Queen Of The Night

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“Do you have to outshine me at every event you attend with me?” Juliet turned back to the reporter, a camera hanging around her neck.

“How else am I going to find a wealthy neurosurgeon to marry and buy me nice stuff?” Cassidy snorted, shaking her head.

“Ah, I see. What happened with that ex-Marine?”

“Oh, that’s a story for another time, my love. Not the most proper conversation for such a swanky event.” Cassidy laughed, lightly. “So why does the New York Bulletin care about…what the fuck even is this?”

“It’s a Neurological Society dinner, Jules, try and keep up. I don’t know, something about a ‘society’ page of something," Cassidy sighed with a shrug. She raised an eyebrow at something just over Juliet’s shoulder and Juliet turned to examine what her friend had caught sight of. She sighed when she spotted an older gentleman making a beeline for the pair, his cheeks flushed, probably from alcohol if Juliet’s suspicion was right. Cassidy slipped on a fake smile, brushing a curl behind her ear. Juliet wrapped her hands around the camera, hoping to hide her annoyance at this man she hadn’t even spoken to yet. Juliet examined the rotund man, his hair a wispy, thin, and graying tuft on his otherwise balding head.

“What a delight to have such lovely girls here tonight! Who do you two belong to?” the man bellowed, wrapping an arm around each woman. Cassidy laughed, the sound calm to anyone who didn’t know her as well as Juliet.

“Ourselves,” Juliet replied, her voice icy. Before the man could open his mouth to reply, a voice behind Juliet made him stop in his tracks.

“Doctor Morce, I hadn’t seen you yet. Come on, we’d best be getting to our seats before they start without us. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Juliet turned, her eyes locking on the newcomer’s eyes, his eyes stormy and gray. Juliet could detect just the slightest hint of tension in his smile as he feigned friendliness towards the older gentleman.

“Doctor Strange! What an honor to see you again, my boy! Where’s that lovely girl of yours, what’s her name again?” Juliet noticed Doctor Strange stiffen just slightly at the question.

“Doctor Palmer couldn’t make it tonight but she sends her sincerest regards, I assure you. Let’s be off now and leave these ladies to their work. They have a very busy night ahead of them, I’m sure.” Juliet relaxed as the man, his hair jet black except for the silver beginning at his temples, started ushering the portly Doctor Morce away.

The younger man, Doctor Strange, glanced back once they were a safe distance away and Juliet mouthed a quick “thank you.” Strange winked at her before taking his seat at the table, Morce moving farther down the table to his spot. Juliet wrapped an arm around Cassidy to try and still her best friend’s slight shaking. “You alright?” Cassidy seemed to snap out of it after a moment and gave Juliet a bright smile, tinged with regret. “Remind me to chew out Ellison when I see him next.” Cassidy sighed.

“I have to do shit like this to be able to write the things that actually matter. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Yeah, made that mistake before. So now I’m gonna spend my entire life worrying about you until Murdock gets his head out of his ass and comes crawling back to you.” Cassidy rolled her eyes, glancing back at the table.

“That doctor was very handsome.”

“Morce? Nah, not my type.”

“Why on earth would I be talking about him? I’m talking about the young one. Doctor Strange.”

“I don’t know, it feels like something’s missing. Maybe it’s facial hair?”

“What? You usually don’t care about that.”

“I know! But I think facial hair would look good on him. He sort of reminds me of…an otter, maybe?” Cassidy laughed, shaking her head.

“Regardless, it would seem he can’t take his eyes off of you,” Cassidy murmured, gently nudging Juliet’s shoulder. Juliet glanced over to find his eyes trained on her and she raised an eyebrow, smiling coyly.

“How old do you think he is?”

“Enough.”

“Maybe he’s just prematurely graying? Besides, the gray is kinda doing it for me. Like a silver fox.”

“I’m gonna say that’s just your daddy issues in play.”

“I mean, if anyone would have issues with father figures, or lack-thereof, it would probably be me. I think that’s a fair reason.”

