all the hell we've been through had a purpose, together we are chaos and it's perfect(♫)
[ Somewhere along the way, Julia forgot she was capable of feeling happy. That soul-deep happiness that engraved itself upon your very being and influenced every part of your life was like suddenly seeing color after living in black and white for far too long. Stephen Strange is responsible for that happiness, though there's no way in hell she'll tell him that. This thing between them is still too new and too fragile to risk crossing a bridge that wide. But she basks in that happiness, savoring every second of even the most mundane interactions.
Reading together in the library. Getting breakfast at the bodega. Making tea for each other. The sex is incredible, of course, and they have plenty of it, but it's the little moments that etch themselves into her heart. Every joke Stephen makes is precious, even the horribly bad ones, and she finds ever more joy in teasing him and giving as good as she gets. And despite any worries they might have had, the dynamic between them doesn't become awkward or unbalanced — they still respect and treat each other as equals, that simply extends to the bedroom now. And his study. And the kitchen if they ever get the Sanctum to themselves.
In the weeks since they first took this step in their as-yet-undefined relationship, she's spent more nights in Stephen's bed than her own, tumbling into too few hours of sleep after attempting to sate their insatiable hunger for each other. Waking to find him still in bed beside her always feels like a gift, peace settling into her bones as she feels his weight on the mattress beside her. He's not always there when she wakes up, but she's always grateful when he is. Stretching languidly in the soft sunlight filtering into the room, Julia turns onto her side and watches him from half-closed eyes. It's rare to see him like this; she wants to remember it as much as anything else. ]
[ It’s astonishingly easy, the way they slip into this routine: it’s both comfortable yet passionate, familiar and yet new, the way they explore each others’ bodies at night and take delight in each others’ minds during the day, enjoying each other, savouring this new twist to their relationship.
It’s been such a long time since Stephen woke up with someone else in his bed, and even longer since it was someone he wanted to be there, and not to kick her out at daybreak. Stephen’s been terrified of emotional intimacy for a long, long time — afraid of seeing and being seen, afraid of wanting, afraid of that sheer vulnerability of placing your heart in someone else’s hand — and so it’s a little easier to think of this as just a tryst. A physical benefit to their friendship, perhaps. They don’t define what they are. They don’t overthink it. He wakes Julia up by pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, and he does not run away from whatever this is. She wakes Stephen up by playfully wriggling closer, a hand sliding below his abdomen, and she does not run away from whatever this is.
And it is so astonishingly, frighteningly comfortable.
Except that somewhere else, in another time and another p̶̞̮̔͑͒l̷̡͐̒ạ̴̻̗͘͝c̴̣͙̗̐e̷̯͑̌ —
in another ṕ̵̼̮͔͍̑̌͝l̸̨̘̱̓͜a̸͚̩̮̰͗̐c̶͔͐͑e̴͈̦͎͓̐͋̽̏̃, a distant and empty sea sloughs and sighs and whispers against impossible shores.
It’s a dead New York inside a dead universe, with a crumbling Sanctum Sanctorum. In this world, Stephen Strange’s fingers are burned black from the Darkhold. He’s been living a lonely vigil with no one else to talk to because this world broke long ago, shattering into pieces.
Doctor Stephen Strange has always been driven and obsessive. Here, the object of said obsession became: Christine, Christine in every permutation, every world and place he couldn’t have her, every hungry longing for her, every version of himself he murders because he cannot have her. With nothing else to fixate on, with the Darkhold sinking its claws into his slowly-rotting soul, Strange has simply become worse and worse.
Things just got out of hand.
Well. They’re about to get out of hand again.
After his battle with himself, he’s left gasping and impaled on a fence, Christine watching on in horror before she and Stephen fucking Strange leave together to walk right out of this dead-end universe.
But it takes a lot more than a wrought-iron fence to kill a Sorcerer Supreme.
Slowly, agonishingly, Strange hauls himself off that sharp arch. Telekinesis pulls himself up and over, landing on the ground, blood spilling out from that ugly ragged wound, darkening his hands further. He patches himself up, magical flame searing the injury shut. He steals more magic to heal himself and the ground trembles; a fracture, more pieces of the universe sloughing off, and he’s aware that the whole thing might still come apart entirely. It’s dead and empty, but it could still collapse further; it’s like he’s living in a condemned building, except all of reality itself is condemned and collapsing.
He crawls back into the Sanctum Sanctorum and it takes him a while to recover, slowly healing from his injuries. Time doesn’t exist here — no sun rises and sets — and so it’s hard to tell how long it takes, but eventually his quivering fingers trace that wound and finds that it’s just more scarred flesh.
He doesn’t have the Darkhold any longer — his other self stole it — but he has a photographic memory.
He reconstructs the runes. The sigils. He carves them into space once more, that livid scarlet energy searing its way through the air, carving its way through universes like layers of flesh.
Did the other Stephen think that taking the book would be enough?
Strange has been dreamwalking for years. He has walked in uncountable footsteps. He has memorised the spells. Of course he has memorised the spells.
And now he has a dinstinctive energy signature to follow, one he knows as well as himself because it is indeed himself, signposts pointing the way home.
