Trapped
It wasn’t until you’d walked around to sit at your desk that you had the proof to answer that question. Set in front of a family photo so it would only be visible to someone sitting at your desk was a small, forest-green box. It had been hidden with intention. Anyone who peeked into your office, janitor or otherwise, wouldn’t have seen it from the door. Was that effort to ensure that no one else would take what precious item was yours, or were the contents of this little package so scandalous that the sender couldn’t risk another seeing? Your initial reaction wasn’t fear but overwhelming curiosity. The excitement of the mystery made your heart skip a beat. You took the box in your hands. It was only about the size of your palm and the top, which wasn’t taped down, lifted to reveal a packet of some generic pain relief powder. You took it out, inspected it for any tampering, and then noticed a gold flicker from the corner of your eye. Looking back down, you immediately recognized the gold-trimmed notecard laying on the bottom of the box. It was the same kind you saw on Loki’s coffee table yesterday morning. His scrawl was neat and wispy, as if he’d been thinking about switching to cursive as he was writing. You imagined his voice as you read.
My mother always taught me to leave a place neater than I’d found it. It’s a late start, but I hope this is sufficient. If you feel unwell when my spell wears off, dissolve that powder in eight ounces of water and drink it quickly. Please let me know if that isn’t enough, and we can find an actual, licensed doctor who is qualified to treat you.
Regards,
Loki Laufeyson
Your mouth was agape. He wrote to you. Initially, you blushed, charmed by the gesture. Then, horror on two counts. First: your eyes flickered to that picture of your family and hoped Loki hadn’t paid much attention to it… Whether he was trustworthy or not, it felt much safer to have as few people as possible know about your relatives (especially if those people were, say, on all-powerful-overlord probation). Though slightly estranged due to the nature of your job, your family was precious to you. Second: you realized how long this note had been there. It was there when you ran from Loki’s apartment, when you snapped at him in front of Tony… Oh, God. Your heart sank as you remembered the dejected look he tossed at the floor after you and Stephen had both argued with him. Not to mention he hadn’t yelled at you or guilted you like Stephen did, despite you treating him way worse. If it wasn’t exclusive to you, Loki at least had a deeply-engrained moral code when it came to women. You briefly wondered who you had to thank for that.
Your cheeks warmed at the remark he made about finding a doctor. A current of exhilaration washed through your veins at the thought that he was trying to take care of you. He didn’t even know you, but he felt responsible for you. It was so gentlemanly, like nothing you’d ever heard about Loki before. Before you could stop it, you did the impossible and recalled the Unrecallable. The image was there: his lips on your neck, hand trailing down…Your chest tightened. There was a knock at the door. You flinched in your seat and smacked the note against the desk, hiding it under your left palm.
“Yes?”
The door cracked open and there were those unmistakable grey-streaked temples.
“Good morning, Doctor Strange,” you said. Your voice was breathy as you tried to re-forget the images your brain had fabricated last night.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. Tony said I could find you here,” he said, misunderstanding your tone. He stepped in just far enough that he was through the door but didn’t come any closer. “I brought a peace-offering.” His hand lifted, cradling a peach.
“A Peach-offering, you mean? I hope this isn’t a bribe…” You smirked and held out your left hand, forgetting the notecard it hid. Stephen walked slowly, as if you were an animal he didn’t want to spook. He was so careful, walking with a surgeon’s precision, that his cherry-red cape didn’t fuss or ruffle. He ignored your hand and sat the fruit on your desk.
“What are you working on?” he asked, pointing to the notecard. Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Taxes,” you said, flattening your hand back over the card with a grin.
“That’s cute,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t count as lying when you’re being so obvious, huh? I mean it… It looks nice, whatever it is. Whoever sent that must really like you.” Strange offered a tentative smile, trying to offset the tension in the room. You wondered if he saw Loki write and place the card during his investigation yesterday. Did he know what it said? Was he testing you? Trying to decipher your relationship with Loki? His comment was just a little too on the nose…
“It is. Nice, I mean,” you said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a real answer. You chewed the inside of your cheek, wanting to forget the fact that you tried to masturbate to him just a few hours ago…that you’d failed because you were too busy thinking about his enemy. That little slip of paper was steaming under your palm.
