Chapter Text
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Wong says.
Stephen pauses. The Eye of Agamotto hangs from the cord in his hand, suspended just above the pedestal that has been this artifact’s home for at least a millennium. He was just going to put it back. Right now, looking at the thing only reminds him of Dormammu, and here, hours after reversing the damage in Hong Kong, he’s trying to pick up the pieces of his new life and put them back into some semblance of order.
This is where the artifact belongs. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Wong frowns at him. “Stephen, have you seen yourself?”
Stephen frowns back. “What do you mean?”
“Your astral form,” Wong clarifies.
Stephen hasn’t discorporated since his return from the Dark Dimension, but he has been a little out of sync with his physical body. Ghostly images preclude every physical movement he makes, not by much, but enough to confuse the eye, and enough to be mildly frustrating. It’s like experiencing computer input lag.
He’s been avoiding acknowledging it because he doesn’t think he’s ready to deal with the new problem this presents. His astral form is damaged, which means his wounds run soul-deep. But it seems as though Wong isn’t going to let him get away with willful ignorance. “I’ll have to meditate to realign myself,” he sighs, “but I kind of wanted to get some real sleep first. What does the Eye have to do with any of this?”
Wong settles on the floor in an easy meditative pose. He gestures to the space in front of him. “Put the necklace back on and then sit. We are going to step into the astral plane.”
Stephen’s eyebrows raise. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m barely holding on to my body right now. Leaving it sounds like a terrible idea.”
“I will be here so you don’t drift off. You need to see yourself, and since you haven’t yet studied the art of seeing with your third eye this is the only way to do it.”
Stephen has read about the sorcerer’s third eye, but that’s as far as his experience with it goes. Currently, he is too tired to consider trying something that is soul-magic adjacent. He trusts that Wong will ground him, so he does as asked and lets the other man gently dislodge him from his body.
He looks down at himself and stares.
Wong blinks. “This is worse than I thought.”
Stephen is a patchwork puzzle, made up of pieces that don’t exactly fit. His astral body looks like a shattered porcelain doll that was painstakingly glued back together; but instead of glue, green time magic glows through the cracks, holding everything together. Barely.
The Eye of Agamotto glows softly in the Astral Realm, actively keeping Stephen alive.
Wong helps Stephen back into his body.
“So,” Stephen says, “I’m going to hang onto the Eye for a little while.”
“You should have said something,” Wong scolds, but his tone isn’t as harsh as it could be. “How much does it hurt?”
Stephen blinks. He wonders if he’s in pain.
Physically, he’s fine. He has some negligible scratches. He’s been destroyed, undone, unmade so many times that physical sensation feels distant. This probably also has to do with how his soul isn’t settling quite right in his skin.
The soul wounds had hurt, at first. Each new death created a new fissure on his astral form, but it had compounded so quickly that pain on top of more pain stopped registering at a certain point and just became a state of being.
He feels… raw. “I’m. Fine.” He’s fine, isn’t he? He has to be. He can still move, still bargain, if he has to.
“Stephen,” and maybe he’s not fine, if he’s imagining concern in Wong’s voice. “How long were you stuck in the time loop?”
He had given Wong the bare-bones explanation about his confrontation with Dormammu after Mordo had walked away. He says, “Time is relative,” because he finds it amusing, and it has the benefit of being true. How does one measure time in a dimension where it doesn’t exist?
“How many times did you have to die?” Wong, as usual, has an answer for everything, even his unspoken questions. Although death is a terrible metric.
“How many deaths were reversed in the city tonight?” Stephen answers. Someone had to pay for them, and he was the one who brought everyone back.
Wong mutters something under his breath in a Chinese dialect that Stephen isn’t familiar with. He shakes his head. “You used the time loop to reinstate balance.”
Stephen’s lips quirk upward. “Why not? I knew I would have enough time.”
“Bed,” Wong announces. “Immediately. In the healer’s hall. And I don’t want to see you upright for the next twenty-four hours unless it’s for food or meditation.”
Stephen doesn’t argue. Sleep sounds wonderful. He thinks he’s tired. He thinks he’s been tired since before he entered the Dark Dimension. He can’t quite remember right now, but…
Wong herds him back through the portal to Kamar-Taj where the healer’s hall is. Walking through these halls feels like coming home and it’s been so long since he’s felt like this. Warm. Welcome. Safe.
