The Seventh Avenger: Playing With Fire

PROLOGUE

          Sometimes, Connor Barkley hates his job.

          Being a Doctor is a rewarding experience enough, and he enjoys helping people whenever he can. There is nothing more satisfying and heart-warming then assuring a patient that they will be alright, or providing them with the correct medical treatment to save them. The bright smiles and thanks he received in turn were a lovely bonus, and he would be lying if he said the paycheck at the end of the week isn't a nice addition to his bank account either. And his co-workers aren't so bad- most of them, anyway. The jury is still out on whether he considers Doctor Stephen Strange a friend or not.

          But none of these things makes up for the amount of stress weighing down on his shoulders like dead weight. The threat of lawsuit also looms over the top of his head whenever he operates on a patient; one false move, and he could find himself on the inside of a courtroom. The long hours don't help all that much either. He can't remember the last time he spent a full day with his eleven-year-old daughter, Mackenzie. He was never there to both drop her off at school in the morning, or pick her up. Most of the time she's with a sitter. And there have been some instances where he doesn't see her at all. Those days are the worse, and he can't help but feel as if he's missing so much when it comes to her.

          But the thing that makes Connor hate his job the most is walking out into a waiting room and turning the worry of a loved one into grief. He has watched families weep with despair and fall to the ground in shock at the horrible news that their loved one has passed more times than he can count. He knows full well that it is impossible to save everyone; not even Doctors can. But the knowledge of this doesn't make things any less hard.

          "It wasn't your fault, you know."

          Connor doesn't bother turning his head towards the person who has just walked into the locker room. He would recognise that voice from anywhere. Instead, he only continues to tie up the laces of his shoes, though it is proving difficult with his shaking hands. "Can we please not do this right now, Strange?" He quietly requests. "I'm not in the mood, nor do I have the patience."

          Ignoring his plea altogether, Stephen Strange moves forward until he is almost standing in front of his colleague. Leaning against the lockers with his arms over his chest, he says, "I tried to find you afterwards," he explains, his voice mellow. "I was heading to your office when Christine told me that your shift was over. Figured you'd be in here."

          Pulling the laces straight with a fleeting feeling of triumph, Connor finally glances up at the man in front of him. "What do you want, Strange?"

          "I told you, I looked for you-"

          "If this is just going to be one of your usual spiels about how a real Doctor shouldn't be upset about losing a patient, or how this is what I get for helping people that are pass saving, don't bother. I don't need that right now, so you can see yourself out."

          "I think you're being a little overdramatic-"

          The look that Connor shoots him surpasses a glare. "Excuse me?"

          Stephen's chest heaves with a sigh. "I wasn't referring to what happened," he explains. "I was talking about the 'usual spiels' comment that you so eloquently stated. There's nothing to get worked up about, Doctor."

          The fight drains from Connor's body as quickly as it had come, and he slowly pulls himself to his feet. "I didn't mean to snap," he grumbles, reaching to scratch at the back of his neck. "It's just been..."

          It seems that despite his inability to complete this sentence, Strange understands him perfectly. "I heard what happened. I figured that I should offer my condolences."