The Sorcerer's Apprentice {Stephen Strange}

Thirty

Hey Jude by The Beatles

"Oh my god, how do you think of these words? You're like a walking dictionary," Amanda questions, impressed with Strange's scrabble skills. Emerson just shakes her head, laughing. Strange is a very intelligent man so it doesn't surprise the sergeant one bit that he's a pro at Scrabble. 

"He's a neurosurgeon, honey. Of course he's going to know some words," Emerson's father says aloud making Strange chuckle. After Emerson completes her turn at the game, she

"Would anyone like some champagne? A beer?" She inquires from the other room, willing to bring anyone a drink.

"I'll take a beer," her father shouts back before playing his next turn at Scrabble. 

"Champagne would be amazing," Amanda responds and Strange briskly steps up from the couch, heading straight into the kitchen.

"Here, let me help you," he kindly comments while trailing up to the counter. Emerson looks up from pouring a glass. 

"No, it's okay. I've got it," Emerson tries declining but he keeps insisting. She sets the beer bottles in her lap, adjusting them to ensure that they don't fall. Strange reaches forward. 

"It's not a big deal. I'll carry the two glasses and you carry the beer," he says with a smile while grabbing both of the fully poured glasses of champagne. Emerson rolls her eyes at him even though she knows he's only trying to help. 

"Strange, I said I've got it. Thank you for the offer, really, but I don't need help with this. I am fully capable and willing to do this on my own... That's why I offered to grab drinks in the first place," the sergeant snaps, annoyed with his persistence. It would be different had she asked for help, desperate for assistance. Being in a wheelchair doesn't automatically make her weak or incapable, and it sure as hell doesn't warrant unsolicited help. Frankly, it's annoying and berating when people assume she needs assistance. What's so hard about carrying a few drinks?

She grabs one of the glasses from his hand and wedges it in her seat, careful not to spill it while she pushes her chair past him and back into the living room. Strange stands in the kitchen, wine glass in hand and a dumbfounded look plastered on his face. He takes a sip before following her back to the living room.

"How soon will dinner be ready?" The sergeant asks while listening to her stomach growl. It doesn't help that the entire house smells like the delicious food cooking in the oven. 

"Why? In a hurry to get out of here?" Her father jokes, trying to lighten the mood after hearing what happened in the kitchen. Instead of lightening the mood, a sour frown appears on her face. 

"You know I'd stay with you if I could," Emerson tells him. Strange looks down at his glass, trying his best to hide any disappointment reflecting off his face. "Besides, I'll be back home in no time. Give me a couple of months and you'll be stuck seeing me every day."

"Oh kiddo," he lets out a small laugh before coughing a little. "I'm not sure I'll be here in a few months but I like the optimism," his face drops into a saddened smile while the tips of his fingers find their way to his temples. An awkward and tense silence fills the air. Nobody likes to talk about death-- it's unfortunate and uncomfortable. Emerson opens her mouth about to say something but Amanda beats her to it. 

"Perfect timing! Dinner is ready— the timer just went off," Amanda butts in, diverting the conversation. Strange abruptly stands, eager to eat and start a new conversation. He makes his way to the table where Amanda is already sitting down, and he pulls a chair out for Emerson's father.

"Why thank you, Doc," her father beams, impressed with Strange's politeness. Before Emerson can make her way to the table, Strange pulls a chair out for her as well, assuming she'd like to leave the wheelchair for dinner.