Marvel Imagines

Stephen Strange - Hands

Warnings: brief descriptions of injuries
Notes: we're just gonna pretend Strange is in his late twenties, 'cause I don't know his real age
---

"It's not going to work," a man scolded. I turned my head to see him, unshaven, disheveled. His fingers fit into the stretching bands they had most of us use. He was here maybe twice a week, same days as me. Then again, I came in almost everyday. 

His physical therapist responded calmly to the man's outbursts, daring him to prove him wrong.

"Who's that?" I asked my own therapist, Shawn. My voice was quiet and raspy.

"Seriously? You don't know who he is?" Hisvoice was incredulous. I shrugged. "It's Doctor Stephen Strange. He was recently in a really bad car crash. It cost him his job... and a lot of his money."

"Like me?" Ashamed, Shawn looked away from me. He must have forgotten that I was in a similar situation.

"But don't worry. You'll bounce back. You're gonna be playing again in no time."

"It's been a month. I still can't play anything with strings, I can barely shave, I can't eat a damn sandwich without help. What exactly is 'soon' to you?"

Shawn sighed, pulling a hand through his hair. "I know it's hard."

"Do you?" I glared at the dark pink scars running across my hands and over arms. It seemed impossible for me to be a musician after this. My fingers were difficult to move on there own, but the pain that shot up my arms was so prominent that I didn't want to try anymore. The glare of my watch caught my attention. "I have to go. My mother should be here soon. She doesn't like to wait." I scoffed at myself as I pulled my bag over my shoulder.

I left home when I was eighteen, never expecting to come back. Now I sat here, in my mid-twenties, needing my mother's assistance for everything I did.

When she pulled up in her fancy car, she jumped out of the driver's seat to open a door for me. "You look awful," she mentioned with a disgusted glance. She didn't care if it was obvious that she was disappointed in me.

"It wasn't my fault, y'know."

Her face snapped to me. "You were a prodigy." Her glare bore into my soul. "You could have had everything, and you-"

"Threw it all away?" I interrupted. It was accusatory, but quiet, like the rumble of thunder so far away you couldn't see it's preceding bolt of lightning.

"Yes! You did!" She pulled into the driveway of the large house that I bought for her. She got out of the car and slammed her door, rushing into her home and leaving me in the car.

I pushed my thumb into the belt buckle, cringing as the muscles contracted, and pushed open the door with difficulty.

***

"I'm sorry," I called to him. He turned to look at me with eyes squinted in confusion.

"Do I know you?"

"Well, not really, but our paths have crossed a few times. My name is (f/n)(l/n). I'm the reason you can't use your hands."

"No you're not," he scolded.

"I don't... what?"

"It was my fault. Besides," he lifted his hands, they shook slightly, but he could squeeze his fingers. "It's coming back to me."

Tears burned my eyes. He was so much better after all these months. His hair was short, his beard cleanly trimmed. I didn't know how I didn't realize sooner. In a sudden surge of courage, I lunged at him, pulling him into a hug.

"You have no idea how much that means to me." I wept into his shirt. My hands were still too stiff to wrap into the cloth, but my wrists pushed against his back. His hands rested against my shoulders like a much needed coat in a rainstorm.

"Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?" he pulled away to ask.

"That would be nice." I smile up at him. "Though, be forewarned, I might have some troubles." I presented my shaking hands.

"I may be able to help you with that."

***

The teacup tattered back into its saucer.

"When was the last time you want to physical therapy?" Stephen asked.

I chewed the inside of my cheeks, staring at the liquid in front of me. "Um, I stopped going last month."

"What about your mother? Doesn't she want you going? I overheard you when I last went." He tried to deflect the awkwardness of his last statement. It worked, but pulled the conversation into a somber state.

"She... kicked me out." Each word was staggered.

"What?" Was all Stephen replied. He was angry, that was certain. "How could someone do that to-" he cut himself off and shook his head.

"It's for the better," I tried to reassure.

"Where are you staying?"

Once again I looked to the porcelain cup in front of me. With a forced smile, I looked up at Doctor Stephen Strange. "A woman's shelter."

"Come with me. I have more than enough room, and..." It seemed he was debating whether or not to tell me something. "I may have a way to fix your hands."

"Deal."

We left the café and made our way to 177a Bleeker Street. Everything I knew was about to be changed.