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

Chapter Two // something isn't right

THE PRICE is too high. That is all Casey can think as she weeps.

And there.

He has her on her knees again; begging him to stay.

She wonders, when he is gone in the flash of cameras and red lights and sirens that will surely descend on this bridge in a few minutes now, whether she will ever see him again.

Carted away on a stretcher; the image makes her sick.

She thinks of him, then, in a way she never has before. And though it hurts to think, she does not stop. She thinks of his devotion to his craft and his velvet, burgundy cape and the hitch of his breath when he sings. She thinks of their first, serendipitous encounter and the confidence he instilled in her from the moment they met. She thinks of his vices and virtues and all his secrets. His hearty, drunken laugh and his small sincere smile. She thinks of the way he feels.

Quentin Beck may be the master of illusions but she knows him, the real him, and she realises, suddenly and desperately, that she does not want to stop loving him.

She does not want to lose him.

Not like this.

Adria presses her lips to his and prays for one more miracle.

By now the Stark drones have all cleared from the sky and warm tendrils of light snake onto London bridge. Ash and debris settle under the sun's tender gaze as one of the world's wealthiest cities transforms into a ghost town.

Casey sits back on her heels, tracing the gaping hole in Quentin's suit. The blood flow is slow. It trickles out, not because he is healing, but because there is little left to give. Without thinking, she slips off her jacket. She knows she isn't strong enough to carry his body back, not that she'd know where to bring it, but she refuses to leave him here like this, so she uses the fabric to cleanse the bullet wound. It's the least she can do. She has seen too many dead friends in this lifetime to leave another disgraced. The liquid soaks through the denim and dribbles onto the concrete as if it knows it isn't welcome there. His blood isn't a vibrant red like she expected but dark crimson. It looks black though it stains red and it carries a distinct metallic stink.

She peels away the jacket and a jolt of electricity leaps up her pointer finger.

Adria jerks back, startled. She assumes the wiring in his suit has been damaged. It's not as if she expects anything else when she tears back the green cloth over his abdomen. Although she knows he is dead, her nerves are on edge as she touches his injuries again but even as she tells herself this must just be the shock a second jolt, stronger than the last, charges through her veins. This time she scrambles back.

Something isn't right.

a/n

It's been like two years and I'm re-reading this and I kind of feel like exploring Adria and Quentin's relationship a bit more cos like...well, cos he's hot and I want to...there's not much else to it so be on the lookout for that book if you're interested, follow for updates and whatever. I'm excited to have some fun with them :)

Strange will be popping up soon!