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sobeautifullyobsessed · 2 years

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A Different Kind of Magic - chapter one: a quiet beginning

a Doctor Strange x OFC fic

(based on roleplay with @doctorstrangeaskblog)

summary: A fascinating stranger enlists the help of librarian Beauty Lincoln for some research he is doing on a some haunted pieces of property in New York City's Hell's Kitchen. They eventually strike up an unlikely friendship, which strengthens once he decides he can trust her, and she inadvertently discovers his day job involves magic and mysticism. And all the while Beauty is falling in love with the charming, albeit enigmatic man. Will Stephen Strange catch on to the many ways she tries to tell him what she's feeling--and will he someday come to feel the same way for her? This story is based on an ongoing role play with a Doctor Strange blog, @doctorstrangeaskblog. Occurs pre Infinity War.

characters: Stephen Strange, Beauty Lincoln (OFC)

rating: general audience

word count: 2.1k

Alone in the fourth floor stacks at the end of her work day, Beauty’s mind had gone woolgathering, thinking about the very handsome, very distinguished looking gentleman who had so well occupied a portion of her afternoon. His interest in those reference books-–which she was now shelving–-had been both rare and unusual, piquing her curiosity as to exactly what he’d needed them for. Those particular texts were some of the oldest in the Library, and as such, they could not be lent out, let alone be removed from the fourth floor.

Moreover, the man had seemed to understand their intrinsic value without needing an explanation or word of caution, and he had handled them much more carefully than most patrons she had previously assisted with similarly aged materials. Beauty realized this was due in part to the tremors evident in his badly scarred hands–-but she believed it was more out of respect for the age and nature of the books themselves. Which, of course, would have been enough to make her like him-–even if their initial interaction hadn’t already intrigued her.

She’d been typing up the monthly figures on patron usage and materials circulation, when a man stepped up to the desk and cleared his throat to get her attention. “Ms. Lincoln?” he had asked in a deferential tone (having read the name plate on her desk), and she had looked up from her laptop screen into a pair of blue-green eyes that immediately struck her as both wise and patient. And which had somehow made her sit a little straighter in her chair, as though she wanted him to see that she was worthy of her title as Head Archivist of the main branch of The New York Public Library.

Her fingers paused their tapping of their own accord as she turned her full attention on him. “Yes, that’s…that’s me.” The left corner of his mouth ticked up into the precursor of a smile, and that made her want to smile back. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, please…” he had begun, and Beauty had listened to him describe in detail what he was looking for. Even as her mind began to formulate the search parameters she would need to locate what he required, she was watching him, surprisingly entranced by the fine crinkles at the corners of his remarkable eyes and the extraordinary angles and planes of his finely chiseled face. Intelligent, well-spoken, exceptionally polite, on top of being tall, dark-haired, and handsome–why she couldn’t remember the last time she’d encountered a man in this hodgepodge of a City that ticked off so many of the qualities on her wish list, and on first impression, no less!

The streaks of white at his temples and his meticulously trimmed mustache and goatee added an air of sophistication that reminded her of the romantic leads in some of her favorite romance films. Olivier’s Maxim de Winter. Plummer’s Captain Von Trapp. Colin Firth in just about anything. And even Branagh’s Roman Strauss from the 90′s flick, Dead Again. Beauty could only hope those very uncharacteristic thoughts did not flit across her face.

She had nodded once he had concluded, confident that she could gather the reference books he wanted in short order. She already had a fairly good idea of the general area to look, and hitting the search bar on her laptop confirmed her hunch. She closed her computer and stood up as she explained, “Those stacks are for library personnel only, Mister…”

“Strange,” he replied, without missing a beat,

“…Mr. Strange,” she continued, a little surprised at his unusual surname, “But you are welcome to wait here while I track down what you’re looking for.” She motioned to a set of four, evenly spaced tables at the center of the room, only one of which had been currently occupied. “While I can’t allow the materials to leave this floor, as long as I or one of my assistants is manning this desk, you can study them at length”

“Sounds perfect,” he nodded, and this time he did smile--crookedly, genuinely, and in Beauty’s humble estimation, quite charmingly.

“This will probably take me about ten minutes or so, Mr. Strange--if you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course.” He had tilted his head as an acknowledgement and headed over to take a seat at the table nearest her desk.

It had actually taken Beauty a bit longer to collect the books than she had expected, including two trips up the five step, rolling access ladder to retrieve items from the top shelves of separate rows. No one’s looked at these in years...at least not during my tenure, she thought, wondering if Strange’s interest in the buildings in Hell’s Kitchen was architectural. She couldn’t imagine any other reason, except that his request for land ownership records going back before the American Revolution didn’t fit with that theory.

Task accomplished, she wheeled the small book cart containing the materials out to the public area of the Reference Floor, where she found Strange perusing a recent copy of The Lancet--which he must have found in the unbound periodical section. That seemed curious--unless he was a 21st century version of a Renaissance man, with interests and skills in multiple areas of study.

Beauty parked the cart beside Strange’s table, and then laid a pair of white cotton gloves before him. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she told him, eyeing the dark network of scars marking his hands. Hands which otherwise would look like an artist’s--a sculptor’s, a painter’s, or perhaps even a surgeon’s--leaving her to wonder what sort of accident or event could have wreaked that level of damage. “Some of those pages are quite fragile, and we like to keep them protected from even the slightest contact with the oils occurring naturally on skin.”

“Right,” he said quietly, almost to himself, picking up the gloves, “A wise precaution...”

