Aura
It was Friday night, and you were practically vibrating in the booth in this little Asian-fusion kitchen across from Stephen Strange. If he noticed, he was being a total gentleman about it. It was natural to be a little nervous, but the bulk of your shivering was anticipatory. You were certain Dr. Strange was going to bed you and the time to get to the action was limited since he had to clock in to guard Loki by eight. Your eyes flitted to his watch, which read six-fifteen. If you ate quickly, perhaps you could be back to your room by seven and…and…oh fuck, he said something. His left brow was quirked up. A breathy laugh fled his throat as his head tilted. It must’ve been a question.
“What?” you said.
“Your foot has been furiously tapping since we sat down,” he said. “What can I do to make you more comfortable?”
Ah, shit. If you tried to rush the meal, you’d just seem ungrateful, or like you didn’t really want to be here, and by God you did. You totally did. If he couldn’t tell by the neckline of that frilly little black dress you donned, no man on the planet could. There were fewer things on this Earth that could make your heart stutter like the thought of Stephen wanting you, wanting to court you. If your baser urges hadn’t taken the forefront of your thought over the last few days, you’d be short circuiting just trying to process the reality of being on a date with Stephen. His eyes were like crystals as he leaned over the table towards you, one hand on the menu but the other reaching just slightly across the table. It was dizzyingly subtle, but you knew he was offering the hand to hold—if you wanted to, no pressure, of course. You had half the mind to clue him in to the little problem between your legs causing all these jitters but you saw that hand again, waiting in the most gentlemanly fashion, and suddenly you couldn’t force yourself to be so callous if there was a knife at your throat.
You tried to cover for yourself, huffing in embarrassment.
“It’s just…it’s been a really long time since, well, anyone…Anything like this…has happened. I promise I’m really happy to be here.” It was true, but not exactly the answer to his question.
“I know you are,” Strange said, “I can see your aura.”
“Tell me, Doctor, what do you read from my aura?” You held the edge of the table as you leaned in closer, a baby-step towards holding his hand. He gave an open-mouthed grin, and you couldn’t help but wonder again if he could see the well of tension rolling in your lower belly.
His eyes now openly roamed your body, scanning, as he pondered your query with a flirtatious hum. Could he see through the table? That would be trouble… Could he see through your clothes? Oh God. Get your head in the game, you inwardly scolded.
“There’s a cherry-red ring of stress around you, around your shoulders in particular. Quite thick and sticky, almost like syrup. I’d guess that’s from work?”
“Sounds right,” you said, rolling your shoulders slightly to test his diagnosis. Was the twinge of pain you felt mere placebo?
“But all around your head is this cloud, light blue, like a halo, of happiness, which I hope is for me. I try to be generous and not read minds unless I really have to…”
Thank God, you thought.
“Anything else…?”
“There’s conflict in your low back,” he said, grumbling as he cleared his throat. “It’s purple, and it’s weighing on your hips.” The two of you stared at each other, you now being the one to raise a brow. You placed your hands in your lap. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“I’m not calling you fat,” Strange said, retracting his free hand as well.
“Thought you didn’t read minds,” you said.
“I got nervous. Anyways, yoga and breathwork should help. I’m sure you’re not big on meditation either, but it might serve you well…”
Ah, a reference to your anger issues. Not ideal for a first date, but your date could probably literally taste your emotions as they surfaced. You kept quiet as you processed his advice.
“Before I find another line to cross, tell me about your week,” he said, his warm smile begging you to treat this like a date with a normal guy. He leaned back in the booth, shifting his hips as his knees went wide and throwing one arm across the back ledge. One of his large hands swept through his hair, uncovering some of the grey strands that his updo tried to hide under younger, darker locks. Your eyes were drawn to his attire—in lieu of his cape and robes, he chose a black button-down and matching slacks. His velvet loafers were maroon, so dark they were nearly black. He looked like he’d walked off a photoshoot.
“I’m sure you remember the first half,” you said, your tone riding the line between sweet and stern. “But I became a mentor today.”
“Oh?” Strange said, though he didn’t actually sound surprised. His tone ventured on sarcastic, but…You didn’t want to overanalyze. He couldn’t have known.
