A Fickle Thing
Chapter 2: Bath Time
"You're worse than a cat."
Dr. Steven Strange is trying to wash his cloak. He has never washed it before. And, obviously, dry-cleaning is out of the question.
He has put this task off for weeks, somehow knowing what a cluster it's going to be. But he's gotten to know the cloak better after permanently moving to the Sanctum Sanctorum. The cloak is more than just a dramatic fashion statement. It has… feelings. Strange still can't explain it—the way the cloak somehow knows when he needs help or even what he's thinking.
It's uncanny and weird and Dr. Strange usually doesn't like to think about it. He didn't become a Sorcerer Supreme to ponder the sentience of outdoor overgarments. However, when the cloak's outward appearance began to affect his own, he knew that a confrontation on cleanliness was unavoidable.
The last straw came a few days ago when The Nameless One decided to destroy half of London. And also decided to slobber on Dr. Strange and his cloak. Who knew that dinosaur demons could slobber so much? And when Strange made it back to New York, the smell of the cloak (not to mention its slimy greenish coating) was enough to send Stephen into a tirade.
Timing is essential. Dr. Strange can almost sense that the cloak has an aversion to water. And, being as fastidious as the doctor sometimes, the cloak surely would have cleaned itself by now if it had the desire to do so.
It must be afraid of water, Strange thinks to himself, calculating his approach. After the battle in London, both cloak and its chosen are retiring back at the Sanctum. Stephen immediately heads for the bathroom, feigning a sense of casual urgency as he goes through the motions of brushing his teeth, scrubbing his face, and sanitizing and applying a small swathe to a cut on his left forearm. In-between these numerous tasks, Dr. Strange leans over and casually turns on the water in his bathtub, watching the steam rise from the warm water. He notices the way the cloak bristles when its edges almost touch the surface of the bath, fluttering upwards and out of the way.
He hums "Nightswimming" and finishes his evening routine. Before he exits the bathroom, Strange stoops to turn off the bath water. Once again, the cloak practically shivers as he leans over the tub.
This is going to be trickier than I thought, he thinks to himself. But if Dr. Strange is certain of one thing, it's his own towering intellect. Surely he can pull this off. He's performed numerous neuroendoscopies. Of course he can dunk a sheet in a tub.
Good magicians know that the success of their art lies in misdirection.
Dr. Strange moves to his bedchamber and nonchalantly removes his shoes along with the cloak, settling it over one arm. Then he stops abruptly, harrumphing, as if he has forgotten something.
At double time, he returns to the bathroom, cloak still in hand. The bath water awaits…
It might have actually worked if Stephen had not been tempted to throw in a verbal reprimand right before the aquatic dénouement… But he can't help it.
"It's for your own good."
He hurls the cloak into the tub and suddenly both man and mantle freeze.
Strange freezes in expectation. The cloak freezes in pure terror, suspending itself in the air directly above the tub, spread out like a manta ray about to belly flop. There is a split-second where both beings regard each other, trying to determine the other's next move. Then the cloak's edges begin to ripple, and it starts to slide along the tiled wall…
"Oh no you don't!"
And all Hades breaks loose.
The doctor dives headfirst into the tub, grabbing the cloak by its collar and forcing it with all of his might downwards towards the steaming water. The cloak wriggles and squirms and writhes soundlessly.
The battle continues for about five minutes. There is a lot of frantic flapping, yelling nonsense syllables, and water spraying every direction until both cloak and doctor are completely soaked.
Strange moans the state of his jacket. "This is Spencer Hart!"
Meanwhile, the cloak has gone limp with defeat. Stephen sighs, exasperated and spent as much as his essential garment.
"It wouldn't have been so bad if you let me do this sooner."
The bath water (now stained a murky brown color) has gone cold, and the cloak shivers.
The doctor rolls his eyes. "It's not possible for you to catch cold. C'mon."
In a decidedly vanquished pose, the cloak slowly rises from the tepid water, dripping. Its typical velvety shine is muted with the moisture, but Stephen can tell that it is, at least, clean.
"C'mon," he says again.
Before the doctor can shield himself, the cloak suddenly twists, rapidly shaking and wringing itself out, a mix between a mop and a bearded collie. Consequently, the entire bathroom (including Strange) is covered with a spray of dirty droplets.
Dr. Strange wipes his face with his right arm, teeth gritted. Then he plucks the cloak from the air rather forcefully and takes it with him into the study, where he hopes to let his anger defuse by catching up on some research. He sets the cloak smoothly into a nearby armchair, but the cloak, rather than forming its shape to the chair like it usually does, simply crumples where he set it, shuddering faintly.
Stephen tries to ignore the cloak's behavior.
It's just pouting, he tells himself.
Nevertheless, he adds more kindling to the small glow emanating from the fireplace until it becomes a bright warm blaze.
And he picks up the damp cloak again, setting it in his lap while he reads in the armchair.
An hour passes as the study becomes downright cozy, and the cloak completely dries, shivering one last time before settling in Strange's lap. Stephen knows it isn't asleep (clothing can't possibly sleep) but it is so still that it almost could be. Almost as a drowsy afterthought, the cloak winds one corner of its fabric around his right arm, holding it there.
Stephen doesn't remember until this moment that the cloak is actually stronger than him and could have easily escaped his mortal grasp during the epic bath time struggle, but it took care not to harm him in its escape attempt.
He runs one unsteady hand along its collar and settles back in the armchair, letting himself become mesmerized by the dancing flames of the fire, crackling cheerfully, lulling him into a blissful sleep.
A/N: Wow! I am so overjoyed at the response to the first ficlet that I couldn't help but submit another short one! I can't promise that I will be able to update so quickly all the time, but I'll try my best. For those of you who sent lovely reviews, I shall be responding to all of you soon. J Please continue to let me know how I'm doing. I think I'm going to stick with "cloak" for right now, but I might experiment with some different pronouns for the cloak rather than "it." Perhaps "they" or "ze." What do you all think?
Some delicious hurt!Stephen in the next one!
~Ista