“May I sit?” he raised a brow at you and gestured to the chair in front of your desk. You couldn’t remember if anyone had ever actually used the thing before. It had really been more of a prop than anything until today.
“Sure,” you said, lacing your fingers together. Your knuckles brushed against the soft skin of the peach. If it turned out to be ripe, you were planning on devouring it the moment Stephen left you alone.
“I hope I’m not bothering you. You said yesterday you weren’t ready to talk… I just really needed to tell you how sorry I am about everything that happened.”
“It’s fine—”
“It’s not fine. Don’t you get that? I left you behind with a guy I didn’t trust when you were drunk. I didn’t check on you or try to help you. I yelled at you. I hurt you. The look on your face yesterday cracked me in half,” he said, his throat tight. “I was so enraged that I didn’t think about how I’d hurt you until you wouldn’t look at me. It’s just…When I realized what Loki might have done, thinking about his hands on you…” He put his hand over his mouth, fingers flexing as if he might claw his lips off, peel away his jaw. A jagged red vein in his neck bulged until he released himself, hand falling into his lap. “I can’t express the regret and the agony I felt. The wrath. But I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I overstepped. I think after that party, I felt…God…” He put his hand over his face in shame, tilting his head back, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. You unconsciously leaned forward, enraptured by his speech. “It’s so inappropriate.”
“Say i—”
“—I felt protective over you. I can’t explain it, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I don’t want to mislead you.”
You blinked at him, your lower lip quivering as it tried to find the right words to respond. A squeak came out of your throat. The doctor had never looked so stupidly handsome, here in your office, begging for your forgiveness. Well, begging for your hatred first. He wanted you to understand the weight of his failures so that your forgiveness would actually mean something to him. You could almost laugh at the idea that the doctor would need to appraise the worth of your forgiveness before accepting it. Stephen’s clothes—if you could call his steel-blue monk robes “clothes”—looked normal enough, but his composure was rattled. Every muscle was tense, he even gripped the armrests of the chair as he spoke. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Have you been sleeping?”
“Not well,” he said.
“This can’t be the only thing troubling you this much,” you said. Stepping around the issue seemed like the safest, most non-committal response you could give until you knew all the angles to his story.
Stephen sighed, his bright eyes looking directly into yours, baring his shame.
“I tried to justify the way I felt to myself. How… How desperate and nauseous I felt thinking about him touching you. I kept telling myself that it was because of your ankle, like you were one of my patients and me looking you over stirred up some of my old doctor-mojo, but I never felt this way about a patient. Ever. I wanted to do a good job, but their personal lives were never a factor in how I practiced,” he said, finally relaxing back into the chair.
“You’re…interested? In my personal life?” Your heart fluttered when he mentioned someone else touching you, but you decided to save him the embarrassment and tuck that comment away for later.
“In no uncertain terms. I know it’s not my business, but…I…I need you to give me some boundaries so that I don’t fuck this up. I mean… If you aren’t interested in something romantic. If you’re seeing someone, whatever the case may be.” He gestured to the notecard you were trying to hide. “I want to be in your life, however you’ll take me, and I don’t want to step on any toes.”
“So, you read it?”
“Read what?”
“Don’t be coy,” you said. You lifted the card and held it next to your temple, the side with writing hidden from Stephen’s view.
“I didn’t,” he said. You raised one eyebrow at him in warning. His lips flattened into a straight line and he cleared his throat. You tilted your head to the side, waiting him out. After a few seconds, he frowned. “I did,” he croaked, dropping his head. “I’m sorry. Tell me what to do.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his wrists.
God, could he be more endearing? You weren’t typically one for sharing your feelings, especially at such an early stage, but Stephen looked like a wreck. You could practically taste his anguish. He really had been torturing himself over all of this.
“You’re forgiven,” you said. He let out a breath that decompressed his entire upper body and mumbled a thank you, his voice cracking. He must have been exhausted. “If you really want to make it up to me and be in my life, you might try asking me out.”