“You mean your father getting far too drunk and killing your mother? Yeah, definitely valid.” The corner of Juliet’s lip turned up into a half-smile, her eyes still focused on Strange. He only broke eye contact when the man to his left leaned over to ask him a question.

“But did you see the way he reacted when Doctor Portly brought up his lady-friend? I’m gonna assume that’s a recent falling out and that’s way too messy for what I want.”

“You’re still enchanted by him. I know that look on your face. It’s actually the one you reserve solely for Chris Pine.”

“Ah, Chris Pine. Now that’s a fine man. And what if I am enchanted by some enigmatic stranger who saved us from dealing with some creepy old man with a little too much liquor in his system? That at least earns him a little gratitude.”

“I know exactly what kind of gratitude you would like to show him and I kindly ask that you do it on your own time. The only reason I invited you because I feel sorry for you. Like, really? ‘Woman finds Theodore Roosevelt on apple seed’? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re a good writer, Juliet. Why waste your time there?”

“Because not everyone has connections like you do, Cass. I have nothing, just a couple of probably, most likely dead parents who were nobodies and whatever money I can scrape by writing shitty articles like that. I want to get my place somewhere based on my writing, not based on the fact that my best friend is ‘an heiress with parents taken tragically too young, a former bright spot within the Manhattan socialite’s club.’ And so far, this is about as much as I can get.”

“Regardless, your talent means you deserve better. And you’re missing the main point of this. I don’t want to get kicked out and cause a scandal because you decided the best way to show that ‘enigmatic stranger’ your gratitude ends with you on your knees in some secluded hallway.” Juliet laughed.

“Do you really have so little faith in me, Cassidy? You think I’d actually get caught?”

“Juliet. I’m serious.”

“So am I. But if it makes you feel any better, cross my heart and hope to die. I promise I absolutely will not get caught on my knees at this swanky event for a bunch of egotistical neurosurgeons who believe they’re god or whatever.”

“I’m still not convinced that you won’t but if you ruin that new dress, I will never speak to you again.” Juliet snorted.

“Yeah, good luck with that. You’d be bored out of your mind without me.”

“Who are you here for?” Juliet turned back at the voice, the same low voice that saved them before.

“I’m Cassidy Cooper, reporting for the New York Bulletin. Doctor Strange, was it?” Cassidy stuck an arm out to shake his hand. Strange smiled, taking Cassidy’s hand in a light shake.

“Yes. I’m Doctor Stephen Strange. I'm a neurosurgeon at Metro-General.”

“Really? A neurosurgeon at a Neurosurgeon Society dinner? I thought you would be a podiatrist.” Cassidy elbowed Juliet and Juliet grinned. Stephen’s eyes flashed over to her and the faintest trace of a smirk appeared on his lips.

“Superb deduction, Sherlock.”

“Well obviously, Watson.” Stephen grinned and Juliet held out her hand. “Juliet Taylor.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Stephen replied, taking her hand. Stephen released her hand after a moment as a man came up behind him and clasped him on the shoulder.

“You’re on, Doctor Strange.” Stephen nodded, giving the man a smile.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I hope you enjoy the remainder of your evening.”

“You, too, Doctor,” Cassidy replied with a soft smile. Juliet smiled, raising an eyebrow at Stephen as he glanced back at her.

“See you around. Doctor.” Stephen smirked slightly before nodding. He turned on his heel and Juliet grinned.

“You’re honestly ridiculous, you know that right?” Juliet shrugged, raising an eyebrow at her best friend.

“Doesn’t matter. It won’t be the last time I see him.”

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We were crazy to think Crazy to think that this could work Remember how I said I'd die for you? We were stupid to jump In the ocean separating us Remember how I’d fly to you?

“I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

“So what? You’re just gonna walk out?” Stephen’s voice is cutting, dripping with sarcasm and that same level of snark, his voice more bitter than you’ve ever heard from him. He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Stephen, why do we keep doing this? It’s just a fucking cycle where things are fine before we fight again and we just keep hurting each other.” Stephen stares at you, his body still tense before he deflates, like a balloon punctured with a needle. You let your guard down, observing him before he opens his arms and you know the storm has passed. At least for today. And as you lost yourself in a kiss, the feeling of his body pressed tight against yours, you can’t seem to recall what the fight was even about.

