A Fickle Thing

Chapter 11: Falling

Something that looks an awful lot like a missile launcher is aimed at his face.

Stephen Strange recalls the text message he received from Tony Stark late that warm May afternoon when he had been in the middle of a relaxing meditation session:

I know you're probably busy shopping for pointed hats, but we have the beginnings of a situation. Avengers Tower.

The ex-surgeon had made a mental note to switch his phone to "silent" the next time he was meditating and promptly ignored the billionaire's message. Stark, however, was nothing if not persistently annoying.

Clint and Nat have already bet a shocking amount of counterfeit that you won't show up because you're afraid of getting that cloak of yours dirty.

Strange had let out a snort of indignation and had calmly tried to steady his breathing, but the text messages had just kept coming.

Thor and Bruce have an alternative theory that's equally fun: You won a meet and greet with the Washington Wizards, and you're standing in for their mascot.

Stephen smiled a bit at that one. He grabbed his phone and texted back.

And Captain America?

There was a thirty-second pause before Tony replied.

He's not sure you want to be part of this team.

The doctor felt equal waves of annoyance and dismay well up inside him. Just because he craved solitude (and less tedious company) didn't mean that he loathed the Avengers or what they stood for. It didn't mean he found no sense of solidarity in fighting with them.

Stephen Strange hadn't waited to text Iron Man back. He had summoned his cloak and had flown directly to the tower.

What he had stumbled upon was a section of New York in peril: buildings ablaze, citizens screaming and running for cover. Stark filled him in on the situation—a madman named Tony Masters had photographic reflexes, a gang of goons in the hundreds, an overwhelming hatred towards the Avengers, and a death wish.

Strange had tugged at the end of the cloak. "You ready for this?" he murmured, and the magical fabric wriggled along his neck, tickling him inadvertently.

The doctor had suppressed a chuckle and nodded. "Let's go."

Smiling grimly, Strange now casts glances between the missile launcher aimed at him and the goons with dull eyes (and even duller wardrobes) before leaping from the top of the Avengers' Tower.

"The only crime being committed here is an overabundance of spandex," says Strange as wind whips through his dark hair. Behind him, his mantle bobs a nod in agreement.

His legs maintain the motion of running even as the Cloak of Levitation billows behind him, using the wind and a hefty dose of magic to glide across the rooftops of New York. Their movements—perfected over months of training—now appear effortless.

A dozen firefights gleam in his irises, and Stephen can feel the heat of the weapon that was meant for him, like a dragon's warm tongue licking at his heels.

"Beautiful night!" Stark's cheeky voice pipes into his earpiece. "Just look at all those stars!"

"Tony, those are explosions." Hawkeye's voice is static-ridden yet still deadpan.

"Oh. Right." Iron Man streaks across the sky like a scarlet firework, chased by a dozen other smaller streaks, weapons so sophisticated they're even giving the great billionaire, playboy, etc. a run for his money.

The cloak tugs at Stephen's earlobe, alerting him to another barrage of missiles close on his heels.

Strange ducks, dodges, and surges out of the way of the weapons while simultaneously opening portals for the missiles to shoot into. One will end up in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, another in the Gobi Desert.

"Thanks for that," the ex-surgeon murmurs to the crimson cloak, and the fabric bristles a "don't mention it" back.

"Where's Taskmaster?" pipes Captain America's voice in his earpiece.

Stephen scans the sky, shielding his eyes against the sudden crackle of electricity that expands towards the horizon.

"Thor's dealing with him," the doctor says.

Tony quips, "It looks like the other way around. Nat, you wanna help Lord of the Rings out?"

"I'm with Hawkeye," the red head's voice bursts in response. "Jagged Bow just showed up."

Stark clicks his tongue. "Tasky isn't pulling any punches tonight. What about the Hul—never mind."

There is a monstrous ROAR!, and the emerald giant leaps from skyscraper to skyscraper, reminiscent of King Kong, barreling into the ruckus where Thor faces their enemy.

