A Fickle Thing
Chapter 4: Mending
Warning: Strange has a moment of panic in this one. *Hugs*
Dr. Strange's hands are shaking.
His hands are shaking, and he doesn't think he is up to the task at hand. Him. Dr. Stephen Strange. World famous neurosurgeon. First class this, world class that. Owner of more watches than the average ex-millionaire. He always was obsessed with time, with living in the moment and capturing it forever in his often photographic memory.
Now he wishes he was anywhere but the here and now—perhaps playing Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9, No. 1 in B-flat minor in his care-free past when his hands were steady, or glimpsing into the future when he'll be powerful enough to conjure up a cure for his broken, useless appendages.
But he can't shy away. One of his friends is depending on him. And when your number of friends can be counted on one hand, you take care of each and every one of them.
Oh, stop being pathetic and pick up the needle and thread.
Strange sits at a table in his study. It is made of sturdy mahogany and must be at least two hundred years old.
The cloak which lays upon it is even older. And it is currently in pieces.
The Cloak of Levitation fought bravely yesterday afternoon when Dr. Strange was blindsided by the ferocious Arkon in a dark café in Seoul. Strange thought he had a new lead on Loki—one that Thor would be interested in. Unfortunately, the "secret" meeting he had arranged with his informant had drawn various spies of the criminal underworld.
The javelin lightning bolts that Arkon wielded must have been as old as the cloak, and just as powerful. Despite the sparks of golden magic coursing from Stephen's sling ring and the rapid incantations he uttered to escape, the situation deteriorated rapidly.
Somehow, Arkon's lightning bolts broke through Strange's defenses, and the cloak (ever the protective overgarment) billowed up in front of him, creating a crimson shield that would give Captain America a run for his money.
Dr. Strange had cried out, arms outstretched, but it was too late. A javelin made of lightning pierced the cloak from just below its collar along its right side in a burst of electric yellow light. The cloak hovered in the air for a moment, fluttering like a bird with a broken wing, before the quarter that had been torn fell lifelessly away, and the entire cloak crumpled to the floor along with it.
Strange blinked in shock yet forced himself to move, his knuckles carving swift amber circles in the south wall of the café.
Arkon chuckled grimly, the horns on his golden helmet gleaming. The doctor swallowed a lump in his throat, tenderly picking up his limp cloak and its torn corner and leaping through the portal he had created back to New York.
He's sewed up wounds before. Countless times. A thousand people, maybe more. Nasty gashes, deep cuts, long lacerations, superficial slashes. Always neverending, always bloody. How many times had he intentionally carved a scalpel into someone? But he always did it to save them, and he always sewed them up after.
Dr. Strange is quite capable with a needle and thread, but the honest truth is that he hasn't sewn anyone up since his accident. Not to mention, he has never dabbled in the fine art of tailoring. Why make your own clothes when you can purchase them at the nearest Neiman Marcus?
The cloak stirs restlessly on the table. Since the fight, it has moved minimally, and it has ceased levitating. This disturbs Stephen to no end, although he can't quite articulate why he feels this way.
It's just a piece of fabric. Get a grip.
But not even the self-assured Dr. Strange can completely agree with this statement. Especially not when the cloak lifts itself (dare he say weakly) and places a soft pressure on his left hand, as if to restore confidence to his shattered ego.
After the cloak's soothing gesture, his hands immediately begin to tremble more violently.
How convenient, Stephen thinks.
The doctor stands abruptly, moving to the windows, which are usually kept curtained, and drawing the shades back. He hesitates, almost opening one of the windows, because he's suddenly finding it difficult to breathe evenly, and his head feels floaty and light.
It's okay. You can do this. What's wrong with you?
A thump thump thump takes his attention away from his own anxiety and back to the cloak, which is whacking part of its edge against a table leg, like a cat flicking its tail impatiently.
"The light needed adjustment," Stephen says, trying to sound pragmatic but ending up high-pitched and pithy. He runs a hand over the curtains again, takes a deep breath, and walks back to the table, squaring his shoulders, and sitting down.
He picks up the needle and burgundy thread carefully, as if they are priceless treasures.
The doctor had spent a ridiculous forty-five minutes at the nearest craft shop searching for the perfect shade of red. He had tried to describe it to a sales associate named Marisa: "It's dark crimson, velvety, with flecks of gold that catch the light. Very regal and austere…"
Marisa had seemed unimpressed by his eloquent description but, nevertheless, showed him all of the colors of thread the store had on hand, and (at last!) Strange had found one he liked.
His throat is dry, his stomach churning. His hands crack and ache, tingling like they always do when the weather turns cold.
There is no possible way.
The cloak raises its collar again, as if to ask, "What's wrong?"
Dr. Strange audibly swallows and decides to talk through the procedure. It's more for his benefit than the cloak's.
"I'm going to start at the outer edge and work my way forward. All right? I'll do the collar last."
The cloak settles back on the table, it's detached portion unresponsive when Stephen picks it up.