Although he had looked determined to follow her request, Beauty quickly realized the gloves she had provided would be a tight fit, “Oh...hold on a moment, Mr. Strange. I think I’ve got a larger pair in one of my desk drawers.” She moved swiftly to check the bottom drawer, and was relieved to find exactly what she needed, returning to him with a fresh pair, wrapped in cellophane. “These will probably be better for you,” she told him, offering a conciliatory smile and tearing open the packaging to save him the trouble.

Strange looked up at her gratefully as she handed the gloves over, though he also looked a little sad, “Thank you, Ms. Lincoln...for everything.”

Beauty’s heart went out to him; she supposed his days must be filled with little moments such as this, when someone overlooked that his injuries might require a different approach to everyday tasks. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Strange--and please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything more I can do for you.”

“Will do.” When he smiled this time, it seemed to Beauty as though sunshine had broken through cloud cover. She could well imagine there were few women--like herself, anyway--immune to that sort of easy charm.

Over two hours later, her newest patron appeared to be finishing up his research. While going about her work, Beauty had been sneaking occasional looks his way, checking on his progress as he’d been taking notes on a small legal pad. Now, Strange set his pen and paper aside, and stripped the gloves from his hands; he’d closed his eyes and was stretching his neck to either side after being hunched so long over those old texts. She meandered over, on pretext of collecting several periodicals which another patron had discarded on a neighboring table. They were now the only two people in the room.

“So--were any of those materials helpful?”

He opened his eyes, and even before he answered, Beauty could tell he was pleased with the results he had gotten. “Absolutely--exactly what I needed,” he stressed. “You know, far too many people think that everything can be solved with a quick Google search. But I’ve found that--old-fashioned as the concept may be--books really are irreplaceable.”

She had grinned, exclaiming, “Right? Too few people get that these days.” Beauty perched on the edge of the table, close enough for a cozy conversation. “I get at least a half dozen kids a week--college age and high schoolers--who have no idea that Wikipedia isn’t the be-all, end-all of research.”

“Well, they’re missing out,” he agreed, “There’s a lot to be said for the tactile sensation of book in hand, as opposed to studying off of a computer screen or even a tablet. And something quite comforting about the idea of generations of students before us having succeeded by using the very texts we hold in our hands today.”

Here was a man speaking intelligently about one of her passions--however was she too resist? Beauty wanted to know more about him. “It sounds like you’ve experienced that close at hand.”

“Oh, yes,” Stephen chuckled, angling his chair to face her more comfortably, “Years and years. Undergrad. Medical school. And years later...a, uh...well, let’s just say an unexpected change in careers. All made possible by the knowledge collected in countless copies of these...” He patted the pile of books on his table.

Hmmmm...well that explains The Lancet...but he also said ‘change in careers’. Intuition told her that such a change might have had something to do with his hands--and about that, Beauty felt it would be poor of her to pry. “Well then...Doctor Strange...” He favored her with a wee, sideways smile. “I’m very glad for the opportunity to have helped you today. Especially considering that you have such an honest appreciation for the written word.”

“And I’m glad to know that the City has such a savvy, dedicated guardian for some of its most valuable--albeit hidden--treasures.” Strange stood up, and extended his hand to Beauty.

She felt a sudden flush color her cheeks as she realized he was likely offering a unique opportunity. That given the way his hands shook, and that their disfigurement might also come with some level of discomfort, his proffer might be a rare thing indeed. Beauty smiled shyly and gave a little shrug before gingerly taking his hand. “You’re very kind to say so, Doctor...”

Quietly amused, he leaned a little closer to her, his voice dropping low and confidential, “It’s Stephen...please...”

“Of course...Stephen.” Beauty lowered her eyes; she felt a little breathless, with such a charming, handsome man so close to her. So close, and with her hand still softly cradled in his. No need to let go, anytime soon, she was thinking, this is really...really...nice. She dared look back to him, and could have sworn from the look in his mesmerizing eyes that he had caught a drift of her thoughts. “Um,” she swallowed, “Please do come by again if there’s anything...anything more I can do to help.” And maybe we could grab a cup of coffee in the cafe downstairs...

Strange gave her hand a little squeeze before releasing it. “You can count on that, Ms. Lincoln,” he grinned, “If not for research, then perhaps we can talk books some more.”

Beauty had nodded, feeling a little tongue tied, and he had turned to go--but at the elevator just outside the glass doors past her desk, he turned around and gave a little wave, an she waved back. A quiet departure, to be sure, but one that left her rather wistful and wishing with all her might that this fascinating gentleman would have a reason soon to revisit the sanctum of the fourth floor.

Having finished returning his materials to their proper places, Beauty saw that there were only minutes left to closing time. Her preoccupation with Doctor Strange (Stephen, she reminded herself dreamily), and wishing that she’d had the actual courage to invite him to join her for coffee, had caused her to lose track of time. Back at her desk she began to shut down for the evening, planning to hit the lights just before she locked up. She took one last look around, to be sure that everything was in order--and spotted a yellow legal pad sitting on the table that Stephen had vacated.

Well now, isn’t that lucky for me? I suppose he’ll have to come back sooner or later to collect his notes. She picked it up, vowing not to be nosy, though she did notice his note-taking appeared rather sparse--and in the tradition of doctors, barely legible. More hopeful than curious, she tucked his notepad in the top drawer of her desk, grabbed her handbag from the bottom drawer, and headed off for home.

To be continued...and yes, Beauty is her actual name.

My heartfelt thanks to @doctorstrangeaskblog - for all the fun we have together and for providing a Muse for this story. Oh- and for the gorgeous edit of Stephen and Beauty together, at the top of this post. Don't they make a handsome couple! xx

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