Wong passes him off to an apprentice. “Get someone who specializes in soul healing. And make sure no one removes the Eye. He needs it.”
Stephen takes the clean sleeping robe the apprentice offers him with gratitude and slides into the bed he’s directed to. The Cloak of Levitation settles on top of the covers and Stephen snakes a hand out to gather a gentle fistful of red fabric. The Cloak squeezes back carefully.
He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
-
While he sleeps, the sorcerers rebuild.
It doesn't take them long. They have magic, after all, and the buildings themselves remember their shape and help the process along. Stephen wishes he could have seen that particular magical feat, but Wong assures him that there will be plenty of rebuilding to do in the future.
"Interdimensional incursions are common enough. Besides, as the new Master of the New York Sanctum, you'll get to oversee all maintenance and rebuilding from here on out."
Stephen looks up from his rice. "I'm sorry?"
Wong shrugs. He manages to convey what-did-you-expect in one gesture. "You defeated Dormammu and gained the loyalty of two powerful relics all in one day. You've been promoted."
" Defeated isn't exactly the word I'd use," he frowns absently into the middle-distance as he wraps his head around the full scope of everything Wong has told him.
"It's the word everyone else is using. And as far as I'm concerned, it's correct. Dormammu has retreated, and he's not coming back."
"No," Stephen agrees. Then, "Two relics?"
"Surely you haven't missed the presence of the Cloak of Levitation and the Eye of Agamotto for the entire week you've been here?"
"Of course not," he protests. "And I understand the Cloak,” he runs a trembling hand over its plush fabric and it flutters around the edges in return. “But I thought the Eye belonged to the Order in general and could be used by whoever needed it. It seems different from the other relics.”
Wong nods and then turns to stare at an apprentice who has been lingering at the empty beds nearby with a broom and a dustpan for longer than her task requires. She flushes when she realizes she’s been caught, takes her cleaning supplies, and wanders back out of hearing distance to continue her duties.
“Infinity Stones are unique in the sense that they are extremely powerful relics that aren’t picky about who uses them. The catch is that you have to know how to handle one before you even try to pick one up, or else the raw power will burn you up from the inside-out and destroy you completely.”
Stephen looks down at the amulet hanging benignly from his chest.
“Never handle the stone bare-handed,” Wong tells him.
“Got it.”
“There is no recorded history of the Time Stone showing affinity for a wielder. Despite the vast amount of power it contains, it has been largely accepted that the stone possesses no sentience. It has never acted on its own, until now.”
Stephen is very aware that, although his body and soul are back in-sync, his astral form is still fractured. The wounds are not as gaping as they were when Wong sat him down in the pedestal room a week ago to make him see sense. He’s healing astonishingly quickly, in fact, according to every master who’s seen to him in the healing halls. He knows that it’s because the Eye has continued to lend him its power even after he left the Dark Dimension, not by the means of any spell he cast, but of its own volition.
“So you think that this, the Eye, has chosen me?”
“It is the only explanation that makes sense.”
“And the masters want me to be in charge of the New York Sanctum?”
“I believe the vote was unanimous.”
He hesitates before his next question. “Mordo?”
“No one has seen him since he left us in Hong Kong.”
He nods. He hopes Mordo is okay. Uncovering the secret of the Ancient One’s longevity was a shock to them both, but it had hit Mordo harder than it had Stephen. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
Wong doesn’t respond immediately. “It’s hard to say. The Mordo I knew was steadfast and loyal, but that loyalty was more for the Ancient One herself than the Order. His faith in her has been broken. He will need to find a new foundation to ground himself.”
“I guess we probably won’t be seeing him any time soon then.”
“I suspect not. Although, his path may yet lead him back to us.”
They sit for a moment in contemplative silence.
“One more question,” Stephen says.
Wong looks at him.
“What are the Infinity Stones, exactly?”
-
“Stephen Vincent Strange,” a voice calls out imperiously over the comfortable din of the early-morning coffee crowd. It isn’t his order. He’d given the barista his first name only, and that tone makes him feel like he’s in trouble.
It takes him a moment to zero in on the source. Christine is clearly coming off the end of a long ER night shift. Her clothes are slightly rumpled beneath her long jacket and there are shadows under her eyes that tell him she’s been up for hours. She also looks properly vexed with him.
