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Strange stops, ice suddenly shooting through his veins and freezing him in his spot. The Astral Plane typically saves him from himself, his nightmares and his terrors, but still, sometimes, they get through. Reverberating through his very being and making him question his entire existence.
Strange cannot see. He cannot breathe. He is blinded by the dark, deafened by his shadows.
He cannot feel. He feels too much. It is agonizingly cold, but it is excruciatingly hot.
(Who do you think you are?)
Stephen wakes. His eyes snap open, and he is staring at a wall. It is a dark mahogany. There are no windows, so he is locked in the dark.
His heart pounds in his chest. Thrums in his ears.
His hands ache. His hips throb. His legs sting. His arms burn.
His head hurts.
He curls his fingers lightly, but even that slight action is greeted by a wave of pain.
Strange sits up. It does nothing to dull the hurt that gnaws deep within his bones, but it is nothing new.
He moves. With some effort (and magic), he is in his proper clothes, and Cloak is settled back on his shoulders. Its lapels brush at his hands almost soothingly, and he is grateful for the friend always by his side. He does not bother with the lights. Simply opens the door, and with a click as it shuts, walks.
The mansion, for lack of a better word, is fairly luxurious. Not the most he has seen, but the temporary provisional housing they have been graced with is more than enough. More than they could ask for.
(Even if everyone who lived here could end up battling each other.)
It is quiet. There are no birds chirping. No hum of electricity. But it is not new. Strange has been in situations much more odd.
He closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales.
It is cold. The frigid air tickles at his exposed fingertips.
Still, the echoes of his mind screams at him, and he swallows thickly. The air feels suffocating in his throat.
He walks. For however long he does. Thankfully, he does not run into anybody. But he is not alone. He is never alone.
But then, after walking for however lone he has been walking for, Strange hears the faint echoes of singing.
He recognizes the voice immediately, but does not process his knowledge of it. His knowledge, his memories, they fade as the melody removes him from... himself.
He approaches the source of it, and the singing becomes humming. Strange sees faint, blue light, peeking out from the edge of the corridor—the room that he remembers as the kitchen.
It is... nice.
Before he knows what he is doing, he is rounding the corner.
Luna does not seem to notice him at first, continuing to hum softly to herself, before he speaks up.
"That is a nice melody."
Luna jumps, suddenly whipping around to see Stephen standing there, the refrigerator casting a soft light over the angles of his features, though her shadow blocks some of it.
"Doctor Strange!" She exclaims, her voice tinged with panic and surprise. She stares at him for a second, her hand over her heart as she sighs, posture slumping slightly when she relaxes, "Please don't scare me like that."
She huffs, then turns back to what she had been doing prior to his interruption.
"I apologize," Strange says. Luna pulls a container of eggs and another one of beef out of the refrigerator.
They lament in silence for a little bit longer as Luna shuffles around in the kitchen, pulling a bowl out of one of the cabinets, as well as some pre-packaged noodles.
But then Luna speaks up again.
"It was a song I was making before we got taken here," She speaks, her voice gentle, "I asked my manager about it, but she didn't really like it."
"That is rather unfortunate," Stephen replies, his own tone soft, "I quite enjoyed it."
"Thanks," Luna laughs.
"Would you mind if I kept you company?"
"Not at all," She smiles, and the silence they had been in turns into a more comfortable one as Strange summons a book and opens it at the counter. He places it gently, its pages fluttering open on its own.
Pots and pans clink together and chopsticks clatter as she starts the process of cooking, moving to turn on the pan.
But the sharp noises of metal colliding with itself reminds him, and his vision flickers for a second as a memory threatens to confront him here and now.
But as his saving grace, a voice comes to remove him from his mind.
"Would you like some?"
"Sorry?" Strange blinks, eyes drawing up from the words in the book.
"Would you like some food," Luna clarifies, turning her head slightly towards him. "I'm making some noodles."
"No thank you," Strange declines politely, but Luna eyes him.
"You sure? I make some killer food."
"I am certain. Thank you, Miss Snow."
Strange smiles back, though his lips tremble. He is certain it is too minute of a change for her to actually see, but with the way she eyes him, he suddenly doubts his knowledge of the human senses.
Then, she turns back to the stove top, shrugging slightly. "Just let me know if you'd like some. I don't mind sharing."
