep. On the edge with sensations still wracking your body but soothed enough to glide into unconsciousness.
If you had seen him, you would have seen his hands twitching, wanting to smooth your brow again. You would have seen a small and tender smile, smeared with pity over your pain-struck body. He wanted to tend to you. He wanted to make it better. He wanted to heal, to fix. The doctor never left him.
____
When you wake again, you’re in your bed. Surprised, but thankful that you managed to be moved without being woken. Bandages still tight, pain thankfully less present, but nerves still tender and making themselves well known.
Strange is there. He’s sitting in the armchair by the bed – not the one across the room. Eyes on you when you wake up – the blinds are drawn so you can’t see them clearly – but they’re blue, aren’t they? They’re clear and lovely. At the very least, you don’t need much light to see that they’re softer. People don’t normally see these large episodes of pain, you realise, no wonder he’s… softer.
“Hi,” He mouths.
“Hi.” You say it back. Begin to dig yourself out of the covers. “What time is it?”
“Morning. Or thereabouts.”
“Did I sleep long?”
“Two hours?”
“Did you sleep there?”
“I slept earlier.” He’s standing from the chair and waving you off though, so you can’t be sure. Strange offers you tablets and an inch of murky white water in a glass. You frown at him and he explains. “Tablets are paracetamol. The water is dissolved aspirin.”
“They won’t do anything.” You grumble.
“What do you mean?”
“Pain meds… They don’t work for migraines, it’s… it’s not the same thing. Migraines are different.”
“I know. Aspirin is a blood thinner, hopefully it’ll ease your migraine a bit more, and a bit quicker. Paracetamol on the other hand will hopefully do something for your… other bodily pain. If it doesn’t, then you don’t have to take it, but it’s better than nothing and until I can get something better or we can figure out what to do with you, it’s what I have.”
“Can’t you…” You make a circling gesture.
“What, you want me to just give you oxy? Steal some morphine from an unsuspecting hospital supply? I still have my medical licence, thank you very much, I’d like to keep it that way. It’s a moral matter rather than one of supply.”
You hold up your hands in a show of pure innocence. “I wasn’t asking for the hard stuff, I was only wondering why you’re a very powerful mystical-,”
“Master of the Mystic Arts?”
“… Mm. Yes, and you’ve only got aspirin.”
“Strange sucks in a breath, his eyes widening momentarily. “Let’s just say that the scrapes I go around getting into aren’t the normal kind.”
Happy to leave it at that, you reach and take the meds from him, and down them with a shiver of disgust for the taste of the dissolved grit. Strange offers you a fresh glass of water to wash the taste out with.
“Better?”
“Terrible.”
He laughs and its almost a snort. So intimate in the ruffled morning hours. His hair isn’t sitting perfectly flat, you notice. His facial hair is starting to stubble out of its pattern – you haven’t seen him wearing a t-shirt and cardigan before, either.
“Do you want anything else?”
“One of the bands is a bit tight. On my left leg? My thigh kind of feels like the circulation is being cut off.”
Strange peels back the covers just at your legs but you still squirm back into the bedsheets. “Ah! It’s freezing out there.”
He pulls his cloak from the back of his neck and releases just as fast. All on its own, the garment comes to rest flat over the top of your blankets, almost cuddling up to you. The red woven wool beautifully intricate and insulating, and while it doesn’t stop your legs from being cold, the rest of your body stays wonderfully warm while Strange is rewrapping your binds.
“Do you want it off entirely?”
“No. Please, it’s only a bit tight. It just needs to be adjusted.” He rewraps the bandage with all the quick expertise of someone used to working with their hands, pulling it loose; and all the slow fumbling of someone with cold morning hands, unwrapping it in quick jerking movements and his hands messily stumbling over themselves a few times. He notices you watching.
“It’s cold in the mornings here. My joints… they’re stiff. They’ll warm up.”
Strange manages to wrap you up again. He has to undo all the bandages around your knee and thigh, and it takes a few slow long circles to get the right tightness again. The pain is manageable this time – there are no tears.
You watch him is he works, and he holds your leg in his meticulous working hands, looking to you for confirmation on firmness of the bandage. Warm breaths in the morning – this is a kinder way to count the passing time. You won’t be able to get back these exact seconds again. And again. He’s a much softer man in the morning.
When he’s finished, he pulls the covers back over you and puts a kind hand on your knee. “Anything else?”
You stop for a moment in thought and your stomach interrupts you. You really haven’t eaten much since you’ve been here, too distracted by sleep and pain.
“Will we disturb Wong if we’re in the kitchen?”
Strange gives you a look. “I feel like you don’t understand how big this place is. But no. His bedroom is nowhere near.”
“I’d like toast. Or breakfast. Food. Anything. I don’t know if you cook – I can cook. I can cook toast.”
Strange smiles at your rambling and pats your knee. “I’ll take care of you,” he says. You think he means it in more ways than one. Actually, you’re sure of it.
He offers you a hand to help you out of bed. “Shoes?”
“Oh.” You look at your socks and wrapped ankles. “No. This is fine.”
“You’re sure? They’ll keep your feet warmer.”
“I’m fine, really. Socks are good.”
Strange holds his arm out for you and helps you to the kitchen, never rushing you as you take the stairs one at time, leaning nearly all your weight on him.
