Starved
With your mom immediately getting back on her bullshit and you being fresh in the shock that Loki had followed you home, you couldn’t help but fall right back into the role you held when you were a kid: quiet, agreeable, jaw clamped shut. The peacekeeper. You could feel the muscles in your jaw flexing out.
Your tummy was cold. Soaking wet. The front of your shirt dripped dishwater on your bare toes.
Your mom had offered you a peach, but didn’t have a clean plate to serve it on, slowly turning around to show you the mass of dishes racked up in the sink before turning back to you with a brow raised, as if to say, “Aren’t you going to get to work?” By the height of the pile, you’d made a conservative guess that every dish and utensil in the kitchen was hidden in there and with a deep, non-confrontational inhale, you’d begun loading the glassware into the dishwasher.
“No, baby,” your mom had said. “Dishwasher’s long been broke. Use it as a drying rack these days.”
You wondered, silently, just how they’d been using all the money you’d been sending back home these last few years. They certainly hadn’t put a dime towards maintenance. Your eyes scanned the room for a moment, lingering on cracks in the floor tile, the gaps between bedroom doors and their handles, and panels of wall that had warped from years of having the space heater pointed at them. You pushed your hands back into the opaque, elbow-deep sludge that filled the sink, tried not to gag, and shut off your mind. A hazy vision trickled into your vision: you were alone in the woods, phone long gone, with warm sun on your shoulders. At peace. Warm. Clean. You stayed there for a while, imaging how the earth would crunch under your hiking boots or how the birds would sing as you passed, until suddenly the sink was empty and the countertop was wiped down. As if on cue, your mom paced back into the kitchen as you tossed out a wad of soiled paper towels.
“That’s much better,” she said. “You ready for that peach?”
The name of that fruit made your heart skip a beat. For a moment, you mistook it for the pet-name your favorite men called you, and it was like an assault coming from her mouth. Feeling like she knew.
You used to be extremely close with your mom. She was once your best friend, someone you told everything to, but she couldn’t understand the nature of your job. She felt abandoned when you left home to be a Stark-drone and had spent the month leading up to your move crying and berating you almost non-stop. She’d slingshot through mood swings, at one moment telling you how proud she was and how much she’d miss you, heavy tears lining her eyes, and the next she’d be scowling, spitting accusations that you hated the family and didn’t appreciate all that had been done for you growing up. It was enough to give a person whiplash and was a shock at the time, as you’d been closer with your mom than anyone before announcing your plans to leave.
In your time being gone, you didn’t have as much availability to talk or come home, but you’d hoped she would process the distance and get over it. You loved her and figured the money sent home would show you cared and hadn’t forgotten. To be frank, you didn’t realize she was still going to be so upset when you returned. Luckily, you’d developed pretty thick skin under Stark’s tutelage. She’d figure out sooner or later that she couldn’t hurt your feelings anymore and no amount of snark could force you to grovel and apologize for growing up.
“Where’s Ty?” you asked. Your eyes flickered to your brother’s closed bedroom door and back to her, wondering how you hadn’t seen or heard him yet.
“Tyler? That boy’s sleeping. Be out ‘til dinner, I’d bet. Maybe if you were home more you’d know that’s how teenage boys are. He ain’t a baby anymore,” she said.
“No, I suppose he’s not,” you said, wiping your hands on the back of your pants.
“You missed all that.” Her lips were in a tight line, head tilted down at you as if you were a toddler being goaded into saying sorry. You clenched your jaw, unsure if you wanted to quip back or if it was better to let it go. As you decided, your mom bit into the peach she’d offered you, silently revoking the treat. “Could’ve called to let us know you were coming.”
“It’ll only be a week, Ma. I can get a hotel if it’s such an issue.”
“Oh, what, you want to leave me again already?”
You sucked in a breath and leaned over the counter for a moment, fighting the urge to tell your mother to fucking shove it. You almost wanted to laugh—the interns would lick bubblegum off your shoe and you wouldn’t try half as hard to hold your temper with them. They’d probably spend good money to watch you get talked down to like this, as well they should.
“What can I make you for dinner?” you asked. A look of surprise cross your mom’s face. She’d been expecting a fight and you wouldn’t give it to her. She eyed you carefully, trying to see if there was some catch or trick while you waited for her response, stone-faced.
“Spaghetti,” she said, narrowing her eyes as if she was preparing for your comeback.
