An Imaginary Throne // Doctor Strange // Far From Home

Chapter One // one more miracle

THE SECOND Quentin Beck's feet hit the floor, Casey Kaecillius swipes the half-empty beer bottle from his hand. The cool exterior feels like ice against her skin and she quickly wipes her palm against her black denim jeans, pulling a face. The odour of pungent cigarette smoke and cheap liquor radiates from the bar but she's used to it. Beck shakes his head, still laughing, with a look on his face that screams, "This is crazy." It's the same expression everyone is wearing tonight.

"I can't believe that worked." She says, breathlessly.

Casey tips her head back and takes a long swig. In the golden pub lights, a hundred aureate threads appear to sparkle in the pools of her hazel eyes. Having finished the drink, she places it on an empty stool and leans against the counter. Her fingertips glisten with moisture. Quentin is a whole head taller than her, so she's secretly grateful when he sits down.

"The kid's gullible. I kind of feel bad for him."

For a moment he holds her gaze, then they start laughing again. Her blood hot with adrenaline, she fiddles with the ends of his cape, running her thumb along the thick, red velvet as he watches her. The entire time, there's a smile playing on his lips.

It's no secret that he enjoys this. The power, that is. What with the spotlight bathing his skin and the cheering crowd of supporters- loyal supporters at that -it's all he ever wanted. No longer is he on the sidelines of Stark Industries but the main attraction.

"Let me see." Casey says, gesturing to EDITH with her eyes. The Stark glasses are lodged under his collar so he pulls them free, knocks open the silver temples and slips them on. The second he does, a grin lights up his face.

"So," He says, striking a pose with one eyebrow quirked comedically, "What do you think?"

She's surprised he hasn't finger-gunned yet.

"Can I be perfectly honest?"

He hums in affirmation, apparently in a jesting mood.

"The kid was lying when he said they suited you."

Quentin feigns hurt. She rolls her eyes at how the man who called Tony Stark a boozy man-child is acting just like one.

"At least say you like the costume?" He asks in mock desperation.

"You mean the fishbowl? It's what I've always wanted in a man."

"Personally, I think the spandex does wonders to my figure."

Casey has to stifle her laughter when he flexes his biceps but a particularly tenacious blush rises to her cheeks nonetheless.

"If it makes you feel any better, you're still the sexiest snowglobe I've ever met."

This time, it's Quentin who smothers a smile.

"It's an honour." He says, snatching a greasy french fry from a nearby platter.

For a moment they sit in silence.

Quentin surveys the bar in quiet contemplation and Casey fiddles with the sling ring on her left hand. Soon, she can feel his eyes on her. She is afraid she'll let something slip if she looks so she simply sits and massages the metal into her fingers. The truth is that even now, she is fooling him. It's ironic, tricking the self-proclaimed master of deception, but she has her father to thank for that.

"Do you want a distraction? From that."

Though her fears are irrational, she flinches at the sound of his voice. Habitually, she digs a nail into the space between her thumb and index finger. It's supposed to be a subtle gesture but it doesn't escape his notice.

"You can't stop thinking about him, can you?" He tries again. This time his tone is glazed with concern.

Inhaling slowly, Casey raises her head. A quiet sigh escapes her lips and she jerks her foot back. The heel of her trainer strikes the steel stool behind her and it falls to the floor with a dull, resounding clang.

As far as Quentin is concerned, the ring is a family heirloom, passed down a dozen generations before her. He thinks Casey had to lift it from her father's dead body on that fateful day in Sokovia when the world turned upside down. There weren't many people, in this bar or on the planet, who thought otherwise. Fewer still, knew the truth about her father and how his rebellion against the Mystic Arts had led to her dismissal seven years ago- How she had been unjustly rejected time and time again, lost everything she loved and been forced to start anew because of something as simple as putting trust in the wrong man.

Faith is an expensive commodity. It is incredibly rare and once it has been lost; it is impossible to regain.

Casey has the most faith in Quentin of anyone on the planet and, even then, she doesn't- she can't trust him with this.

So she lies.

"All those years ago, Sokovia was the biggest disaster the world had ever seen. No one could have predicted the Snap. How can I sit here and mourn someone who was dying long before Ultron when there are people who lost everything? And all those casualties. God, people lost five years of their life, they died mid-operation, airplanes came crashing down, Earth lost its supposed heroes...Compared to that, nothing matters."

Even now, the image of her father haunts her mind's eye. In it, he is laughing at her. It isn't a pleasant laugh like Quentin's which rekindles the fire in her soul but rather one that smothers it with cruelty and pillages what is left.

"Don't apologise for feeling things, Casey. No one else's problems invalidate yours."

When he squeezes his forearm, his hand is warm like a faint reminder of home and then, as if he knows she's flustered at the gesture, he leans closer. For a second, she thinks he's about to kiss her but instead he speaks.

"I promise you we'll make him pay, no matter the price."

When he whispers, his voice is a low, crackling hum, like static on a radio.

a/n

Couple neat plot twists in this one if I say so myself. Keep reading lovelies ✨