Strange whirls around, circling his sling ring like a lasso, and sends three goons on hovercrafts spinning away. They crash into a tall building, shattering windows and an impressive amount of concrete.

"Nice work!" Iron Man hovers at his side, sporadically shooting blasters out of his palms at foes and dodging enemy fire.

"I've always wanted to know—who pays for the damage we inflict on the city after all these mega sieges?" Stephen shouts to Stark above the fray.

"There was a proposed tax increase for a 'monster battle budget' on the last midterm, but we didn't get the numbers," Stark shoots back. "I blame its failure, as I do all failures, on avocado toast."

"Can we cut the chit-chat?" Cap barks into the comm.

Clint immediately pipes in: "Yeah, some of us are trying to save the world here."

Barton brays like a donkey into their earpieces, and Strange finds a small smile slipping out. Maybe this motley crew isn't so boorish after all, despite their doubting his abilities or willingness to help. He's even starting to enjoy himself.

But a sharp tug on his arm via the cloak jerks him back to reality, and Strange only has a second to pull Stark out of the way of an explosion. The two men tumble through the air until the cloak halts Stephen's momentum by wrapping around him, and Strange jerks Iron Man backwards by holding onto one metal arm.

"You okay?" the doctor asks with a gulp of air.

The expressionless mask of Iron Man stares back at him, but the techie's voice is full of relief. "Give my regards to your bewitched rag."

Then he flies off to assist Clint and Nat. Stephen is about to zoom after him when Captain America's voice crackles through his comm., and he pauses.

Because there is fear in Steve's voice.

"Guys, there's a goon who just showed up and… he—he looks like me."

Thor's voice booms heartily. "Did you forget to mention you had an evil brother, Rogers? I thought that was just me."

"No… No, he's dressed like me. Kind of."

"Well, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Spangles." Tony's voice cuts through background noises of blasts and booms.

The team's line goes quiet for a while as each Avenger tackles the seemingly endless supply of Taskmaster's spandexed minions. Strange whirls in every direction, zig-zagging through the dark sky. He feels the biting wind against his skin and the cloak billowing behind him. Together, they are an unstoppable team. With the cloak, Strange feels safe, protected, and almost invincible. It molds to his body and complements his every move. After five minutes pass, the Sorcerer Supreme is convinced the battle is nearly over; surely, they have won.

And then he hears the scream.

It pierces through his communicator, causing his ears to ring. Strange's body freezes, and the cloak instinctively bunches up against his back, sensing that something is wrong.

The scream belongs to Steve Rogers.

"Cap?" Iron Man tries to hide the fear in his voice, but he's not doing a great job. "Talk to us, Rogers. What's going on?"

Steve doesn't speak for an agonizing fifteen seconds, and Strange scans the rooftops below for signs of him.

Then, finally, a response in quick grunts: "Took…my…shield…"

Stark immediately says, "Strange, could you—"

"I'm on it!" Stephen snaps.

"Hang on, Steve," Iron Man says briskly. "A man of the mystic arts is gonna save you."

"Where, where, where," the ex-surgeon mumbles to himself, and then the cloak is pulling on his arm, indicating a nearby rooftop where the tiny figure of Captain America faces off, weaponless and defenseless, against more than three dozen assassins.

"Down!" Strange cries, and the cloak plunges with him into the mess.

Beams of destructive energy blast all around him, like a mini cyclone. At the center of it, Steve Rogers engages and retreats with hand to hand combat, ducking blaster fire and fighting admirably, but Strange views a bloody wound in his side, and Cap's movements are visibly slowing. There is no time for the doctor to grab and deliver him from the fray—Rogers is fading.

"Go to him." Strange whispers to the cloak, "and don't leave his side until I say so. Even if I get in trouble. Do you understand?"

The magical fabric bristles, hesitating.

"GO—NOW!"

