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As the fabric pulls over his scars, the shame in his chest heats and spreads to his cheeks. His shame. No one else will have to share in it, not as long as he hides it. The moment the yellow gloves slide completely onto his hand, Doctor Strange lets out a sigh and lifts his eyes to the window.
The newest addition to the Avengers is scheduled to arrive at any moment. Normally, Stephen would want nothing to do with the super-powered team unless fate deemed it absolutely necessary to meet (such as when Thor came looking for his father), but given that this Avenger’s particular powers angle toward the mystical, it seems like a good move for them to meet sooner rather than later.
The Beast. A shape-shifting monstrosity with strength on par with the Hulk’s, but the heart and intelligence of the others; in other words, Beast had bite to match the bark, but the sense to not bite the feeding hand. Beast showed up for the fight, disappeared otherwise.
Someone knocks on the door. The raps echo through the Sanctum. Strange takes a deep breath, turns, and waves his hand.
A person stumbles in front of him, eyes wide, trying to orient themselves.
“What the…?” you mutter, grasping the bookshelf near the wall and bending over. Weren’t you just outside on the street, completely sober? Why does it feel like you suddenly woke up in someone’s apartment, hung over?
“Forgive me. The nausea will pass—it comes with the disorientation,” Stephen says, mouth twitching. Everyone reels the same: Gods, Avengers, and humans alike.
“You couldn’t open the door like a normal person?” you mutter, straightening. You turn to face him and Stephen’s stomach drops.
Scars cover one side of your face, uneven bumps and ridges, a patchwork on your face. One line runs down your jaw, skips along your neck, and disappears beneath the collar of your shirt. His eyes follow it. “You must be The Beast,” he says, forcing his eyes back up to yours.
But it’s too late. You saw him staring. “The name’s (Y/N). And you are?” you ask, picking at your sleeve, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Doctor Stephen Strange,” he replies, guilt bridling inside him. Isn’t this why he dons gloves everyday? To avoid people staring like he had just done? “Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
“Kind of regret it,” you whisper beneath your breath, so low Stephen barely catches it. His ears go pink. This isn’t how this should be going. “What did you want to meet for?”
“Your powers,” Stephen says.
You stare at him, an eyebrow quirked. “What about them?”
He opens his mouth, shakes his head, look at his hands. You shove your hands in your pocket and glare at the window, your scars turned away from him, wondering if people’s reactions to your face would ever stop bothering you.
“Forgive my staring,” Stephen begins.
“You’re not the first,” you comment, leaning against the bookshelf.
He humorlessly chuckles. “Let me explain, please.” His eyes flick up to yours and you slowly nod, a bit taken aback by the spark in their blue depths. “Obviously, I wasn’t expecting your scars,” he continues. “However, given your line of duty it only makes sense you would have them. But that’s still no excuse… What I’m trying to say, well, what really caught my attention wasn’t the scars themselves, but… here, let me show you.”
He slowly, deliberately slides off one yellow glove. The cool air pleasantly rolls across his skin and he lifts his hand so you can clearly see the nasty scars running along each finger, each curve. His hand shakes. You stare at it with wide eyes. He chuckles self-consciously. “I pull these on every morning to hide my scars, but you come in here, just… you. Quite frankly, I can’t help but admire that. Admire you.”
Heavy silence meets his words. You duck your head so Stephen can’t see your face, and he wonders how badly he screwed this up. Swallowing, he pulls off the other glove and tosses both aside. “I’m sorry if my staring offended you, but my intentions were quite the opposite,” he finishes, letting his hands fall, exposed, to his sides. A tense breath passes through his body, one where he wishes he could use the Eye of Agamotto for such mundane things as avoiding awkward conversations. When he glances back up, you have an enormous grin on your face, and the way your eyes light up absolutely dazzles him.
“We match,” you say.
In response, Stephen lifts one hand and covers half his face.
You laugh. The sound makes him smile—he immediately wants to hear it again.
“So you wanted to talk about my powers?” you question, still smiling. “Because I have more than a few questions about yours.”
Relief courses through Stephen. “Yes. Please, come over here. Sit. Let’s discuss it over tea.”