He notes, in a distant way, that even on a bad day, Christine is more beautiful than many women at their best. There is a radiance about her, a brilliance that sets her apart from the rest. His attraction to her, however, is a mere spark - leftover from the previous torch he used to carry in her name. He loves her still, he knows, but his love has changed. It has been a literal lifetime since he last saw her. Her visage brings up more feelings of nostalgia than anything else.
Focus on the here and now , he reminds himself. “Christine,” he smiles. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
His calm demeanor doesn’t slow her down. She marches right into his personal space and jabs a finger into his chest. “I have sent you so many emails,” she hisses. “And you have responded to exactly none of them. Stephen, I thought you were dead. You owe me an explanation, and I’m not letting you leave until I have it.”
“Of course,” he says quietly and offers her his arm. “But first, can I buy you a coffee?”
She deflates a little when she takes his arm. He can practically see the questions simmering in her mind, but his physical presence at her side seems to ease some of the tension she carries. He considers, briefly, that the shadows under her eyes may not be entirely work-related.
They take a seat outside even though the morning air is still brisk. It’s less crowded and noisy, and the sun is just bright enough to keep the chill at manageable temperatures. With their hands wrapped around warm coffee cups, Stephen gives a tired Christine the abridged version of why he’s been out of touch for so long after having dropped back into her life in a sudden and violent fashion. He leaves out the name and exact function of the Eye of Agamotto. He skims over the details of the Dark Dimension. He doesn’t tell her that hundreds of people had actually lost their lives in Hong Kong that day and he had paid the price for bringing every single one of them back, with interest.
“So you were injured again,” she says when he’s done, “after the first injury I saw to.”
“It turned out alright in the end. The demon is vanquished, as they say, and all is well.”
“Except for your mentor-lady.”
Stephen swallows. “Except for her, yes. She knew it was her time, though none of us were ready to lose her.”
Christine shakes her head. “How could you live, knowing something like that?” There is a note of skepticism in her voice still that Stephen can’t blame her for. The world has grown bigger ever since aliens dropped out of the sky on top of New York, but magic is a different beast altogether. And though she’s seen some of it, she hasn’t seen enough to believe. Not really.
“‘The Ancient One’ was more than just a title. She had lived lifetimes before her passing. She handled it better than most would.”
Christine huffs out a breath. “And you? You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’ve been cleared for walking. I’m on light duty still, no heavy physical exertion or spell-casting.”
She mouths the words ‘spell-casting’ to herself, silently. “How long are you in town for?”
“The foreseeable future.”
She looks up in surprise.
“177A Bleecker Street is my new address.”
“You found a place?”
“Not really. It belongs to the Order. I’m in charge of the building now, though. You could drop by, if you’re ever curious about the mystical side of things.” Christine fiddles with her half-empty cup. Stephen frowns. It’s not in her nature to be hesitant, and he doesn’t like seeing her this way. “You can just say whatever it is. I know it’s a lot to take in.”
“It’s not that,” she says quickly. “I mean, some of it is rather far-fetched, you have to admit. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just… need some time.” She trails off. Then she sets her jaw. “I didn’t want to tell you about this because I know you’re not practicing anymore, but I’m not entirely sure this has anything to do with medicine after the story you just told me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “With a lead-in like that you have to tell me now.”
“A man arrived at the E.R. a few nights ago - paraplegic with severe muscle atrophy in his functioning limbs. He’s been asking to see you every day. He doesn’t care that you don’t work at the hospital, or that your specialty is neurosurgery. He insists that you’re the only one who can help him.” She sighs. “And you might very well be. Science can’t help him now, I know that much.”
Foreboding wriggles its way into his gut. “Did you catch his name?”
“Pangborn.”
He stands and drains the last of his coffee in one swallow. He adjusts his jacket and the deep red scarf wrapped around his neck. “It looks like I’ll be making a hospital call today.”
Christine stands too. “I’m going with you.”
“You just came from there. Don’t you want to go home?”
“I want to see this,” she declares.
“There might not be much to see,” he warns.
She takes up his arm again anyway, her grasp slightly too tight. He doesn’t protest after that. He knows better than to think he can change her mind. Together they make their way back to Metro-General.
-
The hospital is bustling quietly, as is usual for this time of day, and so no one has the time or wherewithal to notice either one of them. They walk together, in sync in a way they rarely were before, to the fourth floor where they keep the long-term patients.
No one expects another miracle to befall Jonathan Pangborn.