So he parts those glassy barriers between universes, slips beneath the surface, and follows the psychic breadcrumbs of that arrogant and seethingly self-important do-gooder presence he had met, and battled, and now knew intimately; he could dreamwalk again and follow him back to the point of origin, and it was like crawling into familiar snakeskin —
and Strange opens his eyes to warm glowing sunlight (real light! real sunlight!) in his bedroom in the Sanctum Sanctorum (intact! not a haunted house!). He blinks, disoriented; flexes his scarred but unburnt fingertips, feels his consciousness settle into hands and feet and limbs like tarry ink settling into a glass vessel, filling it to the brim. He methodically bricks away the other Stephen, sealing up the cracks, piling layer upon layer over the man’s consciousness and burying him six feet deep in a hungry grave.
He has done this many, many times. It’s old hat by now.
What is new, however, is when he shifts in that bed and looks to the side, and realises that he is not alone. Those blue-green eyes blink again, critically surveying the brunette beside him with a sheer lack of recognition.
He could try to maintain the ruse, perhaps. But after a while, he’s never really bothered; Wong had once immediately exorcised him because he’d sensed the alien presence, and so it doesn’t seem worth the effort. So Strange doesn’t even try. There’s something wrong with his voice when he speaks: something slithery, something low and more gravelly than Julia’s accustomed to, as if his voice is suddenly cracked from disuse. ]
[ Of all the nightmares that plague Julia, the worst is losing someone else the way she lost Richard. Watching someone she cares about be filled up by another being, that person she holds dear still there but effectively erased, it's... Every time she wakes with a flinch and a quiet, terrified gasp, she vows to never let it happen again. No matter how much training it takes, how many years she'll have to devote to reading how many dusty books, she won't let anyone else suffer that fate.
When Stephen first wakes, she takes in the way he moves, the flexing fingers and blinking eyes as if he's trying to get his bearings, but she doesn't think anything of it. They've talked about how he'll sometimes astral project in his sleep; perhaps this is part of him readjusting to being back in his body.
But then he looks at her... and nightmare becomes reality.
There's nothing in his eyes of Stephen. No recognition, no affection, no soft amusement or playful mischief. He doesn't know her. And it's more than that, not just a simple case of having memories erased like what had happened with James. His voice is different, his way of speaking, as if he's an entirely different person.
But that name. Christine. Whoever or whatever is in him knows about Stephen's life, at least to an extent. That tells her... something. She doesn't know what yet.
Hiding her fear beneath uncomfortable agitation, Julia sits up, channeling the emotion she can't suppress into the guise of an affronted lover. ]
Well, that's an odd thing to say. [ There's hurt in the words, and she turns away as if upset over something trivial. She's the picture of a privileged rich girl as she slides to the edge of the bed and reaches for the sweater and jeans crumpled on the floor. Clothes will help her feel stronger, like donning armor before battle — and there's a sling ring in her pants pocket. ]
What the hell, Strange. [ She never calls him that. He's always Stephen with her. ]
[ He’s still getting adjusted to his surroundings, and her immediate recoiling reaction reminds him that at the end of the day, frankly, he just isn’t a good enough actor. He wouldn’t have been able to successfully pretend to be the other Stephen even if he wanted to. He can step into this other man’s shoes, but he doesn’t have the memories to go with it, can’t call on— cherished dates? squabbles lingering like a raw wound? her name, even? he doesn’t have any of it, and the jig’s up immediately, but he’s fine with that.
Strange watches her move, drinking in the sight of her naked body as she starts to get dressed in annoyance, but it’s the way one might admire a particularly well-made painting. She’s not Christine, and so the man’s interest is decidedly nil. He mirrors her movement, fishing around for his own clothes. ]
I see I’m back to sleeping around,
[ he remarks, arch and droll, the way a disapproving brother might. Julia sinks back into that mask of privileged rich girl, and he buys it. She’s young for him; she must be a fling. Maybe Stephen’s gone and fucked another grad student who only came nosing around for research purposes. ]
Who are you? Is Wong here?
[ The more he talks, the more she’s noticing the little inflections in the man’s flat accent. The intonation is all off (more sinister), but there’s some familiar bedrock there: this does, still, sound more like Stephen Strange than some otherworldly creature possessing him. ]
[ It's as she's tugging her sweater into place with the angry sigh of a frustrated lover that the pieces start slotting together in her mind. There's no doubt that he knows about Stephen's life, asking about Wong and Christine like that, but then his previous words come back to her. It seems I'm back to sleeping around. I, not he. And the way he says it, the sound of his voice... He's not the man she knows, but he is.
He's from a different timeline. Or perhaps a different Earth entirely. She doesn't know much about multiverse theory, only that it exists, but different timelines she understands, and the man before her is as different and yet similar as Penny-23 is to Penny-40. But 23 hadn't taken over 40's body, he'd just stepped into the void left behind by the Traveler, so what the hell is this guy's deal?
She buttons her jeans and slips a hand into her pocket before turning around, lifting her hands defensively with the sling ring secured on her fingers. The silly rich girl is gone, replaced by the woman who had faced a murderous god without flinching. There's steel in her voice and determination in her eyes as she demands answers of her own. ]
Cut the bullshit. Why the fuck are you in my Stephen's body?
[ He’s been rustling through the clothes on the floor when Julia turns and levels her hands at him (a recognisable gesture, both of their schools of magic depending on those precise finger gestures), distinctive sling ring now on her hand. Where the hell did she get that? When he reaches out his magical senses, probing, her energy doesn’t feel like it comes from the Masters of the Mystic Arts; he should know.
