Note: I don't own Doctor Strange (although I'd love to), or It's Hard (Letting You Go), Bon Jovi
well, me, these days I just miss you
it's the nights that I go insane
There were long days, long nights, and then there was this, which Christine couldn't even begin to categorize. For some reason, even "the king of long-ass days" didn't sound quite right. And yet, she didn't want to leave the hospital - her colleagues had to, almost literally, drag her away from the ER. Her list of excuses was just as long as that day had been: she didn't have anything better to do, she wasn't tired, they needed help, but look at that kid, I think he's got chickenpox. Some of these were actually true: she didn't have anything better to do and they surely could use her help, but she was exhausted, and it showed. However, Christine knew that, as soon as she changed from scrubs into regular clothes, she'd have to think about something else, and inevitably her thoughts would turn to Stephen. And there she was, making her way out against her will and forcing her mind to focus on where she would stop to get cigarettes. Fortunately, there were a lot of options to consider.
The doors opened and the parking lot felt surprisingly brisk, snow falling lightly. "How long was I in there?", she wondered, crossing her arms and speeding up her pace towards her car.
"Christine!"
"Nick?", she turned around, her car already unlocked.
He took a deep breath. "It was so weird today, wasn't it?"
"I'm really not in the mood to talk about that," she retorted bluntly, opening the door to get away from him and whatever else reminded her of what had happened. Nick wouldn't give up that easily.
"It's just... who was that woman who died? How did she fall from a building, and why?"
She stood up straight, looking away and wishing she could be rude enough to leave him hanging. All she managed was a sigh, hoping it would be the clue for him to leave her alone. Nope.
"And where did Strange come from? Why was he dressed like that? And then he just... disappeared?", he asked, waving his hands around.
"Listen,", she snapped, looking at him over the hood of her car, her tone growing harsher. "I'm going to save you the trouble and answer all your questions. I have no idea where he went, and I don't know where he came from - it's not like I'd have his itinerary now, is it? And why did he come back? Why would he, after all this time anyway? I have no fucking clue, Nick. None, all right?"
Nick stepped back and put his hands up in defeat. While not answering his questions, she'd let out much more than what he cared to know.
"Okay, okay! Chillax."
She rolled her eyes. Chillax? Who talks like that?
"I'm sorry. Just... long day, that's all."
"Yeah. Get some rest."
Christine watched him walk away and got into her car, gripping the wheel. "Maybe if I stop at every single place that sells cigarettes..."
"This doesn't even feel like New York", Stephen thought, contemplating the city from above. The sights, the sounds, the smell: it all felt so strange, but so familiar. He looked down; it was the night before Thanksgiving, and the hustle and bustle of the city was in full force - tourists enjoying the light snow, people making last minute shopping for dinner ingredients, couples enjoying a night out. From a deserted rooftop at the 20th floor, however, things were quieter. Voices were muffled and cars were passing by miles away from where he was standing, their engines turned into white noise. A faded, distant version of the world on the ground.
Stephen welcomed the stillness; embraced it even – it had been one hell of a day, or days. Hell, he couldn't even pinpoint exactly when shit hit the fan and he was sucked into the role of world savior. He closed his eyes, but instead of taking in the silent peace of that moment, a violent, purple, angry image flashed in his mind's eye. He flinched, feeling a pit in his stomach as he experienced it all over again: being burned, impaled, mutilated, beheaded. Losing. Failing, countless times.
Dying.
Instinctively, he stepped back from the ledge, shaking his head to get rid of those thoughts, and when he opened his eyes again he caught a glimpse of one tiny light going out in the building across the street. Had someone seen him? Not that New Yorkers would ever care about some guy on a rooftop anyway. The item of clothing that could give him away – the cloak – was dutifully standing by the door. Still, he felt uneasy with the realization that his days as a regular civilian were gone and he would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his days. For the longest time he had craved recognition, to be acknowledged for his brilliance, for his competence. Then, he fought hard to blend in to a place where he didn't belong at all. And now, Stephen found himself torn between hiding away or standing out.
He turned around and spotted those cheap and tacky pieces of patio furniture which had been there since the first time Christine invited him over, years ago. Dozens of uncomfortable summer nights spent on that awful wicker couch, counting the minutes to go home. How could "sitting at home alone on a suede couch" ever beat "sitting on a wicker couch with Christine"? He couldn't tell. But it did, every time. And to think he used to wonder why she didn't reply to his emails.
A bitter cold coursed through his spine, and the cloak immediately made its way to cover his back. That was it. The portal he had come through was still open, hissing, waiting for him to choose which way to go. Stephen didn't want to go back to the Sanctum just yet - he had a feeling he would spend way too much time there. And given that they had fought a world-threatening entity and won, he wasn't expecting any new menaces in the next 24 hours. There was enough time. There had to be.
The circle of light became smaller and smaller until it vanished, leaving sparks on the ground, melting into the slush. After taking a deep breath, Stephen forced his astral form out of his body. It wasn't right, spying on Christine like that, he knew that much. It would definitely be easier to show up in the middle of her living room, but he knew she didn't appreciate surprises – she never did. And for all he knew, she probably had moved anyway and Stephen wanted to make sure he would show up at the right place. And yes, also to check if she was alone. God, he hoped she was.