And without a further command, the cloak removes itself from around Stephen's shoulders and flutters to the wounded soldier. Strange watches as the crimson cloak immediately attaches itself around Cap's neck and enfolds Rogers in a protective circle, easing him to the ground and deflecting all blaster fire, leaving Strange to get rid of the remaining goons.

The doctor pauses for a moment, hopes the cloak will be all right, and springs into action. His sling ring spins golden, circular webs, bending reality and shooting it back at his opponents. He takes down five (then ten) men with one fluid motion. But more show up, as if materializing from nowhere, and Strange soon presses against the edge of the skyscraper, shins barking against its short railing.

"Strange—status!" Tony's voice in his ear sounds far away.

The doctor chances a glance back at Steve. The cloak continues to deflect blasts at Captain America, but it's clear that their enemies no longer consider Rogers a prime target.

Strange thinks: They've moved onto me.

"Rogers is injured, but he's protected," shouts Strange above the melee. "I can't hold out much longer…"

How can it be that his enemies are multiplying? And yet, they are. As the ex-surgeon quickens his pace, moving as briskly as his arms will let him, it is inevitable that he will falter eventually. Unfortunately, that happens sooner than he anticipated.

A blast hits him from the side, and Strange stumbles as a second catches him in the chest, knocking him backward and clearing the railing. He is falling, falling, falling—

City lights below spin like stars in his eyes until…everything—

stops.

As if the world suddenly tilted upside down, Stephen begins moving in the opposite direction, upwards, away from the grey pool of pavement below.

Strange is vaguely aware that beneath his scorched and smoking clothing, there is quite a bit of blood, and as it drains from his body, his eyes feel heavier and heavier. But the wind is pleasantly cool against his face, and the sounds of battle are fading away. Do the others know what happened? Stephen wants to tell them, but his earpiece must have been dislodged from the force of the blasts that struck him.

As his awareness slowly returns (flashes of gold and crimson) Strange realizes what must have saved him, and his frustration momentarily distracts him from the pain in his abdomen.

"Cloak…" he manages to get out. Then he coughs, trying to get enough air into his lungs to berate his friend: "You stubborn creature! You were supposed to stay with the Captain! He could die without your help. Leave me!" When there is no response—no characteristic twist on his earlobe or rustle of fabric against his neck, Strange continues to struggle with as much energy as he can muster. "DROP ME. NOW!"

Nothing.

Stephen squirms in mid-air, wriggling his way out of his savior's grasp in the hope that it will get the hint and abandon him to return to Rogers.

"As much as I'd love to drop you right now, I'd probably get in trouble for it, so… Be. Still."

Stephen freezes and forces his foggy brain to think. He hears no flutter, and there is no stiff kiss of fabric against his shoulder blades, only cold and incredibly strong metal hands around his waist, flying with him to a rooftop, setting him down.

"Stark?"

"In the ferrous," says Iron Man, kneeling beside him. His face mask opens up, and Stephen views Tony's countenance: bearded jaw, inquisitive eyes, and frowning lips.

"I thought…you were…the Cloak of Levitation."

"I get that a lot," Tony says, deadpan. Behind them, the explosions from the attack are dying away. Fires still dance near the Avengers' Tower, but the smoke is clearing. It stings Stephens' eyes as his disbelief at Tony saving him sinks in. But then waves of pain begin to roll up his chest, and he lurches forward.

Iron Man catches him by the shoulders, steadying the mage.

"You're a doctor, right? Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

Strange would be happy to articulate, but the blood loss is beginning to make his thoughts all muddled, and he would like nothing more than to curl up and take a nap.

"Internal…external…hemorrhaging," he manages to get out, each word thicker than the last.

Tony mutters, "Just great," and addresses his comm. "Clint—how's Cap?"

Hawkeye's voice bursts through static. "He's stabilized. Paramedics are on their way."

"Hunky dory," says Stark. "Nat—time to rein in the big guy. And Thor—what's Tasky up to?"