Strange cuts an extremely undignified picture in that moment: still hopping clumsily into his trousers, dick still out. At that sudden demand from Julia, he pauses and looks up at her, one sardonic eyebrow arched. ]
I mean, technically, this is my body too.
[ Except, technically, also not. He had already noticed that they shared the same childhood scar on their elbow, having fallen out of a tree stealing apples — the scars on their hands match for the most part — but this body doesn’t have the jagged burn from that time he grappled a fiend, nor of course that ugly scar on his chest from his impalement. In his own home dimension, he’s more haggard; his body has wasted in on itself, persisting moreso on arcane energies and various foul magical concoctions rather than food. He hasn’t slept properly in ages, the hollows in his cheeks and beneath his eyes deepening.
This Stephen, even sleep-deprived, still feels healthier and stronger than she is. He takes a deep breath, and leisurely finishes pulling on sweatpants, tugs on a shirt, even with her watching him. ]
I’m here to enjoy the sights. Go for a long walk on the beach. Does the sun still shine here? [ This is a weird comment to make. ] The sky’s not broken? Good. This is an improvement. Who wouldn’t come for a visit?
[ His smile is a little too toothy, a little too mordant. ]
[ He's a lying sack of shit, but he's giving her information she desperately needs. There's a timeline out there where the world is broken — it's not her first time encountering something like that. Suddenly, she's grateful to Jane Chatwin for introducing her to the possibility of other timelines; who knew it would be so helpful? ]
Stephen Strange wouldn't just casually hop into another timeline and take over a body for a walk on the beach. [ A beat, and then a few more puzzle pieces slide together, the pit in her stomach plunging deeper. ] This isn't a visit. You're not planning on leaving.
[ Distress and pain thread through her voice, weakening the steel, but she manages to keep the panic hidden a little longer. Because she is starting to panic. She can't lose him the way she lost Richard. It's different, yes, because she has to assume that her Stephen is still alive in there or somewhere, but something about this version strikes the same malevolent cord Reynard always did. She doesn't need to spend more than five minutes with him to know he thinks of himself as akin to a god. Stephen Strange might think of himself as intellectually superior to just about everyone, but he still sees the world as being worth protecting — she wouldn't bet on this one feeling the same.
She has to think fast. Exorcism or whatever the fuck is used in this type of situation isn't something she's researched much, but she knows that whatever it ends up taking, it will need to happen in a location where she has the upper hand, and that's not the Sanctum. Despite all the months she's lived in these delightfully haunted walls, she still doesn't understand all that can and does happen within them, and while she feels safest here, she may need to resort to a type of magic that won't work well in this space. ]
You can't stay in the Sanctum. [ That panic shines through now, though it's not from lack of control but rather intentional release. Her act will be more believable if it's based in truth. ] Wong and the other masters will find out you're not him, and they'll—
[ She lets her voice crack, her arms tremble slightly. Maybe he'll believe her weak and she can use it to her advantage. ] You're Stephen Strange, so you're stronger than them, but that doesn't mean they can't hurt you. Hurt him.
[ hissed, arrogant. He fully believes it, especially with the power of the Darkhold still seeped into his being, even after having lost the book. Its power still coils within him like an ink-black snake. The (physical) damage of the Darkhold isn’t apparent here, his burned-black hands now looking normal as ever, but— not all damage is skin-deep.
And it was a good card for Julia to play, indulging his pride. Because therein lies the difference: her own Stephen would have known to tip his hat to Wong, a more experienced and trained sorcerer than him, if not with as much raw unformed talent. He’s considering, though: imagining running into a whole army of sorcerers ready to do battle with him. It wouldn’t be fun. And more importantly: ]
The Sanctum, though… That might be strong enough to do something against me.
[ And is that a faint unhappy creak of floorboards beneath their feet? The wood in the walls shifting like a low dissatisfied grumble, a dog growling in the back of its throat? He tilts his head, looks at the lavish surroundings of Stephen Strange’s master bedroom. Narrows his eyes. Says aloud, almost to himself (he is very accustomed to talking to himself), ]
I’m tired of this place, anyway. Does he still own the penthouse? No, probably not, he had to sell it— [ His haphazard attention redirects, hones in again on that sling ring on her hand. ] Are you one of the novices? I thought you weren’t supposed to sleep with the novices.
[ It's been months since Julia had to subtly manipulate someone into doing what she wants, but she's glad to see her skills are still as sharp as ever. The horrifying imposter follows the path she lays for him, making the connections she'd hoped he'd come to on his own. The other sorcerers, the Sanctum — even with as powerful as he has to be, there are still threats out there. But she can see how his arrogance roars to life at the slightest provocation, providing another weapon for her arsenal.
Allowing herself to look as uncomfortable as she feels, she shifts her weight on her feet, trying to put on a facade of self-consciousness. ] I'm not a novice, I'm a— I'm a special project. I have connections with Brakebills.
[ She feels pretty certain in her assumption that he'll look down on magicians the same way he looks down on other sorcerers. Everyone else is beneath him, right? So why should that be different with other types of magic users? ]
A ‘special project’. Typical, [ Strange repeats, voice flecked with distaste. Brakebills is only a vaguely interesting footnote, to be filed away for future reference, but ultimately irrelevant. The academy was destroyed along with the rest of his universe ages ago, all of their practitioners helpless to stop the inevitable incursion. He hasn’t had to think about those classically-trained magicians in— oh, he doesn’t even know how long.