He looked up at you, first in reverence, but then his eyes squinted, lip quirking in confusion, “You aren’t seeing anyone?”
You pictured Loki, with his emerald eyes and healing hands and broad shoulders. You should your head no.
“I’m not looking for anything serious right now, but I’d be open to a date. If someone were to ask me, I mean.”
“Okay, okay that’s great,” Stephen said. His smile was much more genuine now that his body was relaxed. “I know someone who is going to ask you, then, when he can show up to your office with some dignity.” He stood up and ran a hand through his hair. It was already looking closer to normal.
“I look forward to saying yes to him,” you said, smirking. “Go get some rest, Doctor.”
“Back to work, little patient,” he said. His grin was laden with relief as he walked out of the door.
True to your own word, your hand was wrapped around the peach as he walked off, thrilled to find that it was pliant and ripe, and sunk your teeth in it as soon as you heard the door click shut. Juice ran down your chin and you keened into the tender, pink flesh.
The first thing on your docket was emails. That would be the first clue to everything you missed yesterday. There were a few generic reminders and follow ups that you addressed. Tony was due for a physical soon. He wanted you to order an extra case of mugs so that Thor could bring some of his friends around. Apparently, Tony had been inundated with questions about the employee fraternization policy, which surely wasn’t related to any of your recent exploits, so he wondered what your opinion on the policy was. Should he change it? Did you have any suggestions on what the new rule should be?
Tony already took so few things seriously, and now his employees would be bound to rules that he wanted you to set as a joke so that you’d feel more comfortable getting laid. You rolled your eyes, unsure if you were more flattered or insulted by his frivolity. The last email you looked at was the one that caught your attention the most. It wasn’t company wide, but addressed to you, the Avengers, and a few other administrative staff. The subject line read “Operation Loki-Sitter.” The email wasn’t as self-reverential.
In light of Stark Industries offering asylum to Loki of Asgard until he is properly rehabilitated and can be trusted on his own, select members of the Avengers and employees of Stark Industries will be required on campus as night guards. Guards will be expected to sleep in apartment 9512, directly next to Loki’s in room, and should make every effort necessary to prevent and report any disturbances as they occur. Guarding can be done on a one-time or long-term volunteer-basis and offers substantial compensation for the inconvenience. If no volunteers come forward to relieve the selected staff, the shift rotation will occur as follows until further notice:
Monday—Captain Steve Rogers
Tuesday—Tony Stark
Wednesday—Doctor Bruce Banner
Thursday—Natasha Romanov
Friday—Doctor Stephen Strange
Saturday—Margot Hayes
Sunday—
No. It couldn’t be.
You reread the line.
Your heart skipped a beat. Your eyes blurred over the Sunday slot in disbelief, trying to convince you that your name wasn’t really there, but it was. Tony hadn’t consulted you about this. Where the hell did he get off giving away your Sunday nights without any notice? Sure, that could change if anyone decided to volunteer themselves, but it didn’t seem likely. At least you’d be compensated. You rolled your eyes, pushing your suddenly-stiff shoulders back down in an effort to pretend that you weren’t totally seething, as you continued to read.
Guards will receive instructions in a separate email within 48 hours of their first shift. For more information on this policy and to learn how to volunteer for this opportunity, please visit Margot Hayes at the reception desk.
We appreciate your help and feedback as we navigate these circumstances.
Stark Industries Management Team
You were fucking livid. The sacrifices you’d made to live on campus just so you could have this job were already enough. As a matter of fact, you knew the Avengers themselves didn’t have to live here, and neither did most of the rest of Stark’s employees. It was just some, a special select group that he wanted to keep close, that had to give it all up for the sake of the company, and now he had the nerve to dictate how you spent your time off? You could see it coming from a mile away. First it would be one night a week. Then someone would ask you to cover their shift. Then suddenly you’d wake up one day and realize you were working 24 hours a day, not living in ‘your own’ apartment (if you could even call the dorm yours), and probably being much less fairly compensated than what you were originally promised. Those fucking bastards. That fucking bastard. Tony Stark.
