#strangexclea

Stephen doesn’t man his voice to come out quite so gruffly as it does but he can’t help it. Suddenly he’s irritated with himself, hot and bothered because he let the Cloak, and Clea, and his own damn hormones run away with him. Shit, he thinks, gritting his teeth and trying to put some much needed distance between he and the gorgeous, naked, confused-looking woman in his bed.

Shit, he thinks it again, shit, shit, shit…

“What’s wrong?” She asks, frowning, sitting up, and as if in answer Stephen gestures to his pillow. There’s the barest trace of blood on it, from the back of her head. From that sickening impact Dormammu had inflicted on her while possessing Thor.

“That’s wrong,” he says pointedly.

The frown intensifies.

“But I need only move more carefully,” she says, reaching for him once more. Her grin is, well, it’s gorgeous. And sinful as Hellfire. God, he likes it. “And quite frankly Stephen, one of the only good things about nearly dying as often as I do is how often I have followed it with bouts of spectacularly good coitus-“ She drops her voice to a purr- “I assure you, you will enjoy what I’m capable of-“

“I don’t need you to prove what you’re capable of.”

He doesn’t mean it that way, of course he doesn’t, but he hears the way it sounds and suddenly Stephen is, once again, swearing fluently in his native New Yorkese, if only inside his head. This time she really does flinch, he sees it, and suddenly he feels like a damn asshole. “Clea,” he says, reaching for her, “Clea, I’m sorry-“

She’s trying to scramble out of the bed, eyes scanning the floor for her clothes. God only knows where they’ve ended up. “I should go,” she says, throat tight, “I should- I should-“

“I should apologise.” He clears his throat. “And then you can go if you want. But… I’m sorry.” He reaches out. Takes her hand. It feels tiny in his. “I’m sorry Clea.”  He knows that he sounds like he’s pulling teeth but dammit, he doesn’t want her leaving like this. And he certainly doesn’t want her on her own if she has a concussion, he doesn’t care how pissed she is at him.

Slowly he releases her, holds both his own hands up in surrender. She’s staring at him, too many expressions passing over her face to catalogue. The main contenders seem to be annoyance and confusion.

Well, isn’t that just them in a nutshell?

“You want me,” she says slowly. She gestures with her chin to his (now deeply uncomfortable and slowly flagging) erection. “That means you want me. At least, it does in humans. I checked.”

Stephen nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.” He inches closer towards her, refusing to entertain the mental image of her researching human male anatomy. Christ. “But I refuse to believe that you didn’t know that before now-”

“No.” She inclines her head. “Though I had thought that perhaps…” She lets the words hang on the air.

“And yet, I am aware of what I did to you. Of what I could have done. Of what I am capable of.” Slowly, cautiously, she moves back to perch on the edge of the bed. Slowly, cautiously, she moves her hand until it rests atop his.

How long has it been, Stephen wonders, since he touched someone like this?

“Why are you so mystifying, Stephen Strange?” She asks quietly.

He reaches out. Touches her cheek. Her skin is so soft, so warm. “I might ask you the same question, Clea Heartsbane,” he says.

At the sound of her name on his lips she closes her eyes. Leans into him.

Her forehead comes to rest against his chest and his left hand finds its way into her hair.

Now he’s looking for it he can see the traces of her blood amid the white.

“Let me look at that,” he says softly.

She opens her eyes. Stares at him. “You know nothing of my anatomy, Stephen,” she says.

He can’t help his smile. “I wouldn't quite say that,” he says, gesturing to their naked bodies. Clea smiles too. “Besides, you can teach me. You can tell me what you need.”

“You trust me to know?” The words are, Stephen suspects, supposed to sound blithe, but they do not. Rather, they speak of something else, something sorrowing and old and long-ago-helpless. He remembers Wanda’s words from long ago: Do you think anyone grows up dreaming of being Dormammu’s torturer? And speaking of-

“We should probably check on Thor too,” he says.

She nods. “I suspect Loki may need our help as well.” At his look her smile turns impish. “Imagine how horrified he will be at having to thank you for aid.”

Stephen smiles. Nods. Acting on impulse he takes her face in his hands. Presses a kiss to her forehead. She wraps her arms tightly about his waist.

“Do you know where your clothes are?” He asks, to which she shakes her head.

“I have no idea where the Cloak sent them,” she says, “But it’s no matter-“ And she gestures delicately with her fingers. As if from nowhere a dress of white and violet forms on her body. A suit- her favourite, Stephen notes- appears on his.

“Impressive,” Stephen says.

That impish grin widens. “I can will them away as quickly,” she says. “Just so you know.”

And she laughs. Her eyes glow and she leans her forehead, once again, on his chest. Stephen wraps his arms around her, pulling her in for one last kiss before they go to check on the Brothers Odinsson and Clea’s own injury-

As he does so the room shifts however, the floor cracking open as if made of glass.

Eyes like diseased stars peer through the cracks and reality splinters at their feet.

For a moment the world tilts sickeningly, gravity just a memory- They fall or fly, he’s not sure which-

For one thing, despite his powers he doesn’t make things shake when he’s asleep and scared. He doesn’t set tremors through the Sanctum Santorum, nor does he crack windows, walls and roof beams as he tosses in bed. He doesn’t levitate or float; he doesn’t summon magical objects to his door unless he means to, and he doesn’t wake up drenched in magic or covered in blood- Both of which Clea manages within the first month. It’s actually kind of impressive.