And I can't talk to you when you're like this Staring out the window like I’m not your favorite town I'm New York City I still do it for you, babe They all warned us about times like this They say the road gets hard and you get lost When you're led by blind faith, blind faith

You and Stephen sit in silence, your husband stares out the window, his stormy eyes fixing on a point somewhere in the distance. “We should have listened. They told us. We shouldn’t have rushed into this. They tried to warn us.” Stephen laughs, the sound humorless and hollow. The car is silent for a moment before you reach over, laying your hand on his thigh and finally those stormy eyes acknowledge you. Stephen looks at you like the city, like you’re naive and optimistic but ultimately shrouded in danger and heartbreak but then his lips are on yours in the back of this car with the divider up and you can’t bring yourself to care for now. You can feel all of him against you when he pulls you onto his lap, deepening the kiss, and some sort of feeling, of faith, probably far too blind and as optimistic as a child, settles in your chest.

But we might just get away with it Religion's in your lips Even if it's a false god We'd still worship We might just get away with it The altar is my hips Even if it's a false god We'd still worship this love We’d still worship this love We’d still worship this love

Stephen is all you can feel, his lips devouring yours and his body trapping yours against the wall. He hoists you up and you wrap your legs around him. You know Stephen is not much of a religious or spiritual man but the only religion you need is his lips against yours as he lowers you onto the bed. You reach down to slide your shirt off, tossing it to the side as he pulls his shirt off, and your mouth goes dry at the hunger in his eyes as his eyes rove over the newly exposed skin. You lay back on your elbows as he shed the rest of his clothes. You kicked off your pants and underwear and then his body is covering yours again. Your lips seek his out and the kiss is absolutely searing. He breaks the kiss and his lips start a path down your neck, to your collarbone. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his lips reaching your hipbone. His eyes flick up to meet yours before his lips are on you and, before long, his name is falling from your mouth like a prayer, a holy chant to whatever sacred deity might happen to hear. As you come down from it, this rapture, he raises himself to capture your lips again and the taste of you mingled with his breath is more of a religious experience than anything you’ve ever experienced.

I know heaven's a thing I go there when you touch me, honey Hell is when I fight with you But we can patch it up good Make confessions and we’re begging for forgiveness Got the wine for you

And you can't talk to me when I'm like this Daring you to leave me just so I can try and scare you You're the West Village You still do it for me, babe They all warned us about times like this They say the road gets hard and you get lost When you’re led by blind faith, blind faith

“This isn’t good for anyone, you know.” The words are said so casually one night, after another fight and another instance of a desperate make up session in your shared bed. Stephen lays beside you, his eyes fixating on the ceiling above and, for a moment, you think he’s going to just ignore the words spoken into the night.

“No, it’s not, is it?” His expression is serene and unbothered by the truth of the statements. After a moment, he rolls towards you and his lips attach to your neck and you can feel all of the words, the confessions of his wrongs, the begging for forgiveness, the apologies your husband is too proud to say aloud poured into worshiping you. And when you take him into your mouth later, his head thrown back as he lets himself buck into you until he’s sated, you hope he can feel all of your own unsaid words.

But we might just get away with it Religion's in your lips Even if it's a false god We'd still worship We might just get away with it The altar is my hips Even if it's a false god We'd still worship this love We'd still worship this love We'd still worship this love, ah

Still worship this love Even if it's a false god Even if it's a false god Still worship this love

Months. That’s how long it had been since your husband had gone missing only to return to your shared loft one evening as if nothing had ever happened. And now he’s back to worshiping you, this time on some threadbare bed in a bare room you assume must be in Nepal. But you know, you can feel that this Stephen is changed. This is not the Stephen that would pick fights when bored and hope that he could push you far enough, not the Stephen you married and, as he sheaths himself inside of you, your name whispered into the night like a chant, you think that maybe you can love this Stephen more. And that maybe, just maybe, things will be good. Things will be right this time.

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