While art is subjective, your hate for Stephen Vincent Strange was pure and simple. An arrogant, crude and tasteless man. One of close-minded thinking and a lack of creativity.
This was the type of person any artist like you would despise.
~~~
All...
"Is L/n here?" Stephen walked into the living room, scaring Clint half to death. The archer immediately kneeled down to clean up his spilled pistachios.
"Studio, duh," he scoffs, frowning at his ruined snack.
"Thanks," he follows the simple directions with a quick portal and two knocks on the door.
Your groan was heard from the other side. "Bucky, Sam, for the last time, I have plans-" opening the door, you were met with Stephen, "shit, hey- hi," you stammer.
"Hi," he said with an amused smile, "Wilson and Barnes annoying you again?"
"A little," you mumble before pulling the door ajar, "come on- and ignore my mess, but my planning is here," guided to the scattered desk, a stack of crumpled papers overflowed a waste paper basket just below and any lucky drafts were stuck upon the wall. "So I need you to approve all this stuff I'm going to use, then... I'm going to ask to look at some memories,"
Stephen gives you a once over, "What memories?"
"Well, these are sketches from what you described, but some of them aren't exact- plus just images of stuff you didn't talk about... only if you want to share," you hand over some sketches of things from the ramen stall to the drink at the bar, "not sure which ones I'll make 3D or not, but that's what I have,"
He would be a blatant liar if he didn't say your work was beyond brilliant; the details and attention easily brought it to life. "Wow..."
"Wow, good or wow, bad? Because if it's bad, then I can change-"
"No, no, it's... it's amazing; these look so real," his hand brought them up closer so he could see each stroke of graphite or ink.
You had gotten praise before, awards even, but this pure awe every once in a while of reacting to a personal piece made your heart melt. The way he stayed silent while shuffling through them was such a fulfilling sight; even the slight tinge of pink at sketches of him made his eyes glance up at you for a second. It made you feel something new. Something exciting.
"They're amazing; you did an amazing job," he hands them back.
"Good, good," you then fix a few things to prepare. "So the memory thing is a bit simple, just give me your hand and try to imagine a special memory to you, doesn't matter what it is, anything you want me to see. So let's get comfy,"
His hands were slightly cold, slipping into yours once he sat on the seat next to you. The tremble was very subtle as your skin touched, but he felt less and less nervous once rested. A smidge of magic gently curled around your joint hands, his magic slowly peaking through the surface of his skin to envelop your own. Stephen's eyes closed once he saw your other hand grab a pen and sketchbook.
~~~
"Stephen!" A little girl laughs aloud, "Come on, it's the last day of winter!" She tosses him his skates while holding her own. "Momma! Come on!" She begs.
"Donna, keep calm," a woman who looked to be the girl's mother fitted a scarf around the young boy. "Keep her safe, okay? I'll watch from afar," she lets them run off.
"Come on, Don," the boy, who could only be Stephen, lifted the girl in his arms, putting her on his shoulder. "Ready to skate?" He looked back to the small cabin, the snow falling like refined icing sugar.
"Not too far on the lake!" His mother yells, fitting on her boots and walking after.
The memory started to get hazy from there, turning into flashes of images: the lake, a laugh turned to scream, a little boy begging for help. His legs skated as fast as he could towards the shattered ground.
A woman ran over, pulling Stephen from broken ice as she dove in. Seconds felt like hours until a woman emerged with the little girl. Her skin was a horrific blue, and her lips purple, glass-like ice growing along her fur coat.
"Donna... please wake up,"
Helplessness is all you could feel. Your eyes gently opened to see tears streaming from his. They were shut tight, lips trembling like his soon-empty hands. Stephen didn't expect your thumb to wipe away his tears, both cupping his face in comfort.
"She... uhm," he stammers through his words, not wanting to open his eyes.
"You don't have to say anything," is all you mutter, hesitantly pulling him into an embrace.
"She's why I became a doctor, you know?" The words eventually slip, "wonder what she'd say now,"
"She would be so proud of you, Stephen," his eyes were glossed over, a tinge of red at the edges, "she would be so proud of the man you've become,"
"You think so?" He asks unsurely. "I mean, the things I've done. The way I've treated patients, my colleagues, Christine... you, oh god, the way I've been treating you," his eyes looked so drained from the realisation. "I'm so sorry, Y/n,"
"Woah, Stephen, hey," your hand slowly moved towards his shoulders, grounding him as needed. A gentle laugh of comfort was given at his sudden ramble of apologies, "You don't need to say sorry for anything, so take a breath," he tried his best to follow your words, "Take a breath for me, okay?" These words seemed like a sincere melody of worry, guiding him towards composure.
"I can do that," he nods, laughing a little at his sudden emotions bubbling towards the surface.
"And if you want me to ignore that entire memory, tell me, okay?" Your thumb rubs over the tip of each scar with care, eventually moving up to his cheek. It was gentle, sweet, and kind. A type of kindness that made his heart fall between speeding up or skipping a beat or two.
"No, I think... I think it's good I did that," he decides, "I've never really talked about it,"
"Never?" in response, he simply shakes his head, so you sigh, "I know you've probably heard everyone say this at some point, but if you ever need to talk..." your hand adjusts in his, "know I'd happily listen,"
He couldn't help it. The sincerity in your eyes, touch and voice were enough to melt any hate away; cold dismay or appeal all vanished into thin air. Somehow just a simple action changed the perspective of it all.
~~~
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