#MCU Phase 4:

midnight miseries, muttered comforts

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Summary: Plagued by nightmares, you seem to be the only thing keeping Stephen tethered to reality.

Word Count: 920

Warnings: nightmares, hurt/comfort

a/n: the trailer really drove me to write for strange huh

It was some time close to four when you woke. The duvet had been inconveniently pulled from your body, leaving you exposed to the freezing air of the morning. As you blindly reached out in hopes of retrieving the blanket, and therefore some semblance of warmth, you felt the mattress shift beneath you.

“Stephen,” you whined. “Baby, it's too early for this.”

You'd grown used to him working late into the night, staying up to shift through books or study new spells and incantations. It was an integral part of who he was; despite being one of the smartest people you knew he always needed to know more.

You had tried to force him into something that resembled a healthy sleep schedule but given that your partner was as stubborn as an overconfident bull there was little you could do to intervene with his late-night, (or rather, early morning) work sessions.

With an irritated and tired sigh, you begrudgingly turned over with all the displeasure of someone who really wasn't thrilled to be awake before the sun was up.

However, the frustration that had already begun to forge the words on your tongue dissolved due to the sight you were met with.

Stephen's breathing was erratic, his skin pale and damp with sweat. His lips were slightly parted and each sound that passed them was pained and whimpered.

“Darling, wake up,” you tried. “You're dreaming.”

Although his brows were creased, the remainder of his features were surprisingly calm, as if he were attempting to maintain composure to make sense of what he was seeing unfold in his mind.

“Stephen–” Your hand met his cheek and the levee in his mind seemed to give way. He hissed as he began to convulse against the mattress. The soft linen sheets had snared around his body and his subconscious mind grew panicked as he failed to kick them off.

“Hey, hey shh, it's okay.” Your hands gently found his shoulders. “It's okay.”

He shot up with such sudden force you saw his muscles twist painfully beneath his skin. His breathing was as desperate as a man drowned and his eyes were wide. Your hand brushed delicately over the nape of his neck and promises that he was safe fell past your lips in hushed whispers. Slowly, he came back to you.

He swallowed harshly, his palms rubbing harshly at his eyes.

“It wasn't real,” you promised.

“But what if it was.” His voice was tight, pulled taut over each word.

“Then you don't have to concern yourself with it, not now.” You tried to comfort him, to soothe him with gentle words of solace. But genuine fear still clouded the blue of his eyes and his hands shook more violently than usual.

You drew them to you carefully, deftly tracing the coarse red lines and his scarred skin. With the slightest hint of applied pressure, you could feel the metal rods and bolts hidden beneath his flesh, each working to hold his bones together. Stephen sighed, the sound falling somewhere between calmed and defeated.

“You carry so much on your shoulders, Stephen, but not everything has to be a warning of our impending doom.” You kissed each of his knuckles. “Even you are allowed to have nightmares.”

He swallowed again and you frowned, seeing just how hard he was trying to hide the true extent of his fears. He carried the weight of the world, shouldering the responsibility of protecting reality and all those within. And never once did he complain. But you could see it, on nights like this more than any. You could see just how much all that responsibility bore down on him, how the pressure ground against his mind and wore him down; it left his eyes tired and dull.

You released his hands in favour of timidly brushing the stray strands of hair from his brow. “You're also allowed to not be okay.”

He wanted so desperately to lie, to tell you he was alright and you needn't worry. He didn't want to burden you with things he didn't yet understand and therefore couldn't protect you from. But your tone was so tender and filled with warmth he knew the softening of his expression had given him away before he so much as opened his mouth.

“Could you– could we just...” He trailed off, eyes growing misty. Knowing well enough what was being asked of you, you shifted closer to him.

He fell into your arms, the weight he'd been carrying finally giving way as he crumbled against you. You lay back on the mattress and his body was a welcome weight against you. His head fell against your shoulder and the combined efforts of his stubble and warm breath against your neck sent a shiver down your spine.

You toyed with the silver strands of his hair, delicately brushing your fingers down his neck and along his back. His breathing remained shaken, a low rattle that barely escaped past his lips. He still sounded so weak you were almost certain he'd break. However, with each gradual stroke of your hand against him, his breathing grew steady.

The sun had already clambered back into the sky, and its soft light filled the room. You couldn't tell how long it had been since you'd woke, yet neither of you paid it any heed. Stephen allowed his mind to fall silent and he fell asleep with the sound of your heart beating steadily against his ear, keeping him tethered to what was real.