Chapter 9
When you wake up, you’re cold. You are stiff. There’s normally a couple of moments, hopefully minutes, between stiffness, where you’re warm. Where even if your body hurts, you can isolate some part of you that isn’t, rub your soft toes together and focus on them for relief.
But today, the room is cold with an icy chill that there hasn’t been in the house, despite its depths and great big rooms with wood that won’t insulate. The floor is always cool, the rooms don’t heat quite enough unless it’s with a spell, but today, you’re cold in your bed, under copious covers, and there’s a heavy feeling on your chest that this is only going to get worse.
You do manage to pull yourself to your feet, with all the aches and protests, recognisable and present. You don’t want to get up, you want to stay in bed. But under the covers it would be no better. Something is wrong.
You toe around under the bed but can’t find your shoes – it doesn’t matter – you haven’t been wearing them here and you kind of still don’t want to. Walking around with scruffy old sneakers while Strange is in his beautiful leather shoes. He probably hasn’t noticed, doesn’t care, or understand, but it makes you feel sad. You want to have beautiful shoes. You’d love to make them yourself.
The wooden floors are freezing, even through your socks. The fabric does nothing and a shiver runs through you. You consider, for a moment, grabbing a blanket from the bed, but its cumbersome and heavy and probably not worth the effort. How cold can it be?
Very cold, it turns out. Very, very cold. The doorhandle is like a block of ice, and it feels as though you have to break it a bit to turn it. The door opens easily, but opening up to the corridor, your breath becomes an open icy plume.
“Strange?” You breathe out, barely a whisper. The air is still, almost silent. Though you have a street facing window the sound of outside hardly reaches the house, if ever. The hum is coming from inside, distantly. It isn’t voices, you can’t hear talking, but something deeper and constant. You try to listen, cocking your ear to the air, but it makes you realise that the bridge of your nose is pinching in the cold and your neck is exposed and aching. You try to rub your neck to warm it up, but with cold hands it only does so much.
No use standing around. Freezing to death. The further you go through the Sanctum, the more obvious it is that winter has taken over inside. An ice storm, perhaps? You think. You’ve no clue what could’ve gone wrong to set something like this off. Bad spells, an attack – a sneezing attack, maybe? Were these men prone to allergies? What were sorcerers’ allergies like, and could they take regular antihistamines? Surely, being a wizard or a magician didn’t change one’s biology.
“Strange?” You call out again, in the open room of the landing. There are icicles on the bookshelves and the books themselves look frozen and affixed. The rugs have a skating rink sheen, and the tops of desks are preserved in time, exactly how they were last used. Drying out the books without damages is going to be a nightmare, but that’s neither here nor there.
You can hear something this time, downstairs, voices. The roaring is a bit louder. Shovelling? The staircase looks daunting to descend, the ice as it circles further down is jagged and the bannister is just the same. “Strange? You down there?” You call again, one last time before you consider going back to find your shoes. They’re well and truly deep under the bed by now.
There’s the distinctive, fast whooshing and flap of fabric coming up the stairs and flying right at you, like well-aimed laundry, and you raise your arms, only to be wrapped and lifted in the air by the red cape. You thought it’d be awful, to hang in the air, suspended by your shoulders, but you feel buoyant, light. You aren’t grasped from your shoulders, though it’s where the cape attaches itself, but you’re suspended like you’re floating in water. You hum and pat the gold attachments.
“Thank you.”
The cape flutters back in acknowledgement. Sensing your cold, or being instructed to do so, it wraps around your legs and your body, instantly creating a beautifully warm barrier from the cold. The collar tucks in against your neck, and in the end you’re sure you must look somewhere between a mummy, a burrito, and a croissant. You aren’t fighting it, but you’re sure it must be odd. Truly, you could sleep like this.
You aren’t taken to where the noise is, but to the kitchen, which is blissfully warm and free of ice. Magic, you mutter. These damn delightful sorcerers. Without thinking that it’s also these same sorcerers that probably made this inner winter happen in the first place.
You wish you could ask the cape what’s happening, what has happened. But the best it could offer is probably a facsimile of charades. For now, you’re certain that Strange must be safe enough and has heard you, Wong too, and they wanted to let you sleep. Distantly you wonder if this was part of Strange wanting to keep you out of the way, because you’re a burden upon some of the duties of the Sanctuary. ‘This is a Sanctum, not a hospital’, you recall. But it’s not the time. And if you were invited in, then it isn’t your burden to worry about.
You’ll stay where its safe until it’s all safe again.
You and the cape make tea, toast. Watch as outside it rains in a drizzle and it’s warmer. You’re not sure if you can open a window, so you don’t, and you spend a decent amount of time absently scrolling your phone and snacking and reading a book the cape brings you from your room. It also brings you your pillow and you attempt to lie across a few chairs, which is proven to be an utterly awful idea.
“Well, aren’t you a cosy sight.” Are Strange’s first words when he comes in. He stands in the doorway wearing a puffer jacket and holding an empty mug. You can’t read it from the angle you’re at, but you’re quite sure it has a fox on it. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to him.
