"Kresk!"
Eva paused with one arm down the sleeve of her jacket. "Yes, Mr G?" she yelled back.
"You got a minute left on the clock," her boss shouted back at her, and she scowled. "I need you to run a delivery for me. Some guy called in from Bleecker Street and promised a big bonus if we could bring it to him."
Eva turned around and immediately had a hotbox shoved into her hands. "Of course, Mr G," she sighed. "I'm sure I can get to Greenwich Village in less than a minute."
"Well, it's on your way home anyway. Hurry up before it gets cold."
Eva had used her bike to get to work that day, and by the time she had struggled into her leathers it had already extended beyond the end of her shift by a good two minutes. I bet I won't get paid overtime, either, she thought, a glum expression settling onto her face beneath the visor of her helmet.
At least she knew her way around the Village well, having gone to college inside it and living just round the corner in a far less gentrified, although still eye-wateringly expensive, area. Bleecker Street was particularly familiar to her, as she had been chucked out of more nightclubs and bars along that road than she cared, or indeed was able to remember.
177a, the place she was delivering to, was a large and imposing building with a funny squiggly eye thing taking the place of the top window. When Eva rang the doorbell, she could hear the muffled sounds of twanging oriental music playing beyond the door.
The door opened by itself. Of course it does, Eva thought. She had a feeling that she knew where this was going.
It opened onto a wide reception room flanked by a dark wood balcony that curled into an ornate staircase, which she climbed more out of resignation than curiosity. The air had a strange, charged feel to it, the same kind of sensation she had felt after a lightning storm. "Up here," a distant, faintly familiar voice called. She plodded onwards, heavy boots clomping against the rich rugs.
The hallway she was following led into a lofty, museum-like room so large that it couldn't possibly have fitted in the cramped Manhattan Building. She could hear sparking noises coming from one corner, as though somebody had set off a firework in the highly flammable room, and wove her way between the pillars of glass cases to get to it while not paying even the slightest amount of attention to the curious things inside them.
The source of the noises also appeared to be emitting a bright orange light. Sparks were bouncing off of the walls, and Eva, who had good survival instincts by this point, cleared her throat loudly before getting any closer. The commotion stopped immediately and the Strange guy, in every sense of the word, who had been into the shop a couple times before with a smile.
"Eva!" he exclaimed. "I was hoping it would be you."
She held out the coffee. "Three sixty," she said, "twenty bucks delivery fee."
"What? Really?"
She stared at him in even silence until he gave in and passed a handful of bills over to her. "You found your way in okay?"
"Yep."
"You're not freaked out by my home at all?"
"Nope."
"What," he said, "really?"
Eva shoved the money into her pocket and folded her arms. "Lemme guess," she said, "you're a wizard. You've saved the world so well that we didn't even know it was in trouble. You've got a magic cape that lets you fly, and a ring that you use to travel in time, and a necklace that can teleport you anywhere in the world. You're lonely and noble. You've got a tragic past. Your one true love spurned you, and now you're an isolated hero. How did I do?"
Strange raised an eyebrow. "Close," he said, "but no cigar. You got the powers of the necklace and the ring mixed up."
"Oh, well I'm so sorry," she sneered. Strange, to his credit, chuckled.
"You know, I should probably give this up," he said, holding up the espresso cup. "It's not good for me and I've got some of the best tea in the world here. Care to try some?"
"Is it free?" Eva asked.
"Only for you."
"In that case," she said, "yes, please."
She followed him over to a small table, where a clay jug and matching handle-less cups stood. "So you're a wizard," she said, "like Dumbledore or Gandalf?"
"Neither," he replied, "and I prefer sorcerer. It's got more of a ring to it, don't you think?"
"Hmm," she shrugged, and took the cup he offered her. It looked like green tea, but smelled sweeter. She took a sip and was struck by the softness of the taste, although it must have been brewing for ages. It was faintly spiced, had a hint of elderflower, and reminded her of early autumn sun falling on city sidewalks.
"Nice?"
"Nice," she agreed, swallowing her mouthful only to take another.
"May I ask how you managed to be as astute as to the nature of my identity?"
"I'm cursed," she said. "I'm a magnet for capes."
"My condolences."
"Thanks. I'm just not impressed anymore, y'know?" she downed the tea and set the empty cup down. "My best friend shoots lasers out of his damn forehead, for chrissakes. I'm numb! I have no wonder left in my soul. I mean, if Harry friggin' Potter walked past me I'd probably just have a go at him for getting Sirius Black killed and move on with my life."
"Again," said Strange, "I'm not that sort of magician."
She ignored him as she started to get into her stride. "It's not fair! I want to feel excitement about this crap, but I can't! I've got Superhero Stockholm Syndrome! What'll it take, huh? What'll it take to make me feel again? Weird magic sex? I'm desperate! Something! Anything!"
"I mean," he said, "if you're asking…"
They looked at each other.
%
"I have a question," Stephen said, afterwards. Eva was hopping around the room, harvesting her clothes so she could wear something other than her shame. "Your scars – how did you get them?"
"Fell off my bike," she told him, looking for her bra. "On purpose, though. I had to avoid getting t-bar'd by a Mack Truck somehow."
"You've got tattoos," Stephen said. "But you didn't try to cover the scars up. Why?"
She jumped up to retrieve her pants, which had mysteriously draped themselves over the chandelier. "They don't bother me," she said. "They're cool markers for a cool story." She sat down on the edge of the bed and started pulling her socks on. "This is about your hands, right? You were in a car crash, or something. It was on the news."
Although he had had them covered with leather gloves, she could now see that the doctor's hands were lined and marbled with so much scar tissue that there was no unblemished skin remaining. "Not such a cool story," he said.
"You want them to go back to how they were before."
"Yes. No. Maybe. I don't… I don't know."
She paused, arms still trapped beneath her shirt. "See," she said, "that's why. I'm trying to be as little like what I used to be as possible. Like a butterfly. Whereas you're more like a… a… rock."
Stephen stared. "A rock," he repeated, slowly.
"Oh, shut up." She got to her feet. "We shall never speak of this again."
"Obviously. I don't think either of us are particularly proud of this."
"Amen. And thanks for the tip – which was for the coffee," she said sternly, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Just the coffee. Nothing else, alright?"
"Alright."
"Excellent. I'll see myself out."
Eva, wait –"
She looked over her shoulder at him. "What?"
"Thanks."
"For…?"
"Telling me who I am – what I am. I need reminding, sometimes."
"You, Stephen," she said, "need to get out more. But not with me," she added, as a caveat. "Thanks for the tea. Bye."
"See you later."
"I sure as hell hope not!"
A/N this was fun to write, and now I feel like I'm back in gear to write a Spidey chapter when Homecoming comes out. Yay! Also - thank you so much for all the support I've received since last chapter, I was so overwhelmed and still can't quite believe it. Meds and therapy are starting to properly kick in now and I'm fairly more sane, now. I'm not very good at talking about that kind of stuff, so just know that your words all meant so much to me. As cliche as it sounds, it's true. I cried. Many times. Ahem. Thanks.