Title: Flower of The Universe

Paring: Stephen Strange X Reader

Spoilers: yeah, for Doctor Strange

Warnings: nightmares, past trauma, hurt/comfort, fluff.

Requested by: anonymous on Tumblr

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The only difference between day, and night, is the lack of energy you have in one, and the inability to see in the other. Well, to you, that's true. Ever since the attack in London, you've not been the same __________ you had always been. You narrowly survived, only through sheer luck, and the fact you had managed to escape through Sol Rama's portal before a zealot – but it's over, now. You keep having to tell yourself that the war between the Masters of the Mystic Arts and the zealots is over, mainly because it relived itself in your mind every night since.

The magic you wielded wasn't strong enough to wipe the somewhat PTSD-ish images from your brain, so you resorted to the only thing you knew before you came to Kamar-Taj; spending your time around the lessons your new instructor, Master Strange, napping.

"How's my favourite student today?" Speak of the devil...

From your position of meditation in the courtyard, you cracked an eye open. There stood your instructor, wearing the traditional robes that the other master's used to wear. You weren't sure if it was the inflection of his American accent that made you feed the fire of irritation growing in the pit of your stomach, or lack of sleep.

"I'm your only student," you retort, closing your eyes to resume your meditative state. But to no avail – with your eyes closed, you could hear him bending down, and joining you in a similar pose upon the ground. Without cracking an eye open, you say, "I thought class was over for today, Strange."

Without skipping a beat, he replies, "It is, __________," he says, in that accent. "Thought I might spend some time with my favourite student out of the classroom."

Those words almost rocked you out of your meditation like a boat against the high seas without oars. You're not sure why, though. Meditation, and napping was the only things you could do without attracting the horrific memories of what happened in London. Maybe it's because since you absconded from the boring, magic-less everyday world to learn from the Sorcerer Supreme herself, rest her soul, someone has openly said they want to be near you. No. It can't be.

"I'm your only student," you mutter.

You can practically hear his smile.

You wake up panting, face covered in sweat. When you manage to unstick yourself from the sheets, and amble to the small bathroom adjacent to your quarters, you hardly recognise the person staring back at you in the dull moonlight in the mirror. They have sunken eyes, and a strange aura around themselves. You remind yourself mentally that yes, that person is you, but it seems unreal. You splash water upon your face, you cup your hands in the bowl and drink from it, and taking a deep breath, realise that you are awake, and, by your heartbeat, there is no use trying to return to sleep.

At this, you sigh.

In your nightclothe you slip from your quarters, through the hallways, and into the courtyard. Months, even years before this feat would have been nigh impossible when there were all the Instructors, and the old Sorcerer Supreme and the students in the dorms beside yours. But since the attack, the students have been graduated early – apart from you – to take the pivotal positions required at the sanctums around the world.

When you settle upon the courtyard's ground, you can't help but sigh once more.

Perhaps if you went to a regular doctor and were prescribed medication, you could move past the recurring nightmares of the London attack. But, you left that life a long time ago, and simply returning to the land of all your peers and family that cared little for you would not go well. You knew that requiring the medicine would invoke questions, and it was questions that kept you up at night, and the memories that made you wake, and you had enough of both of those.

No. No. No doctors.

"Stargazing? Care if I join?" You glance to the north entrance to the courtyard, and there's Stephen Strange, once again interrupting your broken thoughts, and you're so tired that you can't help but smile. He walks slowly to the empty space beside you, leaving it no longer empty. "There's Ursa Major...and Ursa Minor!" he says, pointing up.

You frown. "They're just dots to me." Your tutor is silent, and looking to him, you ask, "Why are you always trying to be so nice to me? I really hardly know you, you know."

He raises a brow. "You know me, __________," he says, with that thick American accent, "I've been your instructor for three months, almost. You know my name, how I take my tea –,"

You huff. "I hardly know you as a person, Strange." You correct him, not sure why you're so snarky. It must be the lack of sleep. You're generally a nice person, usually. "For all I know, before you were here in Kamar-Taj, you could literally have been Sweeny Todd, or a shitty insurance salesperson."

"I was a doctor." He says, short and simple. "...it's a long story, __________, how about we talk about it some other time, when you're not nodding off?" he suggests, chuckling at your sleepiness.