“I hope so. You can’t laugh though; my heart wouldn’t take it.”
“Wouldn’t or couldn’t?”
“Wouldn’t. I won’t take any laughter.
“But you could?”
“Maybe not. I’m very vulnerable when my feet are cold.”
“I would never laugh at your cold feet.”
You smile at him, but it’s weary. He looks tired. You feel similar even though you haven’t done anything, but then, that’s not how your body works. “You okay?” You ask.
“Sure, yes,” He goes to wash out his mug and places it on the side of the sink. “Someone just left the door to Siberia open, and it froze the whole of the Sanctum over. As I’m sure you’re aware.” He gestures, and then mutters. “Amongst other things.”
You frown at him, he’s vague, and he has every right to be. But you also have the feeling that he doesn’t want to be. “Yeah?”
“Mm.”
“Any things in particular?”
Strange sighs and puts the kettle on to boil again. “No. Just nuisances that should sort themselves out.”
“Right. Alright then.” You go to stand, and despite all the cape has done to warm you, you’re still stiff and aching from the cold leeching air. And honestly, the ever-present pain. When does it ever leave? There’s no perfect circumstance that would give you a day without pain. And how many days would that be? Many. Too many – no. Can’t think of all that. Any of it is too much.
Strange must catch you staring into the distance and lost because he stops with a hand on your elbow. You look up.
“Are you okay?’
“Me? Yeah. Yeah, I’m cool, I’m good.”
He cocks his head, his eyebrow.
You pat the hand that holds you. “I’m good, really. Just tired.”
“We’ll get you back to bed?”
It shocks you for a second, because you want to be up, you want to talk to people, interact. But you remember that this is his job, Wong’s job – a portal to Russia has been left open and someone has to deal with it. You’re not the job, and people have lives. You have to be the afterthought. You nod and gather your things, gather your expression, and the cape gathers you.
“I want it back, by the way.” Strange says.
You squint and look at the cape, as if the two of you could share a conspiratory glance. “I don’t know. I might get awfully attached.”
You’re carried back to your room and Strange walks with you – it looks odd to see him without a waterfall of velvet from his shoulders. He almost looks normal. He’s dressed almost normal.
The way between your room and the kitchen is ice free, though still cold. It being clear that you’re welcome to traverse between. And you could go anywhere else, you suppose, you’re not unwelcome, but this is Strange’s way of making you comfortable, caring for you in the way he can, while he’s unable to do more. And you thank him, and he gives you a quick, small smile.
Strange brings you more blankets and tea and water, and he settles you. He lingers. You can see that he’s trying to stay as long as he can – thought you’re not sure if it’s for your benefit or for his. It’s in the way his hand shakes and he doesn’t try to stop it. The way he doesn’t fill silence and asks, always one more time, how you’re feeling, and if he can fix it. You get him to hold a hot hand to your neck and it almost sends you to sleep, but all too quickly, he’s gone.
It’s the afternoon. Your room, and the Sanctum, feels strange and empty and… horrible. You’re not sure if being alone is worse than being in bad company but being lonely is worse than either. Strange is gone, and he took the cape. And a phone is only so amusing with no one on the other end.
Time leeches through the windows, daylight covers your skin, and in a way that’s all too familiar for the disabled and bedbound, the day goes. And it’s not that you’ve done nothing with your day, but you couldn’t use your foggy mind for memorable things and your numb fingers for stirrings and creation. The day bleeds into another and you’re still here, always here, and you fall asleep under heavy blankets.
~~~
When you wake, it’s dark. You wake to gasping that isn’t your own, pained, straining noises and heavy breathing in the dim light. The ache of your body and eyes tells you it’s morning, but not morning enough. There’s still sleep to be had.
You recognise the breathing and the figure as Strange, and it’s nice to know him by such abstract senses in such a short time. There’s no fear in you, only concern. Everything is bleary, and yes, there’s a thrum of pain, but its quickly pushed aside by the evident thrum of panic. You’re awake before he comes to carefully shake you awake and mutter your name. Something is very wrong.
You stretch for the bedside light, but he sees your movement and turns it on for you. Cuts. Cuts on his face and his hands. Hands without gloves. His hair is a mess and he looks exhausted beyond sleep.
“What’s happened?” He starts to answer, but you reconsider and speak again before he can. “You look awful.”
“Thank you.”
“What time is it?”
“Uh,” He goes to glance at his watch. You know it doesn’t work. He rubs at his eyes. “Five am?”
“Seriously?” You reach for your phone to check. “Sit. Sit down.” You shuffle up the bed to make room for him. Your hands hovering over his shoulders as if you could assess and fix him just so. “What happened? What can I do?”
He shakes his head. He’s just shaking his head and sitting there. He pulls back your blankets and takes your hand. “Please. We only have a moment.”
And now it’s fear. Fear going through you and uncertainty. You’re not sure which one is coming from him, perhaps it’s all loss, with his sunken shoulders and the way he’s holding your eye like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal.