He moves to the nightstand, starts unceremoniously rifling through the other Stephen’s belongings with a lack of care. Books he was halfway through reading, a tablet, the repaired wristwatch— oh. He stops, traces its intact glass clockface with a trembling finger. He’s turned away from Julia, showing his back, clearly completely unfussed and not considering her a threat at all. Instead, he demands more information over his shoulder as he picks up the watch, slipping it onto his wrist. ]
I’ll be out of your hair in a second. Where the hell did he keep his sling ring? And do you know if Christine Palmer is still alive in this universe?
[ Typical. That distaste grates on her, screeching like nails on a chalkboard and making her want to lash out. Were she any less sure of herself and the connection she shares with Stephen, the comment might bother her in other ways, but she is certain of their strength, and she is going to get him back. Somehow. ]
His sling ring was eaten by a spider demon. [ It's not a lie, exactly. She's just referring to his previous sling ring rather than the one buried under a pile of papers on his desk from where they'd been working the night before. In a split-second decision, she drops her defensive stance and tugs off her own sling ring to offer him, her hand still trembling. ]
Here, take mine. Just try to keep a low profile, okay? People here know him. [ But there's one person she's particularly worried about. A woman who won't stand a chance against this Stephen, and whose husband would likely suffer an even worse fate if he's found out. Neither of them deserve that. So, she tries to buy some time: ] He doesn't talk about her.
Of course he doesn’t. [ There’s a constant seething irritation in his voice whenever he talks about Stephen. (Does it still count as self-hatred if it’s for another version of yourself?) But Stephen Stranges rarely talk about their issues, and so this seems realistic enough: as far as he’s concerned, Christine is the unhealed wound, still open and raw and prone to infection. The idea that he wouldn’t have discussed her with this Brakebills magician isn’t surprising, although Strange still needs to know if the other surgeon is still alive.
But he’ll find out.
Strange takes the sling ring from Julia and slips it onto his two fingers, curling his hand into a fist, relishing the familiar reassuring weight of it on his hand. It means freedom of movement. ]
Thank you, miss…?
[ The question dangles, only stiffly polite in service of prying, gathering a little more information. He still didn’t get her name. ]
[ He really doesn't know her. She's known that for all these achingly long minutes, but somehow this reminder is the most excruciating. Her heart feels like someone has reached into her chest and grabbed hold of it, squeezing harder and harder until she can barely breathe. He isn't her Stephen, but she's going to get him back.
No matter what the cost.
Straightening her back, her hands clench at her sides. Without a sling ring, he might think her powerless, or at least not a threat, and she's fine with that. It's better he doesn't know what she's capable of. But he should still know her spine is made of steel. ]
If you hurt him, there won't be anywhere you can hide. [ Whether he assumes she means from her or the Masters, she leaves it up to him. ]
Well. That does depend a bit on your definition of hurt.
[ Strange’s voice is dry, arch, with a thread of sly amusement beneath it all. What did ‘hurt’ mean, in this particular circumstance? He would treat this body well, of course: he would eat well and enjoy good food now that food existed again and maybe even go for healthy little walks, now that entire chunks of Manhattan weren’t sloughing off into the void. He would cherish this Stephen Strange vessel as if it were his own, because now it was his own. He would not let any harm come to this form.
The other Stephen’s mind, on the other hand, was still buried somewhere under a pile of psychological rocks: shoved into a closet and the door locked and conveniently thrown away the key. But being in psychic captivity wouldn’t hurt; it would simply be a nothingness. An emptiness. A dull void, while Stephen was trapped and unable to pilot his body, the sinister cuckoo in his place instead.
Strange has had enough of the void. He’s done his time in limbo. He deserves some freedom, in his opinion. ]
It’s rather in my best interest to take care of Stephen Strange, [ Strange admits, as he finishes buttoning up the last of his clothes with a flick of telekinesis, and he’s almost ready to leave. He tries to go for the Cloak, but it rustles itself awake and speeds toward Julia instead, wrapping itself protectively around her, cinching at her neck. He frowns after it, like the household dog’s just ignored his command to come to heel. But it’s not much of a loss; he didn’t have the Cloak back in his home dimension, either. ]
[ It nearly breaks her when the Cloak wraps around her instead of letting him touch it. Relief is what crashes into her with the knowledge that she isn't facing this alone. Like so many things in the Sanctum, the Cloak has a mind of its own, and it isn't any happier about its chosen sorcerer being taken over like this than she is.
Her hands itch to wrap around the Cloak and hug it tighter to her, but she keeps them loose at her side, trying to project the image of someone who knows they've been bested. She couldn't possibly win in a fight against the great Stephen Strange...
The longer he thinks that, the better off she'll be. With a shaky breath, she asks him a question, a haunted look coming over her face. ] Where will you go?
None of your business, [ Strange says, primly — partially also because he doesn’t quite know yet, he’ll have to browse the available options first,
but then a moment later he does add, contemplative, ] I wonder if anyone ever bought the penthouse.