Christine sighed in exasperation, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, fumbling through her keys until she managed to open the door. "How many times have we discussed this, Sarah? You know I don't have time for that."
"You mean, you don't want to put it in the least effort into meeting someone new." Her sister always had a very efficient way of cutting through her bullshit.
"Stop putting words in my mouth, that's not what I said."
"Right."
"I mean, I've tried. There was that guy I met at Starbucks, remember? The teacher?"
"And…"
"And it took him weeks to ask me out, even though we ran into each other and made small talk almost every day while waiting for our coffees."
Christine paused while searching her purse for a cigarette, and the words just fell from her mouth.
"I guess I should have known."
"Should have known what?"
"That he was indecisive, Sarah, and I don't like wishy-washy guys," Christine stated, growing impatient, lit cigarette in hand, gesturing towards no one. "I had to spend three long, boring hours on a date with him before I realized he wasn't…"
"Stephen?"
"… exactly my type."
Sarah scoffed. "Same difference. You know, I wonder if Stephen ever figured out that the 'Strange policy' really means that you won't date anyone else, ever again."
"Just… just shut up. I'm this close to hanging up on you," Christine muttered under her breath while pacing around the balcony. It was so not the right moment to have that conversation, but if she brought up the fact that Stephen had showed up, she'd never hear the end of it.
"Okay, calm down. You're coming tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, Sarah, I will. But please, promise you won't bring him up. Or any other guy for that matter."
"I think can do that for you."
Stephen descended slowly, stopping mid-air beside the balcony where Christine was. The first thing he noticed was the cigarette in her hand, and couldn't help but cringe. Oh, the hypocrisy of saving lives while wasting your own. She quickly wrapped up her phone call, and he could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't too happy about it.
"All right, I'll see you then."
Christine tucked the phone in her pocket and leaned forward, her eyebrows furrowed, elbows resting on the railing. Even thought she'd never admit it, her sister was right. There had been no one after Stephen, at least no one worth mentioning or being considered as a successful date. Those guys all fine, in a broad sense. But the gap that was left couldn't be filled by a random guy.
"Damn it, Stephen," she mumbled, to get the words out of her chest. Stephen floated closer, in time to see her wiping away a tear before she turned her face away from him, as if she knew he was there. Christine took a long drag of her cigarette, and right then he didn't have the heart to be judgmental - he had left her in such awful terms and had since lost his right to criticize anything she did. He had just asked her to perform surgery on his body while his astral form brawled in an ethereal fist fight, and disappeared. As if that wasn't enough, he showed up again, asking her to save a stranger, which she couldn't do, and disappeared once more. Finally, there she was in the aftermath, trying to make sense of it all. It wasn't fair, and you know what, she could smoke all she wanted.
The events that happened that day kept replaying in Christine's mind. To say it was hard to put the pieces together was an understatement. It was damn near impossible. Did she perform an operation on Stephen while being assisted – and then disturbed – by his… soul? Did he disappear into a circle of light? And had she really held his hand, looked into his eyes, and kissed his cheek before leaving him?
"None of this makes sense", she thought, looking up at the smoke dissolving into the crisp, cool air. Moving her head made her realize that she would need more than an Advil to take care of that massive headache. Crying wasn't helping either. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, put the cigarette away on an ashtray and went back in, straight to the fridge. A glass of wine, even a cheap one, could help her deal with her thoughts. If that failed, at least it would help her sleep better. Christine would need the rest – Thanksgiving was up next and her sister had enough reasons to criticize her. Showing up with dark circles under her eyes would only give Sarah more ammunition.
Glass in hand, she took off her shoes and was making her way towards the couch when she was startled by the sound of her doorbell ringing. She muttered a couple of "fucks" while heading to the door. Someone at her door at that time of the night? Couldn't be good. She looked through the peephole.
Am I seeing things?
As she opened the door, Christine was certain that her mind was playing tricks on her. It was Stephen, still wearing those weird clothes. A dozen layers of blue shawls, belts, bandages and a crimson cloak that would look awesome as a throw blanket on her new couch. A far cry from scrubs and tuxes she was used to seeing him wearing.
"How did you… why are you… I mean, how did you get here?", Christine asked, the door hanging open, as well as her mouth. As if that day hadn't had enough unanswered questions.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I just… I had to see you."
Christine turned around to look at her empty apartment. She had just come home. It couldn't be a coincidence that he'd show up right then.
"How did you know I was home?", she asked, her eyes squinting.
Stephen straightened up his back.
"I had a hunch."
She sighed and looked back at him, her expression a mix of surprise and joy and fear. Christine had imagined thousands of ways of him coming back to her, but this was not one of them.
"Are you going to let me in or am I just going to be a weirdly dressed guy standing at your door?"
"Sure," she stepped back and gestured towards the living room, "make yourself right at home."