Your mind flashed back to your talk with Tony, when you cried and told him you missed your family. The nerve he had to do this shit only a day later. You’d be having a fucking chat with him. That was for certain.
Closing out of the email, you went to grab your phone from your purse, but realized if you got your hands on your phone, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from texting Tony something nasty that would sacrifice your negotiating power. It would be better to talk to him with a more level head.
Your focus shifted back to the computer. Your hands spread over the wood of your desk as you tried to read the next email, but you were overcome with a memory. It was the night of the party. Loki had lifted and placed you on this very surface. In seconds, his face was mere inches from your knees, his nimble fingers so delicate that you could’ve forgotten his presence if he weren’t so god-damned large. That gravelly voice had cooed you into submission, you realized. He’d never forced himself on you, even where your physical safety was concerned. His chest was like a wall when he stood up, but you hadn’t been afraid. You recalled his enduring patience despite you giving him an unnecessarily difficult time. In fact, you…Oh God. You’d nuzzled Loki when he carried you away. Those bourbon margaritas must have pulled a sweep-the-leg on your memory. This, you thought, explained a lot of Loki’s behavior. You were probably the first person on Earth to show him any affection, even if it was just for a few moments in a drunken stupor. Ugh. You had to physically stretch the grimace out of your cheeks. Your jaw clicked.
You blinked and looked back up to your computer. There was a to-do list of tasks burning a blue-light tan into your cheeks. Simple shit, rookie stuff. Following up on emails, beginning your revamp of the Avengers’ training programs, scheduling and ordering and filing and, and, and…
You blinked again. Your cheeks were still blazing. Were you going to be able to get through the day without thinking about smooshing Tony’s face under your heel?
Yes. Yes, you could totally do that. That would be the mature response, which a grown woman with as high a rank as you had should be capable of performing. You could be calm and measured.
Your knuckles made hollow pops as you cracked them. The pulse racing between your collarbones reminded you that you were still angry. You remembered a time when an old professor read one of your short stories and said it was marvelous, but that if you related at all to the main character, you should seek out anger-management counseling. You’d stormed out of his office that day. He couldn’t have been right. He was just some lazy, tenured, presumptuous, self-absorbed, booger-licking—
Okay, maybe you couldn’t do this. The whole ‘chilling-out’ thing.
You didn’t have that thought until you’d already walked halfway to Tony’s office, but in fairness, that was only because your brain had shut off all coherent thought until your heart rate was slow again.
His door was made of thick, dark wood. You may have been the first person ever to not knock when you entered. Well, burst in may have been a better term. Any more force and you would have risked cracking the precious drywall that the silver knob slammed into.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said.
Tony didn’t even flinch. You wondered if he’d been expecting you, your rage. Not like that would have made you feel any different. He looked up from the file he was reading, the manilla envelope making a shy flicking sound as it closed, unaware of the tense situation it had been put in.
“Welcome back, Peach.”
“So now I don’t even get a full weekend off? Is that how you plan on covering for giving me that week vacation? Which, if you’ll recall, I haven’t cashed in yet, being that it’s only been twenty-four fucking hours since you gave it to me.” You swept in like a tsunami, stomping up to his desk with half the nerve to kick it as your hair fell in front of one of your eyes. The door was still open.
“Okay, I hear you. I totally hear you. Let’s consider the idea that this may not be a personal attack.”
“I’ll listen to you explain yourself while I type up my resignation. I’m a great multitasker.” You smiled, though your voice was laced with the tenderness of a prison shank. Your hands fanned out as you leaned over his desk with one hip cocked to the side, weight shifting to your right leg.
“You know I wouldn’t let you go that easy, the—”
“So, don’t. I don’t accept this offer. My time off is sacred. Thanks for understanding, Mister Stark!” Your grin was vicious, teeth barred in spite of the gooey-sweet tone you’d switched to.