[ Money for such an eye-wateringly luxury should be an issue, considering the former Sorcerer Supreme lives on a monkish pittance. Money, however, is not an issue when you don’t have any qualms about using mind control magic on civilians and real estate brokers. He’ll find a way. ]
[ She wants to scream that it is her business, then absolutely everything he does in that body is her business, but she can't. She also can't just let him go off and handle things in a way she's fairly certain her Stephen wouldn't approve of, though. ]
You know he doesn't really have money, then. But I do. Or, my family does. [ With only half an idea of what she's doing, Julia fumbles for her bag and the wallet inside. ]
Here. You can use this for a hotel while you figure things out. No one will notice a few thousand more than usual on the next bill. [ The card has her name written on it, but he'd be able to change that with little more than a thought. She holds it out with a wary look. ] Don't get the wrong idea. I don't want anything happening to that body, so that means making sure you have a safe place to stay.
[ His gaze drops down to her hand, that offered card; and while he’d snatched up the sling ring quickly enough, this time Strange hesitates in dubious mistrust. Julia’s hand stays extended. He does not take the card. ]
The ring is one thing; they’ve got those rolling around in lost-and-found here, if it’s like any of the other Sanctums. But you’re giving me your money. Your own resources. Why?
[ She’d already said a reason why, but he’s clearly skeptical. ]
[ That suspicion isn't unexpected, but it is inconvenient. Scrambling for another reason to give, after a moment, she stumbles across one that feels like a knife to her heart. ]
He helped me when I needed it. It's what we do for each other. You're in his body, so...
[ She doesn't know what he can do to her Stephen. His body might be safe from harm because the other one needs it, but what about his mind? The part of him that makes him the man she cares so deeply about? Her hands stays outstretched, though it doesn't shake like when she held the sling ring. She's determined, and she's begging, because perhaps that will make it easier for him to say yes. ]
You’re aware, [ he says, just a little snide, all of Stephen Strange’s contemptuous arrogance untempered, all of his worst foibles sharpened by years of festering alone, ] that I could simply take what I want from the average civilian. This isn’t necessary.
[ He’s not fully certain what the trap could even be in that little slip of plastic; is there any harm in taking it? Julia would know what he was purchasing, certainly, but is that a dealbreaker? Perhaps he should just take it. For simplicity, for convenience, and he’ll reckon with the consequences later. ]
I'm aware. [ All too well, in fact. She lets some of that old vulnerability show through and takes a step closer to him. One singular step that does nothing to bridge the chasm stretched between them. ] But I've been that civilian and I'll do whatever it takes to avoid someone else being pulled into this.
[ She isn't going to give him details. She'll lie before she tells him about Reynard or any of the agony she went through while healing. Her Stephen has earned those stories, but the man before her has not. ]
alright, maybe it is a little skittishness. Strange is deeply unaccustomed to having other people around him any longer, putting themselves so close into his personal space, speaking to him at all. He’s been alone for so long. It makes him curt, impatient, a little off-kilter. A little lonely.
Lucky, then, that he had next to no interest in actually impersonating Stephen and weaselling himself closer to Julia. Even the regular Stephen Strange had made himself aloof and lonely for years on end; he knows how to live with it. ]
Fine, [ he spits, instead, trying to claw back some agency in this conversation. He reaches out and snatches the credit card from her. It’s odd, seeing this body language in a healthy, well-fed Stephen who isn’t skirting along exhaustion and total psychic collapse; this one is more jittery, more twitchy. ]
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ourladytrees) wrote2022-06-18 12:21 am
in your arms, i'm safe and sound —
no subject
It’s been such a long time since Stephen woke up with someone else in his bed, and even longer since it was someone he wanted to be there, and not to kick her out at daybreak. Stephen’s been terrified of emotional intimacy for a long, long time — afraid of seeing and being seen, afraid of wanting, afraid of that sheer vulnerability of placing your heart in someone else’s hand — and so it’s a little easier to think of this as just a tryst. A physical benefit to their friendship, perhaps. They don’t define what they are. They don’t overthink it. He wakes Julia up by pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, and he does not run away from whatever this is. She wakes Stephen up by playfully wriggling closer, a hand sliding below his abdomen, and she does not run away from whatever this is.
And it is so astonishingly, frighteningly comfortable.
Except that somewhere else, in another time and another p̶̞̮̔͑͒l̷̡͐̒ạ̴̻̗͘͝c̴̣͙̗̐e̷̯͑̌ —
It’s a dead New York inside a dead universe, with a crumbling Sanctum Sanctorum. In this world, Stephen Strange’s fingers are burned black from the Darkhold. He’s been living a lonely vigil with no one else to talk to because this world broke long ago, shattering into pieces.
Doctor Stephen Strange has always been driven and obsessive. Here, the object of said obsession became: Christine, Christine in every permutation, every world and place he couldn’t have her, every hungry longing for her, every version of himself he murders because he cannot have her. With nothing else to fixate on, with the Darkhold sinking its claws into his slowly-rotting soul, Strange has simply become worse and worse.
Things just got out of hand.
Well. They’re about to get out of hand again.
After his battle with himself, he’s left gasping and impaled on a fence, Christine watching on in horror before she and Stephen fucking Strange leave together to walk right out of this dead-end universe.
But it takes a lot more than a wrought-iron fence to kill a Sorcerer Supreme.