“On it,” you said, smiling gently. “Go relax, I’ll get it taken care of.”
She swallowed and nodded, face softening, before she left to go sit on the porch.
You spent the next two hours cooking what might have been the best spaghetti you’d ever made, pulling half the spices from the shelf just to make sure it was aromatic and flavorful. By the time you were done, the soles of your feet were so sore they felt like they could’ve peeled clean off. A tray of garlic bread steamed on the counter next to a pan of herbaceous, buttery veggies while a heavy pot full of spaghetti waited on one of the stove coils. You called for everyone to come and eat but were met with silence. You called again. Silence. Huffing your breath impatiently, you went around the house to see what the damned hold-up was.
Tyler was still sleeping deeply, unphased when you shook his shoulder and told him to get up. Your dad “wasn’t hungry yet” but said he might eat if you gave him a couple more hours. Your mom said she’d had a big lunch, but she might try some tomorrow. Your heart sank in your chest. You’d hoped in vain for a family dinner, something you hadn’t had since you were seventeen.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” your mom said as she watched you turn away.
“Huh?”
“You’ve got a limp.”
“My feet hurt, Ma.”
“Well, why?”
“Uh, I walked down the road to get here and I’ve been up working now for hours. I’m tired.”
She gave you a pitiful look and told you she’d be back. As you waited on the porch, leaning against the wall of the house, you listened to an army of cicadas cheering for themselves out in the darkness. When she returned, she held out a double-shot of whiskey and a small pill that you eyed carefully.
“It’s a muscle relaxer,” she said. “Take ‘em both. It’ll help you ease up.”
You opened your mouth to argue, suddenly feeling a deep-seated rage fill your chest as you realized how many times she’d given you a shot as a teenager “just to take the edge off” since you “worked so hard.” Was she the reason why you always craved a drink when shit hit the fan? Why you doused your feelings in liquor when it got too hard? As the first word crawled up your throat to tell her just what you thought of her parenting style and life choices, you saw sadness in her eyes. You could only guess it was remorse for treating you so badly, for shunning you, and you decided to keep your trap shut. You thanked her for the offer and took the drink and pill to your room, not yet sure how you’d get rid of them.
You also took a portion of dinner to your room in a bowl, mixing the veggies with your pasta and using the garlic bread as a vehicle to stuff it all down. You ate alone, curled up in bed with your knees close to your chest to prop the bowl up, feeling spited. All these years slaving away at Stark Industries alone, paying (or, rather, attempting to pay) for their well-being, only to be ignored, insulted, and brushed off when you came home and cooked and cleaned for them. You felt incredibly naïve for thinking they’d be excited to see you, for thinking they’d be past the whole “Peach abandoned us” thing. God, you didn’t even identify by the name they’d given you anymore. How could you call yourself a part of this family? You sniffled and swallowed thickly, trying not to let your hurt get the better of your composure. As you slammed your bowl down on the same nightstand you’d had since middle school, your phone buzzed. It was a text from Stephen.
9:12 PM Stephen: Having fun? :)
You gulped, a squeak leaving your throat as you tried not to cry. Your lower lip wobbled as you replied with a gust-of-wind emoji, hoping he’d catch your meaning.
9:13 PM Stephen: Is that your smoke signal, honey? Already?
You sent a thumbs up.
9:13 PM Stephen: What’s the address? Which room?
You replied with your home address, letting him know you were in the back bedroom on the right corner of the house and a second message with a simple request: Please don’t knock, I’d rather they not meet you right now.
The moment your message showed as being delivered, a glimmering ring of golden light appeared at your door. He actually came… The thought struck a nerve and you bit back a sob, feeling your throat suck in around itself. Through the haze of your tears, Stephen looked fuzzy as he stepped through the portal. Just as quickly as the portal closed, he rushed to the bedside and gathered the puddle of you up into a hug that you didn’t return.
“Oh, baby…Oh, honey. Come here, it’s alright. I’ve got you,” he said, pressing your cheek against his chest as he smooshed his face flush with the top of your head. He held you like some porcelain artifact caught mid-fall before it could shatter against the ground. His grip was tight and unyielding as your eyes wet his shirt. His cloak reached around to assist, supporting your backside like a hammock. The corner of the cloak slid across your cheek to dab away at your tears. You whispered a ‘thanks’ into the fabric and it responded with a light tap against the tip of your nose.
