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

Chapter Seven // you disgust me

"I DON'T understand! This is supposed to work, I thought this would..." Casey releases a frustrated groan, throwing her hands up in the air as the portal closes in on itself, dissolving into a few embers of burning light. She collapses onto the straw mat that has been prickling her bare feet since they got started, pressing a clammy hand against her forehead. While she has scraped most of her hair into a high ponytail, loose strands still cling to her sweat-soaked neck like lifelines. She utters a second, irate groan.

"I'm not sure I understand. The way I see it, you're making good progress," Strange responds, sliding off his sling ring and crossing his arms over his chest, "And it's hardly been a week."

"It's not that," She says, running a tongue over her chapped lips. It's no secret that the stress has gotten to her. What with Quentin's recent death, the shooting at Kamar Taj and being forced to relive certain painful memories, she is struggling to keep it all together. Now, as doubts sink into her mind that she may never retrieve her former knowledge, she's on the verge of a breakdown they don't have time for. This conspiracy around Beck needs a resolution soon, if she is to ever regain her normal life. A stab of guilt pierces her chest as she looks toward Strange and she feels as if in some way she's traded Quentin for the Mystic Arts. She dismisses the thought before her mind can dwell on it any longer, saving herself the trouble of more self-reproach.

"I thought that if I were to train- if I learnt a couple spells again then the rest would just...come flooding back but I remember no more than I did on that bridge. I, I'm just as defenceless, just as..." She clenches her jaw, tugging at a fine thread bordering the mat until it comes free. It slips between her fingers, swaying from side to side and unraveling as gravity drags it downward.

The truth is she blames herself for Quentin's passing. Strange can see this, clear as day, written into the creases on her forehead. Until this plot has unravelled like that thread, she has no hope for solace. There is no comfort to be found even in the presence of magic, despite her former longing for the skill. It has become just another distraction from reality. He sympathises for this woman who has endured so much in such little time and the words have almost left his lips when-

IF YOU LIKE IT THEN YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT

IF YOU LIKE IT THEN YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT

Casey quirks an eyebrow as the chorus of Beyonce's Single Ladies rings across the room, sounding from the vibrating mobile by the bookshelf. Strange's colour changes as he snatches it off the dresser, mouthing "It's Wong's." Smirking, she bobs her head in disbelief. A smile breaks out on her face when he rolls his eyes and while he is clearly embarrassed, he's good-humoured enough to chuckle, pleased to see her wear an emotion that isn't angst.

"Stephen Strange." He opens, accepting the call. There was no caller ID available but dread trickles down his neck as the audio crackles to life like on old television set. There is something wrong. He can feel it.

"Doctor Strange," The man's accent is American, and though it sounds better suited to yelling than the quiet tone with which he's presently speaking, Strange finds the familiarity calming, "You might wanna turn on the news."

"Who is this?" Strange asks, the question prompting Casey to sit up straight, eyes flashing alert. He gestures toward her with an open palm, wordlessly casting a spell that triggers the scenery to warp around them. Suddenly, they have shifted into a well-furnished lounge. The sudden jerking movement causes Casey to fly forward with inertia until she catches herself on the side of a velvet couch. Recovering her equilibrium, she glares questioningly at Strange while he pries a silver remote free from between the cushions, flicking the television set on. He switches to the first news channel that comes to mind, phone hovering by his ear.