Slowly, agonishingly, Strange hauls himself off that sharp arch. Telekinesis pulls himself up and over, landing on the ground, blood spilling out from that ugly ragged wound, darkening his hands further. He patches himself up, magical flame searing the injury shut. He steals more magic to heal himself and the ground trembles; a fracture, more pieces of the universe sloughing off, and he’s aware that the whole thing might still come apart entirely. It’s dead and empty, but it could still collapse further; it’s like he’s living in a condemned building, except all of reality itself is condemned and collapsing.
He crawls back into the Sanctum Sanctorum and it takes him a while to recover, slowly healing from his injuries. Time doesn’t exist here — no sun rises and sets — and so it’s hard to tell how long it takes, but eventually his quivering fingers trace that wound and finds that it’s just more scarred flesh.
He doesn’t have the Darkhold any longer — his other self stole it — but he has a photographic memory.
He reconstructs the runes. The sigils. He carves them into space once more, that livid scarlet energy searing its way through the air, carving its way through universes like layers of flesh.
Did the other Stephen think that taking the book would be enough?
Strange has been dreamwalking for years. He has walked in uncountable footsteps. He has memorised the spells. Of course he has memorised the spells.
And now he has a dinstinctive energy signature to follow, one he knows as well as himself because it is indeed himself, signposts pointing the way home.
So he parts those glassy barriers between universes, slips beneath the surface, and follows the psychic breadcrumbs of that arrogant and seethingly self-important do-gooder presence he had met, and battled, and now knew intimately; he could dreamwalk again and follow him back to the point of origin, and it was like crawling into familiar snakeskin —
and Strange opens his eyes to warm glowing sunlight (real light! real sunlight!) in his bedroom in the Sanctum Sanctorum (intact! not a haunted house!). He blinks, disoriented; flexes his scarred but unburnt fingertips, feels his consciousness settle into hands and feet and limbs like tarry ink settling into a glass vessel, filling it to the brim. He methodically bricks away the other Stephen, sealing up the cracks, piling layer upon layer over the man’s consciousness and burying him six feet deep in a hungry grave.
He has done this many, many times. It’s old hat by now.
What is new, however, is when he shifts in that bed and looks to the side, and realises that he is not alone. Those blue-green eyes blink again, critically surveying the brunette beside him with a sheer lack of recognition.
He could try to maintain the ruse, perhaps. But after a while, he’s never really bothered; Wong had once immediately exorcised him because he’d sensed the alien presence, and so it doesn’t seem worth the effort. So Strange doesn’t even try. There’s something wrong with his voice when he speaks: something slithery, something low and more gravelly than Julia’s accustomed to, as if his voice is suddenly cracked from disuse. ]
Oh. Hello. You’re not Christine.
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When Stephen first wakes, she takes in the way he moves, the flexing fingers and blinking eyes as if he's trying to get his bearings, but she doesn't think anything of it. They've talked about how he'll sometimes astral project in his sleep; perhaps this is part of him readjusting to being back in his body.
But then he looks at her... and nightmare becomes reality.
There's nothing in his eyes of Stephen. No recognition, no affection, no soft amusement or playful mischief. He doesn't know her. And it's more than that, not just a simple case of having memories erased like what had happened with James. His voice is different, his way of speaking, as if he's an entirely different person.
But that name. Christine. Whoever or whatever is in him knows about Stephen's life, at least to an extent. That tells her... something. She doesn't know what yet.
Hiding her fear beneath uncomfortable agitation, Julia sits up, channeling the emotion she can't suppress into the guise of an affronted lover. ]
Well, that's an odd thing to say. [ There's hurt in the words, and she turns away as if upset over something trivial. She's the picture of a privileged rich girl as she slides to the edge of the bed and reaches for the sweater and jeans crumpled on the floor. Clothes will help her feel stronger, like donning armor before battle — and there's a sling ring in her pants pocket. ]
What the hell, Strange. [ She never calls him that. He's always Stephen with her. ]
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Strange watches her move, drinking in the sight of her naked body as she starts to get dressed in annoyance, but it’s the way one might admire a particularly well-made painting. She’s not Christine, and so the man’s interest is decidedly nil. He mirrors her movement, fishing around for his own clothes. ]
I see I’m back to sleeping around,
[ he remarks, arch and droll, the way a disapproving brother might. Julia sinks back into that mask of privileged rich girl, and he buys it. She’s young for him; she must be a fling. Maybe Stephen’s gone and fucked another grad student who only came nosing around for research purposes. ]
Who are you? Is Wong here?
[ The more he talks, the more she’s noticing the little inflections in the man’s flat accent. The intonation is all off (more sinister), but there’s some familiar bedrock there: this does, still, sound more like Stephen Strange than some otherworldly creature possessing him. ]
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He's from a different timeline. Or perhaps a different Earth entirely. She doesn't know much about multiverse theory, only that it exists, but different timelines she understands, and the man before her is as different and yet similar as Penny-23 is to Penny-40. But 23 hadn't taken over 40's body, he'd just stepped into the void left behind by the Traveler, so what the hell is this guy's deal?
She buttons her jeans and slips a hand into her pocket before turning around, lifting her hands defensively with the sling ring secured on her fingers. The silly rich girl is gone, replaced by the woman who had faced a murderous god without flinching. There's steel in her voice and determination in her eyes as she demands answers of her own. ]
Cut the bullshit. Why the fuck are you in my Stephen's body?
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Strange cuts an extremely undignified picture in that moment: still hopping clumsily into his trousers, dick still out. At that sudden demand from Julia, he pauses and looks up at her, one sardonic eyebrow arched. ]
I mean, technically, this is my body too.