“Yeah. Actually, it was really strange—” you choked on your sentence when he smirked at you. “I mean odd, anyways… I come into my office this morning, and there’s a kid just sitting there in my chair. Can you believe the nerve?”
“A child?” His shock this time couldn’t be feigned.
“Well, I think he’s…like…nineteen or something?”
“Oh, I see. An infant,” Strange corrected. He placed his chin on his interlaced hands as he listened. You couldn’t help but laugh. Gracious, he was charming.
“Turns out Tony passed him on to me—as if I need to do anymore babysitting around here—but the kid thinks he’s so cute that he shows up to the job an entire semester early.”
“I wonder what his rush is,” Strange said. “What’s his name?”
“Dillon-something. Probably trying to graduate early,” you said with an eye-roll. “He definitely thinks he’s cuter than he is.”
There was a small silence. Stephen studied your face, then your eyes, and your mind was completely blank. Was the eye contact a necessary part to reading your thoughts?
“So, you think he’s ‘cute,’ huh?” he said. It was teasing, totally not possessive, but something about the way he said it made you feel like you’d known Doctor Strange for a thousand years. You cackled and shook your head, sounding awfully childish as you breathed an “unh uh” through your laughter. He laughed with you and somewhere in the interim, the waiter came for your order. You were so set on watching your date that you didn’t bother to look up. The doctor ordered a water and some appetizer called Italian pot-stickers. You didn’t catch what meal he wanted, being too caught up imagining spaghetti-filled dumplings dressed in garlic and dipped in plum sauce.
“For you, ma’am?” the waiter said.
“I-I’ll take a white Moscato,” you said, keeping your eyes locked on Strange’s. “And whatever meal you recommend is fine.”
“Ma’am?”
“I promise it’ll be fine, whatever you bring,” you said, still not looking away. Your heartrate sped up from the prolonged eye contact with the doctor. The air between you was thick and as the waiter walked off, you were the one to offer your hand over the table. He took it, leaning in as his thumb smoothed over the tops of your fingers, his own cupping the underside of them, leaving your palm with some breathing room. Not that you wanted any. He held your hand through the entire meal. For having notoriously shaky hands, his ability to eat one-handed was impressive.
Your Moscato hit you fast, forcing you to remember that you’d skipped lunch today so that you wouldn’t be bloated tonight. You decided to limit yourself to two glasses and sipped the second one throughout the rest of your meal. The check came before you remembered to look at his watch again and you gasped, your stomach dropping with the thought that you might be late. His hand was off of yours when he went to pay, the ensuing cold making you miss his touch.
“What’s wrong?” Strange asked, sliding the envelope just over the edge of the table, his credit card sticking out just-so. His wrist was angled away from you, blocking his watch from sight.
“What time is it?”
“We’re fine,” he said.
“But—”
“We’re fine. I have cosmic awareness and the ability to phase through dimensions, but you can’t trust my sense of time? C’mon, Little Peach, you’re better than that,” he chided with a wink. “But, if you must know, it’s half past seven.”
“Right on time,” you breathed. You could settle for a quickie. Compromise.
“I know,” Strange said. He slid from his side of the booth and lifted his arm, offering an elbow to you and anchoring his fist under his pectoral. You felt like a southern belle with your hand looking so delicate and fragile wrapped around Strange’s bicep. He tried letting you walk at your own pace but forced you to slow down when he realized that you walked as fast as a surgeon. Through the din of Friday night traffic, cars honking and tourists squawking, he whispered into your ear two commands: take your time and enjoy the stroll. A date only lasts until it ends, after all.
Despite walking at a pace so slow you could burn, you were at the doorstep of Stark Tower too soon. Strange halted before you could slide your keycard.
“Look at the stars,” he said. Your head tilted back and there was a rush of air and a peal of laughter from you both as Stephen locked his arm around the small of your back and lifted you up, spinning, so the bleach-white stars blurred into spiraling lines and morphed back into individual speckles when he set you back down. You remained clinging to his chest, small hands loosely clutching the collar of his button-down.
“Well…I had a great time, Peach. Should I see you to your room or are you more comfortable going up alone?” he said.
Wait. What?