So, there Stephen Strange was, in your old room, shuffling himself onto your childhood bed as he cradled you. The cloak did a lot of the lifting but left to tuck itself around a chair when you were settled into bed. The bedframe croaked under the weight of you and Stephen and you suddenly remembered the time that very croak stopped you from losing your virginity. The image of your high school boyfriend running full-tilt down the driveway, struggling to buckle his pants as your father chased him off would never get old. You remembered the cracking sound as your father whipped his own belt in the air and threatened “the ass-whooping of a lifetime,” trying to keep up with the poor kid. You smiled at the memory. That night at dinner, your father wouldn’t stop scowling at you, red-faced, and after a full meal in silence he finally said, “And no, missy, we won’t be getting you a new bed any time soon. That one you’ve got is old for good reason.” Oddly enough, that boyfriend never came by the house again. What was his name again?
Stephen was petting your hair as you reminisced, finally settled against the pillows.
“What’s so funny, lovely girl?”
You smirked as you tried to decide whether or not you’d share the memory, humming in thought.
“You know, I’m fighting the urge to just read your mind and get it over with,” he teased.
“I just don’t know if I could describe it well,” you admitted, blushing as you tucked your damp face into the crook of his neck. Now it was your doctor who hummed in thought.
“I could always just look inside that brilliant mind of yours. It’s easier than you’d think.” He tilted his head at you, gently asking permission, and you were confused but intrigued, so you nodded in approval. Stephen gave that iconic half-smile of his, combing his fingers through your hair as he eased you down against him. Your face laid comfortably on his chest.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured. It began as a head massage, but you instantly realized what he was doing. It was hypnosis. You let him into your mind without hesitation. The hand of his astral form extended into your body as Stephen combed through your memories. The pads of his fingers tracked silky paths along your scalp, sending tingles and goosebumps over your skin until you were breathless and lost in the relaxation.
“Picture it again,” Strange instructed. It was in the front of your mind’s eye instantly: you were breathless there, too, just a highschooler trying not to trip as you yanked your panties away from your ankles. Your boyfriend was already on the bed, his family jewels out and proud. You’d gotten fully naked for the experience, but he’d left his shirt on, God only knows why. Then, as you climbed over his lap and prepared to feel him for the first time, the extra weight caused the frame and the springs to groan. You’d paused, eyes flickering to the door, waiting to hear a parent storming down the hall (they’d only recently allowed you to close your door when he was over), but the house stayed quiet. He pulled you back in for a kiss and your hand wrapped around him, trying to line it up just right. Hm…Your legs weren’t wide enough…You adjusted your knees, trying to spread just a little wider, and the bedframe squawked again.
The rest happened in a whirlwind of stomping and yelling, clothes flying around the room, the locked door handle jiggling until the door simply gave way and burst open. Your boyfriend threw himself through your window, leaving his shoes behind as he bolted for the hills. Your dad called after him, calling him something horribly dorky like a “purity-thief” or a “skeevy little son-of-a” as he, too, climbed out the window and went after the kid.
As Stephen watched your vision, smoothing through your hair, you blushed. This was such an intimate, embarrassing moment, and your brain didn’t filter any of the details away from Strange’s eye. He held back a chuckle, shaking from the effort as the last bits of your memory played out. He couldn’t hold it back anymore and finally snorted.
“Shh!” You slapped his chest. “Everyone’s still up!”
“I put a spell around the room, no one can hear us. We’re snowed in.”
“You—?”
“I didn’t know if you were safe. No amount of dad-rage is going to open that door tonight,” he said with a laugh. “But spells aside, that is stupidly funny. I can’t believe my meticulous little Peach didn’t account for the bed squeaking when your parents were in the next room!”
“I may have learned to be meticulous the hard way…”
“Was that your first time?”
“It was supposed to be,” you grumbled, pouting. Stephen cackled, his head falling back with a light thud against the wall.
“Oh my god, you are precious. Can I see your first?” he asked jokingly, waggling his eyebrows and nipping your sides delicately. You yelped and struggled away from the tickle.
“Doctor Strange, you are absolutely rotten!” You laughed, rolling to face away from him in a faux-pout.
“A menace,” he agreed, rolling with you as he easily fell into the roll of big-spoon. With one arm encircling your waist, the other went back to your scalp. “Now who’s going to be getting the ‘ass-whooping of a lifetime’ for making my Little Patient cry?” He mocked your dad’s voice as he quoted your memory.