He sits you down and the cloak settles over the back of the chair and your shoulders to keep you warm – though by his instruction or its own volition you have no idea. He puts bread down to toast and puts the kettle on, then rummages around in the fridge for things you can’t see. Outside you can see it’s raining again – that explains at least some of the chill that’s settled over the house and in your joints.
Strange makes you breakfast as you wish and tea as you instruct – black tea, without a little look like Wong gave you. Perhaps Wong is a tea snob – and Strange fixes himself a bowl of whatever concoctions he pulled from the fridge. You can’t really see the bowl, but by the slight smell of it you’re not sure you want to. A magical diet perhaps? Again, the less you know, the happier you are.
You eat the first two slices quickly and go to cook another. You hover by the window and watch the rain make the world heavier.
“Everything alright?” Strange asks. You must have been staring for a time. If you were thinking about anything the thought is gone now. For the most part you were only feeling, adjusting to how your body feels in the present day, getting used to today’s aches and groans.
“Fine.” You mutter. The toast pops. “Just sore.”
He looks at you for a time, and you don’t move. You smile at him to assure him that, yes, everything is fine, and then he stands wipes a tear from your cheek with his gloved thumb. “We’ll sort something out, yes? Make it better?”
You sniff, chuckle an attempt to brush it off. “I think I need to talk to someone.”
“You’re talking to me.”
“You’re my doctor.”
Strange purses his lips. Maybe there’s nothing more for him to offer, maybe you’ll have to talk to Wong – if Wong is even willing – but then there’s something about that man that feels unapproachable in this same way that Strange feels vulnerable like you. You want to talk to Strange because he’s messy, like you. He’s rash and biting and smothered in ego sometimes. You want him to understand you, because you think you might understand him too. And as you’re looking at him you try to say it with your eyes – because it’ll be mortifying to say aloud. Both of you are proud and hurt – how can you already be so senselessly vulnerable to this stupid, egotistical doctor?
“I’m a good doctor.” He says. He doesn’t understand – why doesn’t he understand?
You shake your head. “I said I needed a friend.” Or you didn’t say it, really. You forgot you didn’t actually say it, but you swore he knew it, swore he saw it.
He sighs slowly through his nose and comes to lean against the kitchen counter beside you.
He’s still a step from you, but his hand comes behind you and touches lightly to the small of your back. Even as you feel his muscles relax, the shaking remains. Perhaps he’s nervous or has a tremor that goes beyond his ‘cold morning hands’ - you’d shaken enough yourself in your days to dismiss it, but it’s there now.
“I’m sorry you’re in pain.” Strange clears his throat. “I hope it eases soon. The grief of pain is… a terrible thing.”
He’s awkward. So awfully awkward in his attempt at consoling and friendship that it makes you burst out laughing. You cover your mouth with a hand and another tear slips free. Painless this time.
“It fucking sucks,” a sob is stuck in your throat again – what is it about being around this man that makes you feel so open? You haven’t felt free to cry in years. You want to shove it off and play it down, deny that it’s there because it’s fucking terrifying, but the fact that he’s trying? That he sees it and is willing to have some measure of reciprocation even though it’s clearly outside of his comfort zone? It’s not nothing.
Strange’s hand rests on your back a little steadier now, his palm coming to rest flat.
You wipe tears from your hot cheeks. “I really like it here.”
“I’ve already said that you can stay. You sound afraid that I’ll revoke that.”
“No! No, I’m just really pleased. I love it. I feel calm. Even though it hasn’t been long, I feel like I haven’t stopped in years, I haven’t been able to just… take a moment to breathe? I was working to keep my family afloat, and then keep myself afloat, and then I’ve been living off my savings just trying to get better, and I’ve been kind of expecting at some point to run out of money and be homeless and sick and just die, and I’ve had all this stress, and I haven’t been able to work and that’s… that’s all on pause now. Or, I don’t have to think about it so much. I can just watch the trees in the wind and time doesn’t exist here. I’ve been burning through money I don’t even have but now it’s like time has stopped for a moment and finally someone has seen me, y’know?”
Strange bobs his head to the side. “I have some experience in what that might feel like.”
“Then you know it’s just… relief, right?”
He smiles softly. “Right. Not just relief. And my experience is different to yours, but yes.” His thumb brushes against you. “I’m glad to provide that for you.”
“That sounds too official. Too doctor.”
“I am your-,” You look at him, fixed with a small glower. He clears his throat, tries again. “I’m glad you can rest here. Especially coming from the circumstances you were in – I didn’t realise they were that bad.” He leans back against the counter and folds his arms.
“They… weren’t pleasant.” You pick up your tea, take a swig for your sob-sore throat and hold it for your joint-sore hands. “I’m… thankful. So thankful to have a place to be where I can just focus on getting better – as long as you’re willing.”
“I hate to sound like a broken record, but if you insist on feeling insecure about your position here, I’m going to have to – you’re welcome here. Until you want to leave, you have a place here. I would give you a key, but the doors don’t have locks… does that bother you?” You feel like it should, perhaps. It doesn’t. “I don’t know if that feels fast to you, but things aren’t exactly normal around here.”
“What do you have in place of keys?”
“… Rotunda gateways?”
“And they are?”
“Dimension doors, essentially.”
“Wait-,” No, he does look serious. “Really?”
“I’ll show you sometime. For now, I’m going to have to be a doctor again. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
You look miserably at your forgotten toast – stone cold.
Strange chuckles, “We can make some to go, but I think you need to get off your feet.”