You had to consciously tense your face to keep it from twitching into a mask of unadulterated confusion. He didn’t pull that clichéd ‘lets do this again’ line. Had the date not actually gone that well? You felt compelled to prod him for the truth. How to get farther without being too obvious…
“I had a great time, too…Shame it has to end so early. If it weren’t for your shift, I’d invite you up. I make a mean hot chocolate,” you said, blinking up at the stars. For whatever reason, men always seemed more eager to earn your attention when you acted aloof like this, looking away. Stephen hummed in thought but didn’t bite the no-eye-contact bait. He tilted his head down to yours, inhaling as his nose met your hair. His hand, you realized, was still on you from when he’d set you down, as his palm carved a small circle around the small of your back.
“If you can handle me prioritizing Loki, you can come hang out with me,” he said. “There should be some streaming services set up already, if you don’t realize you’re sick of me after the hot chocolate, that is.” On Strange, even the gentlest smile had a hint of smirk. He turned back to the building and started leading you inside.
Clocking in for the role was simple, though nontraditional. Strange simply had to text Tony and a couple higher-ups from the HR department that he’d made it. Once he was settled in, he’d have to check in with Loki and make sure he was alive, pretty much. The same routine applied for clocking out.
As Stephen sent his “I’m here” text, you took a few uncertain steps into the apartment. It had the same layout as yours: kitchen to the right, living room ahead of you, and bedroom tucked back to the left. It was disorienting to see “your house” that wasn’t actually yours. Your gaze shot to the wall behind the couch, knowing that directly behind that wall was Loki’s bedroom, Loki’s house, where you’d recently blazed away from. In the silence, you became hyper-focused, wondering if you’d be able to guess where he was, what he was doing. Maybe if you listened hard enough, you could hear him walking…
“Be right back,” Stephen said, squeezing your shoulder as he sauntered out and turned left to Loki’s door. You heard his knuckles rap three times on the door, a pause, and a creak as the door opened. Loki’s voice was so quiet that the average person wouldn’t have been able to detect it, but you, being so tuned-in to his presence, could.
“Yes?” he asked your date.
“This is just my obligatory check-in. Let me know if you need anything. Or if you’re contemplating mass genocide,” Strange said. The levity in his tone made you forget about his recent quarrel with Loki, but the door closing without a word brought those events right back to the forefront of your mind. Your heart sank. Stephen raised his brows and shrugged his shoulders at you as he came back inside, as if to say, “Wonder what his problem is?” Instead, he asked about the hot chocolate.
You gave him a soft smile, though suddenly you didn’t feel like smiling, and turned into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you pick us a show while I work,” you said, fumbling through the drawers for supplies and ingredients.
“On it,” he said with a clap.
Soon, you’d melted a bar milk chocolate into a couple cups of almond milk. Over your shoulder, you could hear Stephen fighting with the TV. Though he was Sorcerer Supreme, he somehow wasn’t exempt from the older man cliché of not understanding technology. You whisked furiously with one hand and shook a small sprinkle of nutmeg and cinnamon into the pot, finishing the ordeal off with a splash of vanilla. The mugs that Stark had supplied the place with were whiter than the whipped cream you topped the drinks with.
Stephen exclaimed in joy as the TV finally flickered to the right input, turning to see you carrying your mugs. He swarmed you, taking a deep breath into your hair and pulling you into a tight hug.
“God, you smell good,” he said.
“Keep sniffing me like that and I’ll start wondering if you’re really a bloodhound…” you said, nuzzling his chest.
“I have been called a dog before…”
He rubbed your back for a moment and rested his cheek on top of your head. The collected Casanova façade he held during the date faded fast as he relaxed. It melted into a whole different brand of charming, fine-tuned with playful, boyish energy. You couldn’t help but admire his cool and happy demeanor under the circumstances that bound him away from home for the evening.
He took one mug from you with a thanks, kissing the crown of your head before passing you to reach the couch. He sat in a figure four with one arm draped back. His head cocked to the side as he watched you saunter over, his right hand loosely gripping the mug as he rested it on his knee.
“Evening, Peach,” he said, his voice warm and tired.
“Doctor,” you said with a nod, sitting on the couch with your legs tucked close to your body. His arm slid down the back of the couch, dragging you close to him. The movie he’d picked was a favorite, Juno. In one of your first encounters with the Sorcerer Supreme, you were dressed as Juno for the company’s Halloween party. It was your first year as a Stark employee. “You remembered!”