It’s still early morning when they make their way into his room. Most other patients are still asleep, but Pangborn’s eyes are wide open while he stares listlessly at the ceiling.
“Mr. Pangborn,” Christine says, quietly. “I’ve found Doctor Strange.”
His head snaps to the side. Stephen notes the sunken cheeks and pale skin. The wide hospital gown doesn’t hide the man’s sharp collar bones or the distinct lack of upper body muscle. Stephen remembers a healthy and vibrant man in the middle of a basketball court. This man looks like a shade of his former self.
“Finally,” Pangborn breathes. There isn’t any relief in his expression. There is bitterness, and furious helplessness. “Did you make it to Kamar-Taj?”
“I have been there for several months, yes.”
“Then I need your help.”
Stephen gestures with his hand for Pangborn to continue, but the man shoots a wary look at Christine.
“She’s not about to throw you into the psych ward for anything you say,” Stephen tells him. “She’s seen magic too. Tell me what happened.”
Pangborn doesn’t look like he entirely believes Stephen. He continues cautiously. “Mordo.”
“You’ve seen him? Recently?”
“He’s the one who did this to me,” Pangborn hisses.
Stephen blinks at him dumbly. “What?”
“He stole my magic from me,” Pangborn enunciates with painful clarity. “He took my legs. My life.”
Stephen feels like he’s been winded. “Mordo did this? Why?”
“Something about sorcerers being the problem,” Pangborn says dismissively. His eyes dart over to Christine again, then back to Stephen when it’s clear she isn’t frowning heavily in concern over his mental state. “What does it matter? Can you fix this?”
Stephen moves forward. “Do you mind if I scan you?”
Pangborn nods. Stephen reaches an arm out. Christine steps in quickly and pushes Stephen’s arm back down. “Did you or did you not just tell me that you’re not supposed to be using magic?”
“A scan is barely a spell, Christine. It’s only a little bit of energy.”
“And after that?” she demands. “Do you think whatever’s causing this can be fixed with ‘a little bit of energy’?”
“Probably not,” he concedes. “I would have to call someone to assist.”
“Why don’t you call them now,” she says, annoyingly reasonable, “and they can do the scan and whatever spell he might need after.”
Stephen sighs, irritated that she’s right. “I’ll just borrow this phone then, shall I?” He gestures to the hospital room wall phone.
She nods at him. “Better.”
Pangborn watches their interaction like one would watch a tennis match. “If you know him,” he says to Christine, “why did you tell me you didn’t know how to get a hold of him?”
Stephen dials the Sanctum’s phone number, feeling Christine’s eyes on his back the whole time. “Because I still have yet to receive a response to any of the numerous emails I’ve sent him in the past two weeks. I ran into him this morning by coincidence.”
“I’ll give you my new phone number,” he tells her over his shoulder, waiting for someone to pick up.
“Oh?” she says mildly. “Your cult allows phones then? Where's yours?"
He rolls his eyes. “I’m a sorcerer, not an ascetic. I only recently recovered enough funds to get a new phone after the old one broke in Nepal. I didn't think I was going to need it for what was supposed to be a short coffee run."
If it wasn’t for his portfolio, Stephen would, in fact, still be swimming in medical debt. Luckily for him, his account manager is very very good at their job. (Now he’s only getting his ankles wet.)
“Hello. Yes. Is Wong there? Tell him it’s Stephen.”
They have to wait. Wong is busy being responsible for the Sanctum in Stephen’s stead. Stephen isn’t getting away with so much as conjuring sparks in Christine’s presence (doctor’s orders). Pangborn seems a little more relaxed now that he's sure she isn't raising the alarm over talk of magic, so he fills the silence with questions of his own.
“How are your hands, doctor?”
Stephen doesn’t look down. His hands are folded in his lap while he waits in one of the visitor’s chairs. Like this, they don’t tremble, but the scars are still evident. He can feel the ache of the morning chill, which is seeping from his bones more slowly than he would like. His lack of employment at the hospital is glaringly obvious.
“As well as they will ever be again,” he says.
“You haven’t fixed them?”
“I had a choice to make,” Stephen says. “As you well know.”
Pangborn frowns at him. “I didn’t take you for the mystic type, Doctor Strange.”
Stephen frowns back. “Then why did you tell me about Kamar-Taj?”
“I considered not telling you,” Pangborn says, bluntly. “Once upon a time you were my best hope at getting my life back, and you turned me away.”