“Peach, you’re one of the highest-ranking employees of the company besides me. My name is on that list, too. What other choice did I have? Until he can prove himself, Loki is considered one of the greatest active threats to this country, and he’s living in its borders. This is your job, and we are all making sacrifices. Anyways, Sunday is the worst day of the weekend, so be grateful that I didn’t give you a Friday or Saturday night shift.”
Your heavy breathing was the only sound in the room as you considered his words. Your tongue poked around the inside of your cheek. Tony looked up at you with his eyebrows raised, clearly unsure if you were going to listen to reason. Fuck, you thought, he actually may be right…
“Fine,” you said.
“Fine?”
“You’ll switch me to a weekday at your earliest convenience. If there’s a volunteer, my shift is first in line to be filled…every time. Pleasure doing business.”
“Glad you’re back,” he said. You started towards the door, but he spoke up again. You stopped in your tracks. “So, while you’re here…I take it you didn’t read the texts I just sent you?” You turned slowly towards him, left eyebrow quirked up in challenge, but face revealing nothing of your trepidation. You waited for him to say something else, but he just gestured towards you, presumably to the pocket that your phone was in. You pulled the phone out, glaring at him before checking the screen.
8:57 AM Tony: Just FYI Laufeyson is probably getting a job here. Need something menial for him to show the public he’s improving…contributing to society, blah blah blah…do you think you can manage him?
9:03 AM Tony: You’d do really well with an assistant. Just saying.
9:05 AM Tony: Also, totally unrelated…You know I don’t like breaking promises.
You read over the lines three times in disbelief. Were you in a coma or were your biggest fears as a Stark employee coming to life? Tony looked at you like he knew just how deeply disrespectful he was being by putting any one of these things on you, let alone all of them at once.
You didn’t have the energy to be mad anymore, instead wondering what your prospects were if you actually quit. You made a metric fuck-ton of money, sending a good portion of it back home. Your younger brother needed a college fund. Your parents barely scraped by and could stand to have the house paid off. None of those needs put a dent towards the life you wanted for them…One where they didn’t portion out single goober sandwiches for the day’s food allotment, sparing palmfuls of soap so they could wash their hair, or letting the pads of their feet go charcoal-dark and harden against the gravel road to get as many years out of their shoes as possible. Your brains and grit got you here, got you out of that situation, and your lifestyle since working under Stark was totally unrecognizable from what it once was. Like a child afraid of the monster under your bed, you were stone-cold petrified of what might happen if you left. Were you truly capable of finding another job? One that could afford the luxuries this one did? That could carry the weight of your family’s plights with the same ease?
With your rage-fit sapping up your arguing energy, the reality of your situation and fears settled over your skin like dust after a windstorm. Maybe you could make it. Maybe. But with the faces of your loved ones racing through your mind, their needs etched into the lines on their skin, you decided it wasn’t worth the risk.
“Tony,” you said, your eyes starting to sting. “Please. You couldn’t have consulted me first? I…I could find something for him. Something out of this office, even. Anything.”
“We need him here,” he said. “I know. I get it. And I’m sorry, but this is one of the few protests of yours that I have to veto.”
Your thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of your nose as you squeezed your eyes shut and sniffed.
“Fuck me, this can’t be happening…”
“Don’t do that to me,” Tony said. You could hear the guilt in his tone. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Tony had a less-than-professional (albeit platonic) connection with you. It seemed like he actually felt bad, and the fact that he wasn’t finding a way to fix things told you that he was out of options.
“Whatever,” you said, dropping your hand to look back at him. “You owe me.”
“I always will,” he said with a wink. His smile was small and tight. He appreciated the forgiveness, even if it was tainted with snark.
Now that you were cooled off, you actually managed to get a good bit of work done. The idea of quitting had, at least for the moment, been put to bed. At least until Tyler went to college, you agreed. Just a few more years of being trapped, and then you could reevaluate your options.