Your gaze was fixated on the screen, watching as the track team jogged in slow motion. Simultaneously, you and Stephen took a sip of hot chocolate from your respective mugs.
“Of course I did,” he said, squeezing your shoulder again. “This is amazing, by the way. I should have known you weren’t lying.” He gestured all-too casually with his mug before taking another sip, not realizing that his choice of phrasing struck a nerve. The last time he’d talked about you being a liar, his expression was twisted in rage as his finger jabbed an accusation at the bridge of your nose. You couldn’t help but stiffen at the memory. Suddenly, you were wondering what Loki was doing. Was he asleep? Listening to your movie through the walls? Constructing a weapon of mass destruction?
God, you scolded yourself, couldn’t you just let that go? So, Stephen had had one bad day…Look at him now, you thought, with that dreamy, sleepy smile plastered on his cheeks, which were rouged from the heat of his drink. It was the type of first date you never thought you could’ve deserved. It didn’t have to end so plainly, you thought. That does it…With a sigh, you drew the tip of your nose along his jawline. He jolted in surprise and then looked down at you with a confused scrunch in his brows. You looked up at him in defiance, flicking your nose against his chin.
“What’s up, Peach?” he said with a chuckle. You set your mug on the coffee table in front of you before snuggling deeper against the doctor.
“Hi,” you breathed, nuzzling into his neck. Every muscle in his body was frozen in concentration.
“Hi,” he said, swallowing and rubbing his thumbpad around the dome of your shoulder. You inhaled his scent: clean and delicate, like lavender or books, with lingering traces of musky cologne. Your hand, as if on its own accord, slid up his chest and cradled the other side of his neck, stabilizing you as you gathered your nerve. The smell of him was intoxicating, making you feel like you were underwater. Your pulse raced up between your collarbones as you finally pursed your lips and stretched up to kiss his neck. Gaining confidence, you kissed again, using your tongue to lick and draw in a bit of skin. You sucked that little piece of his neck for a short moment and then let go. It made a sweet, sharp, popping sound as you pulled away. As you warmed up, you swung a leg over to straddle him, gaining leverage as you tried to kiss him again. Stephen leaned away and placed a firm hand on your chest.
“Honey…I’m…so flattered,” he said, grimacing.
“Oh God,” you said, an unbearable shame flooding forth like lava on your cheeks. You pulled back, as if repulsed by him, but really trying to get away from yourself.
“No, no, please…I, fuck…It’s—”
“Don’t,” you put your hand out to stop him. “I’ll see myself out. Thank you for the date.” You bolted like an arrow towards the door, unable to look him in the eye.
“Please, please, honey. You have to understand,” he said. You turned around, cowering like a battered animal with a vice-grip on the doorknob. The pleading, desperate look in his eyes was too endearing to turn away from. “I’m bold enough to say that if you look below my belt right now, you’ll realize I don’t want to reject you. Peach…Honey…God, I’m on the clock and it’s only our first date. I haven’t even kissed you yet.” He was practically whining like a child, scraping his palms against his forehead before locking his fingers in his hair.
You realized your free hand rose to your cheek, halfway over your mouth, giving you the look of a positively frightened southern belle. Before you could stop yourself, your eyes were already burning a hole through Stephen’s pants. He hadn’t lied; he was hard. He just wasn’t ready to let you fix that.
“You don’t have to stay, but I like you a lot,” he said, gesturing to your figure. “I want to earn the privilege of your body. You’ll have to bear with me.” His eyebrows rose in earnest. You were stunned. The tent in his pants, which your eyes were still trained on, contrasted against his speech, and put your thoughts into a tizzy. You still felt the urge to be embarrassed, the sting from his rejection lingering.
“I’m not that traditional, but I’ll respect your wishes…I…I really like you, too.” You were finally able to make eye contact with him. His expression was pained, and you realized he was probably fighting the urge to read your mind, desperately wanting to know your thoughts to save from his own embarrassment.
“Will you come to the Sanctum tomorrow night?”
“A second date?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he breathed. “I’ll be by yours when it’s time.”