[ Except, technically, also not. He had already noticed that they shared the same childhood scar on their elbow, having fallen out of a tree stealing apples — the scars on their hands match for the most part — but this body doesn’t have the jagged burn from that time he grappled a fiend, nor of course that ugly scar on his chest from his impalement. In his own home dimension, he’s more haggard; his body has wasted in on itself, persisting moreso on arcane energies and various foul magical concoctions rather than food. He hasn’t slept properly in ages, the hollows in his cheeks and beneath his eyes deepening.
This Stephen, even sleep-deprived, still feels healthier and stronger than she is. He takes a deep breath, and leisurely finishes pulling on sweatpants, tugs on a shirt, even with her watching him. ]
I’m here to enjoy the sights. Go for a long walk on the beach. Does the sun still shine here? [ This is a weird comment to make. ] The sky’s not broken? Good. This is an improvement. Who wouldn’t come for a visit?
[ His smile is a little too toothy, a little too mordant. ]
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Stephen Strange wouldn't just casually hop into another timeline and take over a body for a walk on the beach. [ A beat, and then a few more puzzle pieces slide together, the pit in her stomach plunging deeper. ] This isn't a visit. You're not planning on leaving.
[ Distress and pain thread through her voice, weakening the steel, but she manages to keep the panic hidden a little longer. Because she is starting to panic. She can't lose him the way she lost Richard. It's different, yes, because she has to assume that her Stephen is still alive in there or somewhere, but something about this version strikes the same malevolent cord Reynard always did. She doesn't need to spend more than five minutes with him to know he thinks of himself as akin to a god. Stephen Strange might think of himself as intellectually superior to just about everyone, but he still sees the world as being worth protecting — she wouldn't bet on this one feeling the same.
She has to think fast. Exorcism or whatever the fuck is used in this type of situation isn't something she's researched much, but she knows that whatever it ends up taking, it will need to happen in a location where she has the upper hand, and that's not the Sanctum. Despite all the months she's lived in these delightfully haunted walls, she still doesn't understand all that can and does happen within them, and while she feels safest here, she may need to resort to a type of magic that won't work well in this space. ]
You can't stay in the Sanctum. [ That panic shines through now, though it's not from lack of control but rather intentional release. Her act will be more believable if it's based in truth. ] Wong and the other masters will find out you're not him, and they'll—
[ She lets her voice crack, her arms tremble slightly. Maybe he'll believe her weak and she can use it to her advantage. ] You're Stephen Strange, so you're stronger than them, but that doesn't mean they can't hurt you. Hurt him.
my last tag was supposed to be *than he is 😤
[ hissed, arrogant. He fully believes it, especially with the power of the Darkhold still seeped into his being, even after having lost the book. Its power still coils within him like an ink-black snake. The (physical) damage of the Darkhold isn’t apparent here, his burned-black hands now looking normal as ever, but— not all damage is skin-deep.
And it was a good card for Julia to play, indulging his pride. Because therein lies the difference: her own Stephen would have known to tip his hat to Wong, a more experienced and trained sorcerer than him, if not with as much raw unformed talent. He’s considering, though: imagining running into a whole army of sorcerers ready to do battle with him. It wouldn’t be fun. And more importantly: ]
The Sanctum, though… That might be strong enough to do something against me.
[ And is that a faint unhappy creak of floorboards beneath their feet? The wood in the walls shifting like a low dissatisfied grumble, a dog growling in the back of its throat? He tilts his head, looks at the lavish surroundings of Stephen Strange’s master bedroom. Narrows his eyes. Says aloud, almost to himself (he is very accustomed to talking to himself), ]
I’m tired of this place, anyway. Does he still own the penthouse? No, probably not, he had to sell it— [ His haphazard attention redirects, hones in again on that sling ring on her hand. ] Are you one of the novices? I thought you weren’t supposed to sleep with the novices.
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Allowing herself to look as uncomfortable as she feels, she shifts her weight on her feet, trying to put on a facade of self-consciousness. ] I'm not a novice, I'm a— I'm a special project. I have connections with Brakebills.
[ She feels pretty certain in her assumption that he'll look down on magicians the same way he looks down on other sorcerers. Everyone else is beneath him, right? So why should that be different with other types of magic users? ]
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He moves to the nightstand, starts unceremoniously rifling through the other Stephen’s belongings with a lack of care. Books he was halfway through reading, a tablet, the repaired wristwatch— oh. He stops, traces its intact glass clockface with a trembling finger. He’s turned away from Julia, showing his back, clearly completely unfussed and not considering her a threat at all. Instead, he demands more information over his shoulder as he picks up the watch, slipping it onto his wrist. ]
I’ll be out of your hair in a second. Where the hell did he keep his sling ring? And do you know if Christine Palmer is still alive in this universe?
shakes the dust off this place
His sling ring was eaten by a spider demon. [ It's not a lie, exactly. She's just referring to his previous sling ring rather than the one buried under a pile of papers on his desk from where they'd been working the night before. In a split-second decision, she drops her defensive stance and tugs off her own sling ring to offer him, her hand still trembling. ]
Here, take mine. Just try to keep a low profile, okay? People here know him. [ But there's one person she's particularly worried about. A woman who won't stand a chance against this Stephen, and whose husband would likely suffer an even worse fate if he's found out. Neither of them deserve that. So, she tries to buy some time: ] He doesn't talk about her.
