What do you Fear, Stephen?
Chapter 2:
Stephen hadn't been in a hospital since the Ancient One had passed, let alone what used to be his hospital. He'd been feeling enough like a man out of time, now he felt as though he'd taken a step out of one life and into another. He'd been a Master of the Mystic Arts for two years, but in those years, he had lived several lifetimes. First with the time-loop with Dormammu and then using the Time Stone to see over fourteen million futures, the Doctor Strange who'd been a neurosurgeon seemed a different creature entirely.
The smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils, the slightly less pervasive metallic tang of blood, the vivid sweet taste of scented air freshener that always reminded Stephen more of vomit than a fragrant field of flowers. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine asking Billy for the next 'Challenge Round.' It reminded him, he needed to bring a record player to the Sanctum.
He didn't recognize anyone manning the front desk and it was clear they didn't recognize him. And he'd even transfigured his robes and the cloak into a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and sweater.
"I'm Doctor Strange, I'm here to consult with Doctor Palmer."
The woman behind the desk held up a finger as she grabbed a ringing phone. Several pens had been pushed behind her ear and there was a stack of paperwork she was thumbing through. When he'd seen Christine, before his month-long negotiation, she had told him they were short on staff and running on high as people who'd been injured before the decimation came back as they'd left. Not everyone had instantly disappeared, it had come in agitating waves and accidents had happened.
He knew he should have just opened a gateway in the supply closet again. This was what nostalgia got him. He blew out a breath and practiced his still growing patience.
He didn't have to practice for very long. She hung the phone up and pulled another pen from the desk and wrote herself a note on a sticky pad. "Sorry, sir, how can I help you?"
"Doctor Palmer, I'm here to consult with her," he answered, trying to give a charming smile. "I'm Doctor Strange."
She pushed the pen behind her left ear and picked up the phone again. Once she hung up, she said, "You know where you're going?"
She buzzed him through and he made his way to Christine's office. The transfigured Cloak of Levitation tugged and adjusted, discomforted to be made into the red button up sweater he wore. He ran a soothing hand down his chest and tried not to look insane as he spoke with his clothing. The Cloak pouted through their mental bond but settled underneath his hand.
He was walking past the long-term care patients, when he felt it. An energy vibrated against his skin, different than that of the dark dimension, but with a touch of sinister malice. He stilled, getting acquainted with the new sensation. A metaphysical slinky, he tossed the energy back and forth, trying to place it.
It floated away once he let it go. Much like a smoke cloud following an airplane, this was the residue of the spell, not the spell itself.
"Stephen," Christine's voice shook him out of his thoughts. Her expression was the now familiar mix of fond, dubious acknowledgement of Stephen's weird life. "What are you doing?"
"I think I know something of why you've called me here. Someone has either used magic or has had magic used on them?"
"A five-year-old girl," Christine agreed. "I've got her tests on the screen. Come on."
It took less than a second to see the swelling in the backlite imaging of the child's brain. "Encephalitis?"
"Not according to the CBC. The mother said she was feeling ill before she went to sleep. But I think that's more from exhaustion, than from an actual virus," Christine answered.
"Exhaustion?" Stephen raised a dark brow.
"Amelia has been having nightmares, they've been keeping her up at night." Stephen scoffed. He was willing to bet that 95% of the world was plagued by bad dreams.
"Even now," Christine continued, "She looks like she's dreaming. But the EEG…," she drew off and used her finger to swipe the screen to the EEG results.
Stephen leaned closer to inspect the image. The erratic peaks and valleys of an Encephalitis patient were there, but there was also a distorted echo, another set of sketched lines. "By the vapors of Valtorr," Stephen breathed. "I need to borrow your couch."
She had that quirk to her mouth, a barely concealed smirk. "What?"
"Vapors of Valtorr?" she asked. "Is that a cult thing?"
His mind still on the double lines of the EEG, it took Stephen a second to process what she had said. "What? Oh, shut up."
She laughed at his grumpy response, muttering that she wasn't going to let him nap on her couch unless he was nicer to her. "Why exactly do you need the couch?"
"It's just easier when I leave my body to have somewhere to rest it," he said, as though he were giving her cooking instruction rather than magic comforts.
"It's so obvious," she said, again with the smirk.
He frowned up at her as he lay down, his feet sticking out and over the armrest. "I think I liked you better before marital bliss made you loopy."
"Yes, I'm the weird one."
He made an unamused face at her before closing his eyes to concentrate. It was almost thoughtless now, separating his spirit/astral form from the flesh of his body. He didn't even look back to make sure 'he' was still laying on Christine's sofa. Instead, he followed the energy he'd sensed earlier, into the little girl's room.
Even in the distorted darkness of the astral dimension, he could see that she had dark curly hair, her naturally olive skin was pale and the dark brown eyes wide and unseeing. "Amelia," he called, the sound echoing around the astral dimension. It didn't cause the father to flinch or the mother, who napped at haphazard angles on the uncomfortable hospital furniture, to stir.