That time couldn’t come quick enough. Stephen was kind enough to let you take yourself back to your own apartment, as you both clearly needed some reprieve after all that awkwardness. You walked as if in a trance. The date was amazing, beyond what you could have ever expected, so of course it would have to end on such a strange (pun intended) note. Your phone had been inundated with texts from Margot asking for updates, but if you didn’t have the energy to actually read them, you sure as shit didn’t have the wherewithal to reply. You shuffled into bed, fully clothed, makeup still on, and folded your hands over your stomach, trying to remember the last time a man had rejected your advances.
Before you could come up with an answer, you opened your eyes to see your walls bathed in the orange-pink light of the sunrise. It was Saturday and Doctor Strange would turn by your apartment at some unknown point in time to take you on your second date…With a stretch and a groan, a hand dragged over your face to reveal black and brown smudges from your leftover makeup.
“Fuck,” you groaned, swinging your legs to roll off the bed, only to find that you hadn’t even bothered taking your heels off before falling asleep last night. The familiar soreness from wearing those shoes shot through the ends of your toes all the way up your calves as you sleepily trudged into the bathroom. If only Loki were here now, you thought with a smirk, maybe he would take this pain away too.
You scoured the bathroom for makeup remover, or at least facewash, only to discover that you were out of both. They were on your shopping list, yes, along with an entire kitchen’s worth of groceries. Since you went on the date, that shopping trip never came around. With an angry huff, you tamed your hair into a ponytail and brushed your teeth before changing into a pair of grey knit joggers and a forest-green tank top. It was an outfit that screamed ‘do not fuck with me.’ The soles of your feet screamed in relief as you slipped on some tennis shoes and tucked your heels back into the closet.
The walk down to the local drugstore was quiet. It was still pretty early and Stark Tower was virtually empty, being the weekend. The streets of the city were notably livelier. You caught yourself brushing against countless people as you waded through them, growing numb to the discomfort of being touched by strangers. There was a prickle at the back of your neck, as if you were being watched, but in a crowd like that, it was impossible to pinpoint, let alone take seriously. You gave the customary over-the-shoulder glance and chalked the feeling up to pre (or post?) date jitters.
As the automatic doors to the store swept open, a gust of air-conditioner blew your hair back and sent a roll of goosebumps over your arms. You paused. The air smelled as sterile and heavy as the dull overhead lights looked, making you feel like a lab rat being observed in a glass cage. It was a small relief to be out of the crowd, but not enough to compensate for the compulsion you felt to finish the errand as soon as possible and get back home. You’d been in the store a thousand times but found your feet stuttering as you tried to remember which way to go. Your heartrate picked up. Did the prospect of a second date with Stephen really have you so worked up? You remembered feeling intensely safe with him on your stroll last night. The tension you were feeling now that you were alone must have been from the comparison. You had to step aside to gather yourself so that you didn’t block the door as other people came inside, taking a quick, deep breath and squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as possible.
“Get it together,” you grumbled to yourself. There was no danger. There was no reason to be spazzing out in public. The aisle for soaps and scrubs was just ahead and to the left. All you had to do was walk towards it. There…One foot at a time. The thrumming in your chest calmed down enough and by the time that you’d crouched in front of the face scrubs, you’d forgotten that nagging feeling.
The debate was between something with honey and oat or another something with grapefruit and sage when a familiar voice called out to you.
“Ma’am?”
You jolted with a gasp, your hand clutching the base of your throat out of instinct. You knew him by his oversized arms and square face. It was that brat that Stark was having you mentor.
“Sweet God… Dominic,” you breathed. “You can’t keep sneaking up on me like that.”
“It’s Darren,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll try to do better, I’m sorry.”
“It’s…” you pinched the bridge of your nose before wiping your hands over the tops of your thighs, standing to face him. “I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge today. Don’t take it personally.”
“Well, I hope you’re able to relax… It looks like you had a nice night,” he said with a well-meaning smile. You remembered how you looked before you left: hair unbrushed, makeup stale and smudged, limping with the memory of your heels. You looked like you’d been out, or rather, as if someone had been in. Unfortunately, looks were deceiving. You scowled at him.
“That is…not appropriate. I’ll see you on Monday,” you said as you started walking away, now having arbitrarily picked a facewash just to have a reason to leave.
“Tuesday,” Darren corrected.
“Nice catch,” you lied. “Glad to know you really do listen.” You were thankful he couldn’t see your face. The shock and embarrassment would be too fresh to hide.