#hawkstrange

[somewherefornow]

RAY PALMER/ATOM & ADAM STRANGE + MOURNING the DEATHS of CARTER HALL/HAWKMAN & SHAYERA THAL/HAWKWOMAN in HAWKMAN (2018)

[cyberdelph]

by 得闲炒粉

[mistressstrange]

Strange Thought #100

Prompt: Someone leaving gifts at the Sanctum, but Stephen can't believe they could possibly be for him and passing all of them along to Wong. So someone thinks they are giving gifts to Stephen. Stephen is giving Wong gifts from his secret admirer and Wong thinks Stephen is giving him gifts. Just imagine Wong and the someone at a romantic dinner setting both basically going. “You’re not Stephen.”

[aprettystrangeblog]

Based on this post

@strangeman-marvel @mistressstrange

——————————

“My hands weren’t made for this,” the sorcerer said quietly, staring down at the chafed and blistered skin criss-crossing the fingers of his draw hand.

The heavy recurve bow made a soft clattering noise as Stephen Strange set it down, the sound echoing almost mournfully around the empty archery range. Clint watched the bowstring tremble just as delicately as Stephen’s hands did, his amiable expression crumpling as though the sorcerer had torn his facial features into melancholy ribbons.

“I’m sorry, Clint. I admire your skill and training, but my hands... they just can’t handle this kind of thing,” Strange murmured, watching the way bruises were beginning to blossom like petals under his skin instead of looking up at Clint. Chapped fingers rubbed angrily at his reddened forearm, privately lamenting that he hadn’t worn a thicker guard; he’d underestimated how powerful the archer’s bows would be. Foolish. Stupid. He shouldn’t have—

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Clint said gently, reaching out to put a hand on the shoulder of Stephen’s robe. The muscles below felt old and worn, as tired and gnarled as the ancient oaks that grew in the forests upstate. Nothing like the lithe limbs Stephen clapped politely in return, still not gracing his archery teacher with a look.

“All of us have talents. No one can do it all,” Clint continued gently. “But I’m sorry. I should have considered your hands before giving you a bow.” The archer gave the sorcerer’s shoulder a gentle, apologetic squeeze.

Stephen relaxed at the touch, suddenly reminded of Wong and the Ancient One and all of the other mentors he’d had over the years. None of them meant any harm, and neither did Clint; he couldn’t stay frustrated with a man who just wanted the best from him. His muscles rippled, a drop in an ancient ocean, as he politely pulled away from Clint.

“It’s alright.”

“No. I’ll tell you what.” Clint put his hands on his hips, looking like a rather determined mother hen. “If you really want me to teach you archery, come back here same time next week. I’ll have a more suitable bow for you. Maybe some other stuff to help, too.” His smile was a glimmer of optimistic hope, bathing Stephen in gentle sunshine as he finally met Clint’s gaze. “I promise. We can take it as slow as ya need.”

“You’re serious?”

“Might not look like it, but this is definitely my serious face.”

The barest hint of a grin graced Stephen Strange’s pale face, the first expression of innocent hope Clint had ever glimpsed from the sorcerer.

“Alright.”

And Clint was going to keep to his word.

As soon as Stephen had left the lesson in a whorl of showering sparks, he vanished into his own corner of the gym where he kept his bows. He was determined to find something suitable.

Dozens of bows and strings and quivers called to him from their shelves as he scoured the area, singing their songs of flying arrows and power. Sure, they could be the perfect weapons in the right hands, but no. None of these were right. None were... Stephen. And certainly none were light enough for him to easily draw back or manage, let alone in a battle.

But there, in the corner. One of Clint’s very first compound bows. He’d kept it around for sentiment’s sake, and yet here it was, rejected in the corner under a fine layer of a forgotten relic’s dust. A bit old, a bit too red for his personal color taste, but... it could work. How poetic, to be given a new life, a new purpose, Clint thought as he picked it up. Rather like a resident sorcerer he knew.

Yes.

He spent the rest of the afternoon painstakingly adjusting each pulley, each mechanism, twisting and restringing and tightening until it was perfect. Just tight enough to fire an arrow, yet loose enough not to strain an unsteady hand. Clint drew back the string several times, watching the pulleys rotate and retract, and smiled.

——

Somehow, by Saturday word had gotten around that Stephen Strange, sorcerer supreme, couldn’t shoot an arrow. And as displeased as Clint imagined Stephen might be, it did bring Tony Stark into his practice range that afternoon.

“Can I have a look at your gear?” he asked casually, ignoring the laws of personal space as he reached over to get familiar with his arm guard. “Heard about Stephen. I want to help out.”

And as irritating as it was to patiently answer each question Tony had about gloves and finger tabs and guards and proper clothing, there was a part of him that glowed with something akin to pride.

See, Stephen? You are no less than anyone else here. You are loved.

And by the morning before the sorcerer’s next lesson, a neat package had been dropped off next to him after breakfast. Inside, a singular, whole glove of soft brown leather and a matching arm guard, perfectly molded. The first object whirred softly as Clint cradled it in one hand, and he somehow knew that no matter how hard Stephen trembled, his fingers would be as still as water with its aid.

And Stephen’s fingers did tremble— hard— when Clint pressed the gifts into his hands an hour later, his skin still as rough and raw as desert sand from their last lesson.

“Try them on,” Clint urged gently, bouncing on the balls of his sneaker-clad feet.

Humbled, Stephen slipped the glove on, breathing in sharply as his fingers stilled almost automatically.

“T-thank you,” he whispered, mesmerized, his eyes as wide as the time he first glimpsed a shooting star. “Tell Tony thank you. I’m...honored.”

“Hey, you better save some thanks for this, too—“

Clint handed the ancient, reddish bow to Stephen. The thing had been cleaned of dust, and yet, it still seemed as worn as before it’d been polished and adjusted. But the glimmer of moisture in the sorcerer’s eyes as he took it into his hands with a gentle kind of wonder, the way he easily drew the string back with childlike awe and delight, told Clint that perhaps it was definitely more the thought that counted.

And sure, it didn’t make archery lessons perfect. Stephen still struggled, still cursed, still poured every ounce of his effort and being into stilling his hands and concentrating on the target at the other end of the range. Nothing was easy with a body that had utterly been torn apart and put back together. But there was an ethereal kind of beauty in watching the way the bow slowly began to melt confidently into Strange’s hands, his shoulders slowly learning to curve and pull and tense, the way he began to move as lithely and gracefully as a doe.

And the first time the sorcerer’s arrow sailed clear across the range and sank its point into the yellowed circles of the target, Clint let out a whoop of joy.

“Nice shot, Steph!” he called, leaning over to clap the sorcerer on the shoulder.

And the prideful, delighted smile that Stephen Strange wore could have lit up darkest and starless of nights.

[somewherefornow]

ADAM STRANGE & CARTER HALL/HAWKMAN in HAWKMAN (2018)

[mistressstrange]

Strange Thought #84

Prompt: Doctor Strange and the Avengers get thrown into an alternate dimension, one where your emotions show up over your head. So, if you are confused you get a question mark, startled you get an exclamation point. Except, you can't see your own. And someone is causing Stephen to get little hearts.