You shrug. "Sounds good."

Not half a week later, you're sitting on cushions around a pot of steaming green tea, and sitting opposite you, on the other side of the teapot, is Master Strange. He's wearing a large sweatshirt, and has a small smile tucked in amongst his neatly trimmed facial hair as he sips tea. You, however, frown into your teacup, unsure about the brew. To be honest, even though you left the life behind when you came to study from the Sorcerer Supreme, you are a coffee drinker, through and through. To you, tea seems suspiciously like flavoured hot water, trying to be coffee, and, would never be.

"Not a fan of tea?"

If it weren't for the fact he's watching you, you'd almost accuse your instructor of plucking the thoughts from your mind. You take a breath, and without answering, take a small sip. At once, that sip is returned to the teacup, and you're left reeling at the odd taste.

You frown. "I think so." He waves his hand and, speaking a spell too fast for you to recognise which one it is, the liquid in your cup transforms to something more palatable. "Thank you, Master Strange."

He chuckles, "Please, call me Stephen. I'm still not used to all these formal titles, around here."

You take a sip of your drink. "Yet, you said you were a doctor, before? You must have gotten used to being called doctor."

"I'll admit, you're right," Stephen nods, taking another sip of his tea. "It's odd to be called anything but Doctor Strange, to be honest. I spent so long on my M.D., and my PhD –,"

You freeze, your cup almost at your lips, "You're one of those doctors too?" Blinking, you put the dots together, and say, "...geez, no wonder you're so damn smart."

"Enough about me," he says, quietly. "Let's talk about your nightmares."

You're quiet, for a second. At first, you wonder how he knew, but, then again, in Kamar-Taj, there less than fifty people here now, and you're his only student. And he's a very smart man. You can't help but wonder how long he's known – since the London attack? Since the first, or second week training you? Perhaps in these last few weeks when he's been reaching out to you?

"They're every night," you whisper.

Stephen's sad smile appears upon his lips. "I'm sure you'll sleep well tonight, with the potion."

You blink. Potion? It's then you realise, that what you've been drinking is not a pleasant palatable alternative to the tea you are not fond of, but, a sleeping serum.

You breathe out.

It's then you begin to feel the tendrils of sleep inching their way through your body to your eyes. You want to protest, to say that you did not consent to sleep, and that he had foisted this upon you, but, you're too tired from all these nights of no sleep, all these days of tiredness, all the pain that it's made you feel from all the grief.

So, you do not protest. Instead, you smile.

"Thank you," you whisper, and placing the teacup beside the pot, you slump into the array of cushions upon the floor, and into the first peaceful slumber you've had in a long time.

The only difference between day, and night, is that when you wake, there is no pain in your soul and bones, and, that in the other, the inability to see through it. When you wake, the sun has risen, and you are lain in your bed. Bed. He must have levitated you into it. You vaguely remember the events of the day previous, or, perhaps, was that the day before that? You feel so refreshed, it's like there's a vitality returned to your body.

From the doorway, you're greeted by the silhouette of Dr Strange, wearing sweats and a Rolling Stones t-shirt, levitating an array of plates around him as he walks to your bedside. You don't think you've seen your instructor so relaxed and wonder what the occasion is.

"No class today," he says, as if he plucked the answer straight from your mind, "We are staying in sleeping clothes, and taking time for ourselves."

You roll your eyes at him, and taking a plate from mid-air, you see your favourite breakfast food, and immediately gasp. "I haven't had this for ages, thank you!" you grin. "Ugh, I'm cheerful. Don't take my enthusiasm too hard, Doctor."

He chuckles, taking a seat beside you on the bed, placing the other plates around the both of you. "Will do, __________," he says, and with a flick of his wrist, a projector appears, and on the wall before you are the opening pages to your favourite streaming website. "But, then again, for that, I'm picking the first movie."

With a mouthful of food, you shake your head. "Fine by me." It's not until halfway through the film that you realise you haven't said something you need to, and in a quiet moment, you turn to Stephen, and whisper, "Thanks for everything."

He grins. "Anything for my best student."

You groan, and with a quick peck to his cheek, you remind him, "I'm your only student!"