“Science could not have done anything for you. I was never in the business of giving my patients false hope, Mr. Pangborn.”
"I let go of a lot of my anger at Kamar-Taj, but I am just as human as the next man. Logic was not a large part of my decision-making process. I only did it because the Ancient One asked me to."
"She asked you to guide people to Kamar-Taj if they asked for help?"
"No," Pangborn says, taking Stephen by surprise. "She asked me to point you in their direction, if you ever came looking."
Stephen huffs. He shakes his head, a small, fond smile pulling at his lips.
"I didn't truly expect to see you, but when I did I found that I couldn't deny her request. It was the only thing she ever asked of me."
"Okay wait, back up," Christine interjects. "He got his legs back," she looks at Pangborn, then at Stephen, "but you said there was some kind of choice involved?"
Stephen hears what she doesn't say, What's so important that you would choose it over your hands, your career?
He takes a moment to organize his thoughts. “Magic isn’t a cure-all,” he explains. “The dimensional energy that a sorcerer works with can be used to create spells and influence the world around them.” His fingers itch to demonstrate, to draw a mandala in the air or conjure up an illusion. He weaves them together in his lap instead. “That same energy can be used to augment a sorcerer’s body. In Mr. Pangborn’s case, it allows his brain to send signals to his legs so that he can still function normally. The body’s natural healing process can be accelerated this way, or you can temporarily gain extra strength and stamina.”
“Temporarily?” Christine echoes.
“Internal and external magics are incredibly difficult to pull off simultaneously. Only the most disciplined of masters can do it, and usually not for very long. It’s draining.”
Christine examines Pangborn again with a fresh perspective. “So you’ve been doing the impossible by channeling internal magic every day for years.”
Pangborn nods.
She looks back to Stephen. “And you… have chosen magic? External over internal?”
“It was necessary at the time,” Stephen tells her, recalling the sight of the Dark Dimension invading their planet over Hong Kong. “However, I don’t think I can go back to the way things were, knowing what I know now.”
“It seems dangerous.”
Before Stephen has the chance to say anything more, sparks appear in the corner of his eye. A portal swirls into existence just long enough for Wong to step out before it closes seamlessly behind him. He examines Pangborn on the hospital bed, a faint light of recognition resting behind his eyes. “How did this happen?”
Stephen grimaces, but explains.
Wong performs the scan. The results turn out to be more or less what Stephen had been expecting. A block has been placed between Pangborn’s personal energy and his ability to reach out and access dimensional energy. His muscles are atrophied because he has been using dimensional energy to augment his entire body, not just his legs, for years. When the energy disappeared, it affected every part of the body it had been imbued in.
“Why your whole body?” Wongs asks.
“It’s easier to just let the energy flow through me. Directing it to specific areas requires more effort. It can be tiring,” Pangborn tells him.
Wong doesn’t comment, but his silence is judgmental. It’s probably a good thing that Stephen’s the only one who notices.
Wong moves on. “The block can be removed, however, the spell is not a discreet one. Nor are we in a discreet location.”
It’s mid-morning now and the hospital is alive with doctors, nurses, and patients.
“But there is a spell,” Pangborn says. The stress lines on his forehead smooth out. “Mordo’s spell was small and discreet. He held it in his hand and I was down before I realized what was happening.”
Wong’s expression is pinched. “Mordo has had experience going after and stopping rogue sorcerers. He has developed a finesse with the binding spell that most don’t have.”
“Okay,” Stephen says. “Say we do all this. Fixing Pangborn is the easy part. The recovery will take longer, but we can help him with that. What about after? What if Mordo finds out and… and comes back for him?”
These are words that Stephen can’t quite believe are coming out of his mouth, but Pangborn knew Mordo once upon a time, and he is confident in his accusations.
“I will tell the other masters,” Wong says. “If what Mr. Pangborn says is true, we will have to find him first.” He disappears through another portal. Stephen has just enough time to glimpse the evening sky over a courtyard in Kamar-Taj before the magic dissolves.
A nurse walks in moments later. “Good morning Mr. Pangborn, I’ve brought breakfast. Oh - Dr. Palmer, and… Dr. Strange?”
“Good morning Lisa,” Stephen nods. “Don’t mind us. We were just leaving.” He stands and looks at Pangborn. “Until tomorrow then?”
“It can’t come soon enough,” Pangborn says. “Until tomorrow.”