When he asks her about it she becomes silent and stares him out.

She is well aware that her gaze strays towards terrifying when she wants it to and she is not shy of using such a trick, Stephen soon learns.

When that doesn’t work- Stephen is Stephen, after all- she stalks off. Sometimes he finds her sitting in the library, reading: She learned the English alphabet in a week, and written Tibetan in a month. More often he finds her and Wong sparring: the other sorcerer doesn’t like having her in New York and has made no secret of the fact.

He doesn’t trust her around their young recruits and Strange understands why, even if he doesn’t entirely agree.

With her usual perverseness though, this seems to make Clea more comfortable in Wong’s presence than she is in anyone else’s. Wanda points out that maybe that’s to be expected, that someone who grew up in a war zone can’t be expected to trust anyone overnight. When Wong counters that Clea more likely grew up in the lap of luxury Wanda cocks an eyebrow at him, inquires whether he really believes anyone dreams of being Dormammu’s torturer when they grow up?

“Sometimes we play the hand we’re dealt,” she says softly and because he knows her background- and because he cares for her so much- Wong reluctantly concedes that she might have a point.

He still refuses to trust Clea however, and at this Wanda always ends up throwing her hands in the air and stalking off.

“They really should just copulate and get it over with,” Clea says when she walks in on one such discussion.

She clearly knows that they were discussing her and yet she makes no mention of it.

Stephen looks at her. “Wong and Wanda?” He asks, incredulous.

Clea shrugs. “The heart is an odd thing, is it not?” There is something in her tone though, something Stephen can’t put his finger on. As when she spoke of her reasons for killing Dormammu, the moment seems more drenched in what she’s not saying than what she is.

For perhaps the hundredth time he finds himself thinking how off-putting he finds her.

“Stop staring, Strange,” Clea says sharply, interrupting his thoughts. “It makes you look vacant.” She hands him back the textbook on anatomy he leant her and, not for the first time, Stephen wonders how more people didn’t used to smack him, back in the day. Maybe, he thinks, he was just more charming than Clea…

Somehow he doubts it.

“I wish to sit on the roof,” the alien woman announces grandly, “could you warn Wong? Before he becomes alarmed at my presence there?”

And without waiting for Stephen’s answer she sweeps away and up the staircase, heading, no doubt, for the roof. Through some magic of her own she has managed to become familiar with every winged creature in New York and she sometimes likes to hold court among them.

Apparently today will be one of those days.

“Wong and Wanda aren’t the only people who should get their copulating out of the way,” a voice drawls, and when Stephen turns he spies Loki, newly male again and under house arrest while his brother pleads his case with his fellow Avengers.

The trickster is sprawled in Stephen’s chair, the sort of grin that would justify murder splitting his face.

Just looking at him makes Strange want to break things.

“Some day Loki,” Strange says, “someone is going to take that diadem of yours and put it where the son doesn’t shine.”

And he turns on his heel and starts stalking away.

Loki’s eyes are merry as he calls after him. “I do so love to watch you flounce away-”

He manages to evade the sling ring portal that Stephen opens up beneath him but it’s a satisfyingly close call.

********

A storm comes to New York one autumn night and the electricity becomes sporadic.

Stephen, alone in the Sanctum while Wong and the students return to Kamer Taj, elects to amuse himself with using his magic to listen to some vinyl and watch the lightning slit the sky.

It’s well past midnight and he’s knee-deep into the Beatles’ Rubber Soul when he hears footsteps behind him.

Electricity and magic spark in the air.

He turns to see Clea, shivering in her nightdress and staring, not at him, but at his stereo. “What’s that?” She says.

As she had the day he told her he wouldn’t kill her, she sounds bewildered.

Stephen gets to his feet, not sure whether she’s referring to the stereo or the music. “It’s called a sound system-“

“I know that.” Her voice is impatient. Lavender eyes flicker to him and then back to the stereo. “I meant- I meant…” She gestures with her hands, a little unsure. A little lost. It looks... wrong on her, somehow. “What is the noise?” Her fingers splay, as if she could actually touch the notes. “What is that vibration?”

“It’s a song,” Stephen says. At her blank look he elaborates. “Music? C’mon, you must have heard of music-“

“I have heard of it, but not heard it,” she says. She sounds distracted. “I- It was not permitted at my father’s court. It was forbidden.” Again that odd blankness she sometimes summons flickers across her face.

“All things lovely were forbidden,” she says quietly. 

Slowly, hesitantly, she enters Stephen’s room. Her eyes still on the stereo she comes to rest stiffly against the side of his bed, her brow furrowed as if in deep thought. Strange slides over, making room for her, and at the sudden movement she startles. Summons a wall of magic between the pair of them as strong as one of the forks of lightning outside.

As quickly as it appears she sends it away. Brusquely she demands whether it had harmed Stephen and when he says no she nods. Sits down on his bed.

She keeps a wide, safe distance between them.

“Might I have such a device?” She asks eventually, minutes later. Songs later.

Stephen nods. “Sure, I think we can swing that. Can I ask why?”

She looks at him, her eyes fathomless and alien. Utterly alien.

“I think it might help me sleep,” she says quietly.