Strange feels the trickle of sweat run down his back.
Concentrate.
"I'm going to start. Try to stay as still as possible."
The cloak flaps almost comically against table, causing Stephen to chuckle despite his own fear.
He says," I know that will be hard for you. But, please. Try."
The magical fabric is still once again. In fact, it is so still that Strange tries to trick his mind into thinking that it is just a regular swathe of cloth… but it doesn't work.
Seven minutes later, and thread finally gets through the eye of the needle. The doctor shudders at the effort, forcing his hands to quell their ceaseless shaking.
"Okay… Tell me if this hurts. I mean, I know you can't talk, but try to signal to me if… Wait, can you even feel pain?"
He's babbling. This is embarrassing. Dr. Strange wants to run from the room. The cloak is remarkably still, uncomplaining, waiting…
Stephen brings the two pieces of wine-red fabric together and somehow manages to grasp the needle in spite of his quivering hands. He grits his teeth, bringing the needle into the cloak…
… And it breaks in half.
Stephen gapes at the wrecked needle in shock. The cloak rustles, its collar bobbing up and down one time, as if shrugging.
Then, a voice from the hallway outside:
"Needle and thread won't work on the Cloak of Levitation. It's magical. You need to repair it with magic. Just sayin'…"
Wong.
Strange flicks his head to the doorway, but the other man is gone.
His fingers grasp the sides of his chair, drumming on them absently, and he hums an off-key tune for a few seconds before saying, "Be right back."
With that, the doctor dashes from his chair, grabs two books from his study, and races back to his bedchamber to peruse them.
Strange spends hours going through every reference and source on magical mending he can find, pouring over the details and the various spells until he finds the exact one he needs. However, the fact that the problem of fixing his cloak centers on a magical rather than practical solution does nothing to quell his fear of failure. If anything, Stephen is more convinced this time around that he will not succeed.
When he returns to the study, it is dark outside. Stephen walks back to the cloak, exactly where he left it. He examines its inactive posture, frozen, connoting sadness.
"I… I'm going to try again. With magic this time. Is that all right?"
The cloak slowly lifts its collar, moving up and down once before drooping back down.
Stephen clears his throat and spreads out his hands.
In a realization as sudden as a blow to the head, Stephen understands why he continues to hesitate restoring the cloak, be it with needle and thread or magic. Deep down, he feels…
"Broken," he says out loud.
The cloak twitches on the table, its partial collar rising up before setting back down.
"I feel like I can't fix you because I am broken, and I always will be broken, so how can I possibly fix you?" He pauses, takes a heaving breath. "Now you're hurt, and it's my fault."
There. He's said it. Stephen covers his eyes with both trembling hands in exhaustion. Moments later, he is surprised to find a soft fabric entwining his arms. Strange opens his eyes and finds the cloak resting against him.
It's a hug, Strange thinks. It's hugging me.
And it is also a gesture of acceptance and forgiveness and affirmation to begin the healing process. Wordlessly, Strange lifts his right hand, shaking even more fiercely than before, and he begins to whisper the spell he taught himself.
Golden light, richer and brighter than any magic he has produced thus far, pours from his hands and covers the Cloak of Levitation. Torn threads instantly knit back together.
Strange stands, and his voice grows louder over the hum of the magic. As he finishes the spell, its golden radiance lifts the cloak in the air, encircling it faster and faster until it vanishes in a flash, brighter than fireworks.
Stephen gazes in awe, pale hands once more at his sides. The Cloak of Levitation floats opposite him above the table, practically glowing and whole again. Unbelievably, the process took less than a minute and left the cloak seamless.
"Are you…" Strange clears his throat. "Are you okay now?"
In response, the cloak flies around the study, whipping Strange's black hair in his face and causing him to laugh at its usual antics.
"Yeah, yeah," he says. "I get it. As good as new."
The cloak lands directly in front of him again, and then (without direction or command) places itself on Stephen's shoulders. He can feel its collar nestled around his neck, its train rustling against his back. The touch is familiar, comforting, like being at home.
"Hmm," he murmurs, feigning restlessness and suppressing a yawn. "You're welcome."
Then the cloak lifts him gently upwards until his feet hover only a few inches above the floor.
The fleeting thought pops in Strange's tired analytical brain:
Maybe I'm not broken after all.
A/N: Guys, you are seriously awesome. I don't even know what to say…. I only hope that this latest ficlet lives up to your expectations—I have been overwhelmed by the response to these vignettes, and I love hearing from everyone. I'm behind on responding to reviews, but just know that I appreciate ALL of your feedback (Guests, you rock!), and I've also been inspired by numerous ideas left in the comments. Keep those ideas coming—I have created a list of future ficlets, and I get excited just thinking about them. Next up: The cloak saves the day during a particularly dull Avengers meeting.
P.S. Writing "Dr. Strange" fanfiction to Chopin is brilliant! Also, Brahms, Symphony No. 4, Movement 4 in E minor works well as a soundtrack for this chapter.