The god of thunder replies, but Stephen can't hear anymore. He's falling backwards. With all that just transpired, Dr. Strange shouldn't be surprised that Iron Man catches him, but he is. His vision focuses on Stark's face as he speaks, but there is no sound. It's as if the billionaire is simply mouthing the words: Stay with me. Strange. Stay with me.

The ex-surgeon's last thoughts contain a mixture of surprise and delight that the ever-loquacious Tony Stark is, at last, silenced. It seems his interrupted meditation session will be completed, after all.

"Do you have any hobbies, like knitting or bird-watching?"

"No." Ca-thunk!

"If that pizza guy doesn't show up soon, I'm gonna lose it."

"Clint, have a seat, or you'll aggravate that cut."

"What about film? Or disc golf?"

"What is disc golf?" Ca-thunk!

"I'm gonna aggravate Stark if he doesn't shut up!"

Strange wakes up slowly. Everything is warm and comfortable (probably due to large amounts of drugs in his system) and there is something soft draped across his lap. The doctor opens his eyes and finds himself surrounded by Avengers. Stark sits near his bedside with his legs crossed, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. Thor sits next to him, tossing his hammer up and down (the familiar ca-thunk! sound). Black Widow and Clint Barton stand near the window. There is an ugly gash across Hawkeye's right cheek. All of them look exhausted.

Tony starts forward when Stephen moves slightly, his eyes widening. "It's okay. You're okay. He's okay, right?"

Romanoff nudges Stark out of the way and wraps her hand around Strange's battered one. She must remember the constant state of his hands because her touch is nothing but light.

"How are you feeling?"

Stephen swallows painfully and manages a hoarse, "I've been better." His abdomen throbs from where he was hit.

"Christine just went to see another doctor, but she'll be back soon," Natasha says. "Wong is on his way. And Bruce would be here, but the other guy really takes it out of him. He'll check in on you tomorrow."

The ex-surgeon takes in her words with bemusement. He would expect Christine and Wong to visit him in the hospital. The others being there puzzles him.

"Why…" His voice is scratchy, and Stephen clears it. "…are you all here?"

"Because you're one of us."

The voice is soft, yet steady, and commands the attention of the room. Captain America is propped up in the doorway, IV in tow.

"Steve!" Nat exclaims and gets to him quickly, Stark right behind her. Together, they help Rogers into a chair at Strange's bedside. The two Avengers take in each other's injuries, and Steve speaks at last.

"I owe you an apology."

Dr. Strange forces his eyes not to roll. He tries to wave his hand nonchalantly, but it falls back on his bed. "You owe me nothing," he rasps out.

"I doubted you," Rogers continues, "and I'm sorry. If it hadn't been for you and your cloak—"

"The cloak!" Strange sits up in bed, causing the wound in his chest to pull. Thor reaches a hand out to gently push him back down. "What happened to the cloak? 'S it all right?"

Cap glances at Hawkeye with confusion. Clint purses his lips together as if to prevent laughing out loud. Nat and Thor exchange smiles while Tony scratches his stubble.

"Yeah, Dumbledore," Stark says. "I think it is."

Something tickles Stephen's ear, and the sorcerer looks down to find the cloak covering his lap; it was there the entire time. Like a faithful dog, it stirs with his touch and flattens out again, keeping him warm, protecting him.

"You are one of us too," he mumbles to it softly, his words slurring. "Thank you."

A ripple of contentment goes through the cloak, and Strange falls asleep with his hand holding onto a corner of it.

TBC

A/N: Thanks to The Magic Within and Eve Prime for requesting/inspiring this little fic. I just saw "Endgame" this weekend and had a craving for Steve h/c (and Stephen h/c—always!). Next chapter involves the Cloak playing a prank on the other Avengers. Thanks for reading and sticking with me! I am waaaay behind on thanking and responding to reviews, but I read each and every one of them. Feel free to keep submitting requests for different ideas/storylines. You are all awesome!

~Ista