You groaned.
“C’mon, that was the whole point of the smoke signal.”
“So you could be nosey?!”
“So I could protect you and help you feel better,” he hummed. “What happened, sweetness? Show me.” His fingers went back to work, smoothing you over and massaging your aura. As soon as the tingles started, you were a goner. You gave it all up, showed him everything, from the way you used to be close with your family, to finding your job, your mom turning on you, to the countless checks and packages you sent home and had never received a ‘thank you’ for, and even your decision to take down the photo of them (your only reminder of home) to keep them safer. You showed him your excitement to return home and reunite with everyone, your interaction with Loki in the car, the way you’d been treated, and your revelation about your budding problem with alcohol. By the time you were done, you were shivering with exhaustion. It took a lot of energy to be so thoroughly exposed to another person. Stephen moved to caress your shoulder. He was quiet for a while, sorting through his own thoughts, as the din of the frogs and crickets outside leaked through the poorly-sealed windows.
You could see the question in his eyes, his wondering of how many times you’d been made to feel like you weren’t wanted.
“You care for them so much,” he finally said. “When will you let someone care that way for you?”
“Stephen, don’t…” you warned.
“I’m saying this as your friend.” He twirled a lock of your hair between his fingers. A chill slipped over your skin. “You deserve the love you give to others.”
“God, you’re so dramatic…”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I know Loki—” He tried again when he felt how you tensed at the name. “I know he thinks your biggest problem is drinking, but he’s wrong. It’s the fact that you are emotionally constipated.”
You snorted. He flipped you to lay on your other side, facing him.
“You were going to tell me something on the phone earlier, but you stopped yourself.”
“No, I wasn’t,” you said, pulse thudding in your ears. Stephen made blistering eye-contact with you.
“I heard it.”
“You didn’t hear jack-shit, wizard.”
“If you could just let go and allow others in, you might be surprised at the outcome. You are worthy of love, Little Patient. My Peach. I know it’s scary, but if you spend your whole life shutting people out, what was it all for?”
You didn’t say anything. Propped up on one elbow, Stephen traced a hand along your collarbone, sweeping your tousled hair away from your neck and behind your shoulder. You were fixated on his jawline, the way that his facial hair highlighted it perfectly.
“What were you going to tell me?”
“I can’t say it.”
“You can.”
“Loki would be furious,” you admitted, finally meeting his gaze.
“It’s just you and me here. Totally and utterly safe. Um, speaking of which, do you need me to have a talk with him about boundaries or something? Because…” His brows raised with the sort of quirk that implied he didn’t approve of Loki’s most recent possessiveness.
“N-no, you don’t… I think I made myself pretty clear with him. He probably scampered back home.”
“…Have you met him, though? Anyways, whatever. I know there’s something you need to say to me. It almost slipped out earlier.”
“God, why are you doing this?! It’s so embarrassing,” you whined.
“I want to hear you say it, Peach. I—quite literally—worshipped your body at one time. There’s not much you can say that would put me off.”
You made a face like you’d smelled something sour.
“Come on. Please. I want to hear you say it, let me hear it.”
Your nostrils flared. You swallowed. The air in the room seemed so heavy all of a sudden, so thick with tension. Could you do this? Could you admit it out loud, in front of him?
“Please,” he said.
“Stephen, I love you,” you breathed. It sounded so natural coming out of your mouth it could’ve been the wind. “I love you and I did something horrible and I don’t want to tell you what it is.”
“You can tell me,” he murmured. There was a lump in your throat. You thought you might puke. The blues of his eyes looked so kind and sincere as he cocked his head to the side and it made everything so much better and so much worse all at once.
“I used your safe-word system with Loki. I… I had sex with him.”
He scoffed, smiling lightly.
“Aw, Peach…” he cooed condescendingly, jutting his lower lip out to show how much he pitied you.
“I’m so sorry, Stephen… I’ve been feeling so guilty but you had to know.”
“Honey, I’m so proud of you. That is amazing that you liked the system enough to reuse it and feel safe with someone. Even if it was a greasy, would-be-magician in a weasel’s body.” He pulled you in for a hug, kissing your forehead. He didn’t let go, keeping his lips there above your brow as the warmth of his breath fell over your hairline. “Such a smart girl. Wonderfully done.” He kissed your forehead again and squeezed his arms around you. “I love you, too.”