While you thought about that, you were staring at the blinking cursor on your screen, waiting for the team’s nutritionist to send whatever she was typing so that you could hopefully close the conversation. She was on about something budget related and wanted Tony to give her the reigns on hiring another trainer for the Avengers. Snore. You could read right through her scheme. What the nutritionist really wanted was an easy project that looked big on paper, an excuse to ask for another raise in a few months. Not going to happen, you thought. Little did Dr. Scoursburgh know, you were Stark’s personal horseshit filter. If anyone other than you took on a task like that, it would be your assistant. Loki. Loki the assistant. You scoffed. Not so long ago he proclaimed to the world that he was a god. Now, he’d be making coffee runs.
The computer dinged.
12:45 Leslie Scoursburgh: What about the potential for a lawsuit? What if someone is hurt in battle and blames it on Stark or the company?
Oh, so that’s how she wanted to play? You smirked. You typed up your response and sent it so quickly that you didn’t bother proofreading it. She should have seen it coming, honestly, given that you’d already shut her down in every thinkable way for the last half hour that she’d been chatting with you. It came down to the simplest point of them all: Stark already chose the person he wanted on that project (you), and the Avengers were fine with his decision. The nutritionist didn’t know that Stark had contracts protecting him from virtually any situation a person could dream up. Why should she? It was none of her fucking business.
There was a knock at your door and a small click as it opened.
“Afternoon is by appointment only,” you said, flicking your gaze up only after you spoke. Your surprise at your newest guest didn’t show on your face. “Margot will help you schedule up front.” Doctor Strange grimaced, only coming in enough to show his right shoulder and most of his head.
“So sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realize.” He waved in apology as he stepped back, closing the door behind him.
“Stephen!” you said with a laugh, “Come in! Please.”
The door cracked back open again. Stephen didn’t say anything when he poked his head back in, only offering you a suspicious eyebrow raise in both teasing and genuine confusion.
“I was only kidding. Well, making an exception,” you said. “Don’t let word of it spread… Stark’s interns would be in and out of here all day if it were open-door.” Your lips pursed to the side in thought as he sauntered in with renewed confidence. The last few times you’d seen Strange, he was troubled and groveling, but now he stood tall, his jawline sharp enough to slice your corneas with clinical accuracy. God, even in that thick tunic you could see how ripped he was. He wasn’t bulky and overgrown, but lean and strong, perfectly filled out.
“I made a reservation for dinner this Friday night. Will you be there?”
You paused. Your heart skipped a beat. It wouldn’t be smart to give in that easily… After all, you two had barely started whatever this little arrangement was.
“It’s only been a few hours. You’re back on this already?” You couldn’t help yourself. Dodging the question was almost always a safe bet, and anyways, you wanted to see how hard Stephen would work for your answer.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Where’s it at?”
“Whoever comes with me will find out.”
The two of you were in a silent stare off. If the heat on your cheeks was any indicator, you were blistering red, and he could definitely see it. He searched your face and smirked, tilting his head to the side. He wasn’t going to ask you a second time.
“Is this a date…?”
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to. It isn’t as endearing as you think.”
Ouch. It seemed he was already getting tired of your conversational hopscotch. Biting the inside of your cheek, you sighed through your nose.
“Yes,” you said. “I’d be happy to go with you.”
His smirk only deepened as he told you he’d pick you up at six. You told him your apartment number, 3745, and then quirked your brow as you realized something.
“Wait—aren’t you supposed to be guarding on Friday night?”
“My shift doesn’t start until eight,” he said. His arms folded over his chest, like he was waiting for you to ask more questions. If you asked anything else, he’d probably think you were looking for a way out, so you gave him your biggest, most genuine smile, and told him you couldn’t wait. With a wink, he turned back and opened the door. Before it closed, he leaned back in to remind you that the dress code would be formal.
He was so cocky that you couldn’t help but imagine him back in his prime, stalking the hospital in scrubs like an apex predator, barking orders as if he himself had invented the art of modern medicine. There weren’t many—scratch that—any men that could get you to just give in like that. You’d planned on making him beg, asking you out at least two more times and giving you all the details about the reservations he’d made before you said yes (because of course you would say yes), but you submitted to him with almost no effort at all. Hell, you’d just told off your own boss and threatened to resign from a position so good it almost seemed fictional, but Stephen Strange melted your backbone like butter. Next time, you promised yourself, you’d be stronger.