“I said I’d take care of you, and I will. But I can’t do that here.”
You pull back. “What do you mean here.”
He drops your gaze. Looks to your hand, then back at you. “You have to trust me.”
“I do. I do trust you, but I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
“We don’t have time to fight.”
“I’m not fighting I just want to understand.”
“You will.”
“I won’t, I promise. I’m amazing at promises, look. Mouth is shut. No fighting. None.” Despite the fact that you keep babbling and your mouth is not, in fact, shut. He can’t help but smile, and it calms you a bit, but not nearly enough.
You give his hand a squeeze, his hand cold and scarred, yours hot and sweaty from sleep and you hope he doesn’t notice, you hope he doesn’t care. Because this feels like a breaking. You know he said he’d take care of you, but it feels like he’s sending you away, and what if he’s sending you back? What if you have to go back to the tight, hot, lightless room and he’ll just check-in like a passer-by? Less than friends and hardly a doctor, confined and lifeless and shrivelling. You can’t live like that.
Your chest is tight and you’re lost in your mind again, a hand presses firmly on your shoulder. “I need you to breathe. Relax. I said I’d take care of you. I will take care of you. This is me making sure you’re safe.”
“Do I have to go back?” You ask, a sob hiccups unfortunately through your throat.
“What?” He frowns at you, grasping your shoulder now and squeezing your hand back. “Of course not. No, no, I think you’re going to be angry for an entirely different reason.”
You sniffle a bit, nod at him too. Where has all of this emotion come from? A migraine probably. They’re always lurking and pressing on every damn thing they can find. “Okay. I can do that. I can be angry for a different reason.”
“Hm. I’d rather you be angry for no reasons.”
“I can be angry at you for no reason.”
He squints. Stands. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”
You exhale in a sigh that releases your shoulders all that they’ll bear to release. “I know, it just…” It feels good to say. You want it to be true. Because if you pretend then maybe there won’t be a real reason. Maybe you’ll be able to fake around the fear. Maybe everything is fine if you can keep pretending. “Y’know.”
Strange watches at you for a long moment. Anything he can think to say isn’t quite right either. Words are meaningless, ill-fitting. In the end, its him lowering his head and just looking. He doesn’t have to say anything. There are too many words used too often when people are enough as it is. Maybe it isn’t always the case, but it is now. It feels like it is. Everything feels wrong. You aren’t supposed to be leaving.
He helps you pack, makes sure you round up the last few things you were sure to forget, toothbrush and charger and pillow. And you don’t want to process the room at all – the first time in a long while that you’ve had a room of your own, so you want to be sure, you want to know that you’ll come back here, have a reason to. You slip a few books into your bag. You’re not sure if he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
You stand before the door with your hand raised to the doorknob. “So, where am I going?” You turn, and Strange is standing further back in the room, hand against the tall wood of the bedframe.
He holds his sling ring aloft. “Door isn’t always the easiest way the travel.”
You hum. “Is it far?”
“Well, I want to get you there safe.”
You look him over again. There’re scratches on his face, yes. But they’re also deep on his jaw. It could be sweat or dried blood on his hair, it’s too dark to tell and you never got close enough to touch it. You know what it’s like to hover and hold yourself in pain, and he isn’t standing with the ease he normally has. “Are you okay?”
“It’s been a long night.”
“I mean bodily.”
He hesitates, but continues, “I just need some rest. But we need to get you safe.” He begins to open the portal, and you see the gritting and obvious pain on his shoulder.
You drop your bags, more out of hesitance, realisation than any direct defiance. “Strange… Where’s Wong?”
Strange grimaces as the shoulder rotations become too much and he drops his arm, the circle at its peak form. The window through is dark, but there’s sleek tiled floor on the other side.
“Wong is giving us a moment for you to be safe. Please, you need to go.”
“But are you going to be okay? Is he going to be okay?”
“Please, please, there is nothing to be done. Wong will be fine.” You’ve turned to the door but Strange puts an arm around you and is near to forcing you through the portal. “You have to go. You must. You said you wouldn’t fight.”
Hands that aren’t his reach from the portal and grab your bags, pull them away into the darkness. Before you can turn the hands reach back and pull you in too.
You land on your back on the person that pulled you. They release you as soon as you squirm. Huffing and distressed, you scramble to your feet and to the portal. Illuminated above the bright circle of light, set into windows with steel, is an awful, looming ‘A’ symbol. It takes you all of half a gut plummeting second to know where you are, rocking back on your feet, teeth set numbly in your mouth.
“Stephen!” You yell at him, but the portal is already quick closing. The last sight you see is him grasping his shoulder, and the cape coming to attach on behind him. You hadn’t ever noticed it gone.
The portal closes and the light is gone. The space before you opens up and smells like heat and the mixing of places; bedroom gone, foreign place present. The night catches in your throat and you remember that you aren’t alone.
You’re not sure if it was intentional or not, but you’ve forgotten your shoes.