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But he’ll find out.
Strange takes the sling ring from Julia and slips it onto his two fingers, curling his hand into a fist, relishing the familiar reassuring weight of it on his hand. It means freedom of movement. ]
Thank you, miss…?
[ The question dangles, only stiffly polite in service of prying, gathering a little more information. He still didn’t get her name. ]
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[ He really doesn't know her. She's known that for all these achingly long minutes, but somehow this reminder is the most excruciating. Her heart feels like someone has reached into her chest and grabbed hold of it, squeezing harder and harder until she can barely breathe. He isn't her Stephen, but she's going to get him back.
No matter what the cost.
Straightening her back, her hands clench at her sides. Without a sling ring, he might think her powerless, or at least not a threat, and she's fine with that. It's better he doesn't know what she's capable of. But he should still know her spine is made of steel. ]
If you hurt him, there won't be anywhere you can hide. [ Whether he assumes she means from her or the Masters, she leaves it up to him. ]
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[ Strange’s voice is dry, arch, with a thread of sly amusement beneath it all. What did ‘hurt’ mean, in this particular circumstance? He would treat this body well, of course: he would eat well and enjoy good food now that food existed again and maybe even go for healthy little walks, now that entire chunks of Manhattan weren’t sloughing off into the void. He would cherish this Stephen Strange vessel as if it were his own, because now it was his own. He would not let any harm come to this form.
The other Stephen’s mind, on the other hand, was still buried somewhere under a pile of psychological rocks: shoved into a closet and the door locked and conveniently thrown away the key. But being in psychic captivity wouldn’t hurt; it would simply be a nothingness. An emptiness. A dull void, while Stephen was trapped and unable to pilot his body, the sinister cuckoo in his place instead.
Strange has had enough of the void. He’s done his time in limbo. He deserves some freedom, in his opinion. ]
It’s rather in my best interest to take care of Stephen Strange, [ Strange admits, as he finishes buttoning up the last of his clothes with a flick of telekinesis, and he’s almost ready to leave. He tries to go for the Cloak, but it rustles itself awake and speeds toward Julia instead, wrapping itself protectively around her, cinching at her neck. He frowns after it, like the household dog’s just ignored his command to come to heel. But it’s not much of a loss; he didn’t have the Cloak back in his home dimension, either. ]
Ah, well.
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Her hands itch to wrap around the Cloak and hug it tighter to her, but she keeps them loose at her side, trying to project the image of someone who knows they've been bested. She couldn't possibly win in a fight against the great Stephen Strange...
The longer he thinks that, the better off she'll be. With a shaky breath, she asks him a question, a haunted look coming over her face. ] Where will you go?
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but then a moment later he does add, contemplative, ] I wonder if anyone ever bought the penthouse.
[ Money for such an eye-wateringly luxury should be an issue, considering the former Sorcerer Supreme lives on a monkish pittance. Money, however, is not an issue when you don’t have any qualms about using mind control magic on civilians and real estate brokers. He’ll find a way. ]
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You know he doesn't really have money, then. But I do. Or, my family does. [ With only half an idea of what she's doing, Julia fumbles for her bag and the wallet inside. ]
Here. You can use this for a hotel while you figure things out. No one will notice a few thousand more than usual on the next bill. [ The card has her name written on it, but he'd be able to change that with little more than a thought. She holds it out with a wary look. ] Don't get the wrong idea. I don't want anything happening to that body, so that means making sure you have a safe place to stay.
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The ring is one thing; they’ve got those rolling around in lost-and-found here, if it’s like any of the other Sanctums. But you’re giving me your money. Your own resources. Why?
[ She’d already said a reason why, but he’s clearly skeptical. ]
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He helped me when I needed it. It's what we do for each other. You're in his body, so...
[ She doesn't know what he can do to her Stephen. His body might be safe from harm because the other one needs it, but what about his mind? The part of him that makes him the man she cares so deeply about? Her hands stays outstretched, though it doesn't shake like when she held the sling ring. She's determined, and she's begging, because perhaps that will make it easier for him to say yes. ]
Please. Let me do this.
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[ He’s not fully certain what the trap could even be in that little slip of plastic; is there any harm in taking it? Julia would know what he was purchasing, certainly, but is that a dealbreaker? Perhaps he should just take it. For simplicity, for convenience, and he’ll reckon with the consequences later. ]
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[ She isn't going to give him details. She'll lie before she tells him about Reynard or any of the agony she went through while healing. Her Stephen has earned those stories, but the man before her has not. ]
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It’s not skittishness, precisely, but—
alright, maybe it is a little skittishness. Strange is deeply unaccustomed to having other people around him any longer, putting themselves so close into his personal space, speaking to him at all. He’s been alone for so long. It makes him curt, impatient, a little off-kilter. A little lonely.
Lucky, then, that he had next to no interest in actually impersonating Stephen and weaselling himself closer to Julia. Even the regular Stephen Strange had made himself aloof and lonely for years on end; he knows how to live with it. ]
Fine, [ he spits, instead, trying to claw back some agency in this conversation. He reaches out and snatches the credit card from her. It’s odd, seeing this body language in a healthy, well-fed Stephen who isn’t skirting along exhaustion and total psychic collapse; this one is more jittery, more twitchy. ]