Strange had not even entertained the thought about eating, even when Luna suggested it, but now, the mere thought of it is enough to sicken him. It brings a terrible feeling to his stomach, and it is enough to make him nearly want to vomit.
In fact, the mere smell of the food Luna is cooking is starting to make him feel queasy.
He shoves the feeling down. The sudden pain of an onset headache threatens to consume his psyche.
He considers excusing himself. It would not do well to show her his weakness.
The thought is quickly discarded as the memory of the deep, abyssal dark, comes behind his eyes, and he tenses, his jaw clenching. His eyes are still focused on the words in his book, but they blur together, swim in his vision.
Then, Luna begins to hum once again.
The softness of her voice is enough to remove him from the immediate danger of the shadow of his own mind, and Strange has that distraction as his anchor. He blinks. The words snap back to their place in the book, and he inhales, though his lungs feel like they are filled with smoke.
It is a slow tune, and Luna starts to sing, her words tender.
And with the distraction of the tune, Stephen can focus on the book. It is one he has read before, as most of the ones in his possession are, and he knows it back to back. It does not stop him from finding comfort in the magical whisper of its pages, curling around each word.
There is a slight lull in her melody, and then Luna speaks.
"So, where did you come from, Doctor Strange?"
Strange considers his reply for a second.
"The United States," He settles on.
"The US?" Luna hums, "I'm from Korea."
Stephen smiles slightly. "Your song is about the snow."
Luna is suddenly slightly flustered, her movements at the stove hesitating slightly as she takes in his response. "You know Korean?"
"Yes," Stephen replies, "It is one of the languages I do."
Stephen does not care to elaborate. He does not have to. He has no obligation to. He knows because of how long he has lived, because of how much has seen, and how much he has been.
It is enough of an answer, because Luna does not question it.
"I know it's corny, but I've always loved snowflakes."
"They are very beautiful," Stephen agrees. He does not get much time to admire them, but when he was younger, he had been able to watch their delicate beauty. Glittering in the moonlight, shining as they fell from the skies.
There is another moment of silence. Then, Luna speaks.
"It's not easy, is it?"
The idol moves to plate her food, picking up the pot that she had been using.
"What is?"
"Being a hero."
Her voice is slightly miffed, changed from the tone of her song, and Stephen can tell it is a topic that slightly stresses her out.
Ah. Stephen supposes she's not exactly the same as they are.
"No," The sorcerer replies slowly, carefully. "It is not. But it is worth it."
Luna nods. "Yeah."
"You are also a hero," Stephen says, "You save people with music."
She pauses.
Saving people did not necessarily entail stopping the universe from imploding, or the fabric of reality from tearing. Saving people could just be something as simple as singing to them. Stephen has no doubt that Luna has already rescued so many with her songs.
"I guess you're right," Comes her response. While the sorcerer is unable to see her face, he hears her mood improve.
She turns towards him, holding two plates of food. She marches over next to him, and puts down both plates. Stephen allows the book to fade into thin air, pulling it back into his astral inventory, and she pushes one of the plates towards him.
"Miss Snow?" Strange says, blinking down at it. It is a... very vibrant red, its saturation intimidating him. Not to mention the smell. It smelled like spice. It burned his tongue, made his mouth tingle in discomfort.
"Eat."
It is clear she made one plate specifically for him, but...
"It looks..."
Her face drops slightly.
"You don't like this kind of food?"
"Not exactly," He says, "It is just... a little on the heavier side of spice."
Her face morphs from disappointment to amusement. "You're telling me the Sorcerer Supreme can't handle a little bit of spice?"
"Yes."
She bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling as her heterochromatic eyes glitter with amusement.
"Come on, Doctor Strange," She giggles, "You can do it."
Stephen paused, looking down at it. His queasiness had eased slightly, and the thought of food did not make him want to gag, but still...
It was not only spicy food—food by which he had no immunity to—but it was also noodles.
With only slight hesitation, he picks up a fork (with some pain in his hands) that Luna had gracefully set down for him and collected some within its prongs.
He closes his lips around the fork and takes a bite. It is delicious. Until———
Oh no.
He quickly removes the fork from his mouth and coughs, mouth suddenly in flames as spice lights his tongue and the roof of his mouth on fire.
Tears prick at his eyes, the spice threatening his senses. Hastily, he sets down the utensil as his entire body is racked with the pain of the meal.
Next to him, Luna is laughing, and Stephen seriously regrets his decision to eat the devilish food she had cooked.