“How can you say that?”
“I love you,” he said again. “Without ties or expectations. Whether you are exclusive with me or not. Whether you are my friend or my paramour. In no uncertain terms. Without time constraints. Without limits.”
“I love you too… You… You can’t tell Loki,” you spat out, feeling like your heart might split your chest wide open.
“Never,” Strange agreed. “It’s not his to know. Could I address something, though…?”
“Go for it.”
“It was not a secret at all that you were having sex with him,” Stephen said.
“WHAT?!” You sat straight up, wrenching away from his embrace.
“Oh, Peach, the smell.”
“Oh, sweet lord…”
“There was no mistaking the smell in your office that day. Not to mention, you were littered in hickeys, your voice was raw, and you looked like you were going to come completely unglued whenever he was involved. Loki wasn’t very inconspicuous either. Standing there stiff as a fucking board trying to look casual. God, his thoughts were so loud I actually had to concentrate on blocking them—which is a first. He must have been projecting them on purpose.”
“W-what was he—”
“He had a good time—ahem—times with you, I’ll leave it at that.”
You couldn’t hold back your smirk. Your face was unnaturally warm. You couldn’t believe you were here having this conversation with Stephen, feeling his unconditional love, his lack of judgement. It felt like your first glass of water after running a marathon in the summer.
Without another word, Stephen climbed off the bed and knelt on the floor. He reached for your ankles and eased your legs over the edge of the bed. With a palm full of lotion in his gorgeous, scarred hands, your doctor went to work massaging your aching feet. Where that lotion came from and how he knew your feet were so sore, you couldn’t be bothered to know and agreed to yourself that his powers were vast and useful as you sighed and fell back on the bed. The only sounds in the room were the slippery pops of his fingers working the tension from your heel and the soft sighs his attentions garnered from you.
As he massaged, you suddenly had the realization that he could have just used magic or a spell or whatever-the-fuck to make you feel better, but he didn’t. Doctor Strange was choosing to sit here and spend time, to be intimate and vulnerable with you. It definitely couldn’t have been easier than just casting a spell and saying goodnight, but he was doing it anyways for you. Your throat tightened at the thought.
“Stephen?”
“Hm?”
“Can I tell you something difficult?”
“Always.”
“It’s just that… I don’t know if I want to be with you or with Loki.”
“I know,” he said, sounding totally neutral. “Can I tell you something that will either help or make your decision way more difficult?”
“By all means,” you sighed.
“Well first of all, there’s no rule saying you have to be with anyone, or that it has to be me or him, but, if you decide to seriously be with me, I’m not going to share you. I won’t live in some world where I have to wonder what he’s going to do next to steal you away from me.”
“Funny enough, Loki said nearly the same exact thing not long ago,” you said, wiping the discomfort from your expression with the palm of your right hand. You were thankful to be laying back on the bed where he couldn’t see your face.
“Shitty minds think alike,” Strange grumbled. His hands moved up to your calves, strong thumbs digging in to smooth out the tension. “What I’m trying to say is, whether you make a decision or not, I’ll just be glad to have enjoyed you at all.”
“That must mean you’re extra stupid,” you giggled. He stroked the sensitive skin behind your knee and you jolted, accidentally kicking him in the chest. He let out a huff of air and yanked your offending leg playfully, as if he were telling it to stay put.
The conversation died down as your doctor pressed through all the knots in your feet and legs, the fog of sleep slowly rolling through your lungs the longer he worked. You kicked once when he roused you by humming some ancient sailor’s shanty, and again when he whisked your body around to tuck you in properly. As his left hand pushed the hair from your forehead, you heard a swoosh from the other side of the room and a warm weight as his cloak settled over your body. There was a rustle on your nightstand as he made the pill and whiskey vanish.
He paced. Sat down. Flipped through a book. Closed the book. The noises of his every move stirred you back awake and eventually you whined, frustrated, reaching out to him wordlessly as your half-sleeping brain tried to decide what was real. You heard his soft steps, felt the dip in the bed as he nestled in beside you, and sunk into the crevice between his arm and his torso. You weren’t sure if you’d actually heard him, feeling the siren hand of sleep drawing you (finally) under.
“Angelic little woman,” Stephen sighed to himself. “I’m not stupid, I’m starved.”