A/N: This is well under the word limit, and I apologize, but it's the best I could do.
You’re not a ghost this time, Strange? Or a dream?
The whisper in his mind left by Strange’s apparition is unsettling, and it grows louder in the night as Fury tries to sleep. The visions of eyes, fierce and knowing, haunted and unafraid, troubles him and grips him surely as any chains. More troubling is that, though the whisper reamins and his fascination mounts, he knows not why.
Touch me if you doubt me, Fury.
And he does; a brief glancing feel of fingers in rich cloth, unoticed, and he knows that this vision, at least, is real. His deeper thoughts drift, unbidden, to the fall of Strange’s silk sleeves, and he imagines them brushing his own body as Strange’s deft hands fold back the heavier fabric of Fury’s coat.
Swiftly, he douses the image and the low fire it ignites and turn his heat against Strange’s casual declaration of treason. He wonders faintly if Javier hears the echo of his thoughts, though he doubts is. His attention turns fully to the task and hand, the plot to betray all he has served in favour of saving all that has ever been. He expects this night will be very long indeed.
And if I told you….
Strange’s breath is hot against his ear, and he feels the words ghost through his mind, through his body. He reacts in rage, not for meaning, but for the lust that settles in his sex. Their bodies are too close and he holds up his anger as a shield, but still he thinks of the magician’s mouth sliding up his thigh toward a rising damnation that he cannot quell.
It will be days ere he has rest and time enough to release his passion, and, though he desperately wishes it were not so, it is the echo of magic in his soul that carries him over and into bitterly sated slumber.
He is a man lost and thrice damned, and it is all the worse for wanting what is so wicked in his heart and whispers so fiercely in his mind.