Names had power, especially in magic. He should have been able to call her with just her name. But he felt that foreign energy surge, as though an ocean wave had risen and blocked his clarion call. He frowned and pushed his hand onto the girl's forehead.
Immediately, he was bombarded with her nightmares. The dead rose from ashen graves, their eyes glowing eerily against the shadowed sky. With his eidetic memory, he recognized one of the living dead as her mother. The truth of the restoration of those Thanos had decimated but changed by the simple fear and knowledge of a child. How many frightening stories, movies and TV shows had been released before the decimation, only to have the dead reappear to the living? She'd drawn the only conclusions she'd could from her own meager experience.
"Amelia Edwards," he called again, this time weighing his voice with the heavy formality he'd used to deal with Dormammu.
"GET OUT SORCERER," a guttural voice cried out in his mind.
Something sharp lashed out at him and stung against his reflexive uplifted arm. The impact tossed him with such force that he went through the wall into the next patient's room. He hovered dazed, his mind trying to grasp everything that had just happened.
He held his arm, in his shaking hand and clutched them both to his chest. It ached and throbbed, a brand that made him vaguely queasy. Perhaps, he should have done this in his physical form. Hoping to ease the ache, he floated back to his physical form.
A hiss escaped between clenched teeth as he shot up from his lying position on the couch. Christine staggered back a few steps with a hand to her mouth. "Stephen," she gasped. "What's wrong?"
Raising his left arm, he could already see a red stain, pressing through the ribbons bracing his forearm. His distraction and the pain had reverted his transfiguration of his clothes. He was glad. The Cloak could be very comforting. Christine dropped to her knees beside him, gently cupping the area around the wound. Now that he was in his full physical form, the pain had doubled, just as stabbing as those microcrystals the Maw had used on him.
"How?"
"What happens…in the astral…dimension will affect…your body," he said, between staggered breaths.
He fought for the calm that had taken ahold of him in the Dark Dimension, that certainty that had allowed him to hand over the Time Stone, knowing that half the universe would be gone with him. He felt the absence of the Eye of Agamotto, its comforting weight had given him options. It had allowed him the time he needed to catch up to a lifetime of study. Now that crutch was gone.
Christine's hazel eyes shot to her office door. "Amelia?"
He shook his head, swallowing. "She's not there. Not completely. She might be lost in her nightmare. I'm not sure. Something kicked me out before I could get any further."
"Let's get your arm fixed," she said, abruptly changing the subject.
Christine was one of the few people Stephen knew cared. He knew that being unable to help that little girl tore a little bit at her soul every second. In the absence of being able to heal her real patient, she turned her practical attention to him. He took advantage of it, silently telling himself he allowed it for her sake instead of admitting he'd been shaken by the recent event.
The wound was angry and red, cutting into his flesh. It needed stitches. While Christine worked, he noted the differences in her office. The wedding photos of her and David, the updated computer, the flowers that looked as though they'd been picked out of someone's garden. He wondered vaguely if David had given them to her. If they were for an anniversary or if the man was wise enough to give them to Christine without needing a reason.
Stephen had never been that wise.
"You still wear the watch I gave you," she said, breaking into her thoughts. "Are you going to get the glass replaced?"
He shrugged, not wanting to get into all the reasons he still wore it. When he'd first come to Kamar-Taj, it had been a reminder of the world he left behind, the world he'd wanted to get back. Once he'd settled into being the Master of the New York Sanctum, it was a reminder that even broken things could have value. That this broken man could still have value.
"What should I do for her?" she asked, wrapping gauze around the stiches.
"Make her comfortable, if she seems in distress. But I don't think she knows what's going on," Stephen said. "I'll head back to the Sanctum's library. If there's not anything there, it's been a while since I've stolen a book from Wong, I think he's become complacent."
As always, Christine saw through him. She must have taken lessons from the Ancient One or the Ancient One from her. "Are you okay?"
He offered her a wan smile. "I've had worse."
"That's what concerns me." She folded her arms across her chest, her gaze serious. When had they moved from their comfortable banter, to this very uncomfortable interrogation? "You seem to take on all of this by yourself. Aren't there others that could help you? Other Master Cultists?" she teased gently.
"Of course, there are," Stephen said.
"Why aren't they here, consulting with you?"
"North and South America are my domain, my duty to protect, as well as the Sanctum," he said.
She clicked her tongue. "You've never helped with Hong Kong or London or wherever they say, 'Vapors of Valtorr?'"
Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. "Believe me, it's better this way. I'll keep in touch. Let me know if there's any change."
He practically ran out of her office, trying very hard not to look like he was running out of her office. With a sigh, he pulled his sling ring from his belt and opened a portal to his Sanctum.