I am not Marvel and I do not claim to own their stuff. If I did I would be writing their new film and not fanfiction.
Seriously, can you imagine a Marvel film written by me? The fluffiest battle-scenes ever known to mankind and starring The Cloak. This is the best mental image ever.
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Stephen sat in his study, letting his pen run by itself through magic, the invisible grip jotting down his notes with a steadier hand than his own. It had been almost two weeks since he had last seen Christine, when they had once more teamed up in the operating theatre - for the first time in over a year - but she called regularly.
He understood that she was busy - he was more than passibly occupied himself - and so he did neither hold it againt her nor worry about it. He missed her, though, if only after his tasks for the day were done and he settled down somewhere by himself with some old tome or scroll. When the silence and peace decended in the evenings, then he missed her.
So when he was drawn from his thoughts by a call, her smiling face appearing at his phone-screen, he did not expect anything much, but he still answered immediately.
What he did not expect at all was that he three quarters of an hour later would be standing in the room of a patient, by Christine's side, after listening to her exasperation of said patient and her "spiritual nonsense".
It was hard to say what was on the faces of the sick young woman's parents as they saw Stephen with their daughter's doctor. He could understand Christine's logic, though, and could only agree. If she refused to take medical advice and wanted spiritual advice instead, why wouldn't you call a man who could do both?
Christine greeted the thre people present in the room, pretending not to notice the strange looks her fellow doctor got, and instead merely introduced him, the way she had introduced several of her collegues in the last few days.
"This is Master Doctor Strange, he's a neurospecialist who consult for us sometimes. He might be able to help with your case." "What, he is the resident schaman?" The father of the family snapped out, as distrustful of the spiritual as his - unfortunately for him, of age - daughter was believing.
"Oh, it was quite some time since I was a resident, or a novice, though not even as either did I believe in schamans. I am a Master in a society which believes in the spiritual side of nature and its balance, and I might be able to allay your daughter's fears, my colleage and fellow doctor hopes."
"Doctor Palmer doesn't believe in spirituality," the young woman replied, her eyes narrowed. She was very ill, but she firmly believed that only some sort of balance which Christine had neither understood nor been able to convey to Stephen could bring her out of it alive.
"No," Stephen agreed, sitting down at her bedside in his blue robes, the cloak clinging to his shoulders, but the collar moved as it curiously took the young woman in. She did not, both sorcerer and cloak saw, have the aura of someone who could separate their astral and physical forms at will - a usual sign of experience with sorcery.
"Christine does not believe in any of the things which you do, but she does not need to. She has her part in the great balance: science and nature are not at strife, science is the voice nature uses to convey its truths. Now, I shall not lie to you. I do not believe in all that you do, nor - I can tell - do you believe in all that I do, but I think we can understand each other well enough. To be able to submit to what your body needs, what does your soul need?"
The girl was still watching Stephen warily, but her parents had relaxed, clearly relieved that there was finally someone who could talk the language their daughter did. Someone who could reassure her of the things other doctors could not, as well as possessing enough medical expertise that they could trust him.
"My astral spirit could flee or die during surgery, or..." the girl started, stopping to glare at her scoffing father. "Nonsense," Christine cut in, making them all look at her again. "Stephen had plenty of surgeries when his hands were damaged," naturally, this drew the attention to his hands, but it did not bother him any longer, "but he is still able to do whatever you call it. It scares the hell out of me every time, too."
"You wouldn't know that," the girl critiqued, probably believing she was being mocked. (Again.) "The astral plane is different from the physical, so you wouldn't know if he had entered it!" Her father's protest that there were no such things was interrupted by Christine pointing out that entering it made the physical body slump as if empty or unconscious, making the room eerily quiet for Stephen's patient explanation.
"Actually, you can break through the divider with your astral form, with enough experience and strength. But be assured that your spirit is not harmed by modern medicine. It can help it along, however, but trust someone who has tried," he held up his damaged hands, "if you can heal with only traditional medical aid, that is by far the easier rute to take."
His voice unusually gentle, Stephen studied the young woman for a few moments before he gave his final piece of advice. "Let Doctor Palmer help you: healing the long way, inside out, is more painful, time consuming and costly than anyone would chose, given the option. Start with the medicine, and if that does not take you all the way, I shall be more than willing to help. Your doctor will know where to find me." The girl agreed to surgery mere hours after Stephen's visit, and Christine could perform the surgery the very next day - just in time.
