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Stephen grunts as he falls to the ground, cursing under his breath.
It was another standard Tuesday of fighting an eldritch horror for him, and Stephen finds it almost ridiculous how frequent interdimensional breaches happen and how common it is for it to involve so many tentacles.
He had been in the middle of sparring with America in their – now regular – training sessions when Wong alerted him and other sorcerers to prepare for battle and ready their sling rings to a location deep within a forest, on a clearing where a lake resides.
He would be there by now if it weren’t for America practically begging him to let her join.
“Let me come,” America insists, “I’m ready.”
“No.” Stephen says for the millionth time, leaving no room for negotiation. “You’re staying here until I get back.”
“But I’ve been training for weeks! I’m more than ready, Stephen.”
“You’re not.” No amount of training could’ve prepared him for his first battle with Dormammu. “You are ready once I say you are.”
“But I’m ready now. See?” She conjures a whip that glimmers with golden energy.
Stephen sighs, swiping a hand over his face exasperatedly. He realises now how The Ancient One must’ve felt. “Please let me come.”
“Look, America,” he turns his eyes to her, looking intently. Her whip disipates into sparks upon seeing the look on his face. “I just… I don’t want you to be in any harm, okay? So you’re staying here until I come back. You can train on your own for a while, if you want.”
America’s face falls, and the sight makes him almost give in to her. Instead he holds his ground.
“Fine,” she mutters, wrapping her hands in front of her. She toes the ground and stares at her foot for a moment. And then in a lower voice, “But don’t leave for too long.”
Stephen softens his expression. “I’ll be back before you know it “
And with that, he left, creating a portal and stepping through. The lake, and several trees scattered over the lining of the open space, comes into view.
It’s only mere moments later that the creature emerges from the water with its blinking eyeballs and massive tentacles, letting out an ear-piercing shriek.
With great practice and far too much experience, they easily incapacitate it enough to start sending it back to its own dimension. Once that’s done and over with, they can seal the breach. Easy as that.
Well, until he realises somewhere in the ‘sending the creature back’ phase that his certain student has involved herself in the battle despite his firm directions.
“America!” he shouts, realising the considerable distance between them. She was flying in the air, seemingly unaware of Stephen’s eyes on her. “What the hell are you doing here?!” He knows he shouldn’t curse in front of her, but dammit he couldn’t help it. “What did I tell you? Why are you here?!”
America frowns, turning her head to him, squinting her eyes, and Stephen thinks that perhaps it could be due to their distance and how his voice wouldn’t be able to reach her from afar that she doesn’t react at first. It was a few moments later that she seems to make out that it was Stephen who was shouting at her, if her widened eyes and panicked shift in expression is anything to go by.
He sees her lips move and could make out the words “Stephen I–” which is quickly cut off, as before she can get another word in, a tentacle is flying in her direction and sends her reeling to the side; quickly knocking her out.
And then America falls.
The sight makes him lurch forward faster than what he thinks is humanly possible. Her eyes drift closed as her hands lift up against the air resistance, and Stephen feels his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest that it threatens to spill out of his ribcage. Blood thrums within his flesh and underneath his skin, racing through his veins. His ears ring and it’s almost as if everything around him falls apart as his eyes zero in on America; her figure steadily falling, her face covered by the wind that whisks her hair upwards.
Neither he nor the cloak make it in time.
America breaks into the surface of the lake, sinking into the murky waters, and before he can stop himself he joins her, landing to the side of the lake in a haste and frantically shrugging the cloak off before diving head-first.
His body submerges itself into the lake, the sudden shock of cold from the water forcing his body to quickly adjust to the change in temperature. His eyes scan the area as he whips his head about in the water, trying to find and make out America’s figure, and when he spots her his limbs move as if on its own. They drag him as he swims forward and, when within reach, pulls her in his arms.
The weight of her body and the idea that she’s real and in his arms calms him a little, making him hold her tightly until the grip has his hands hurting, and he thrusts his body upwards and wills his feet to swing faster to bring them to the surface.
He lands on the shore, carefully laying America on the mossy soil as her slumped body lays motionless. He barely registers himself panting heavily, fast breaths coming in and out in a frantic manner, or the cold that wracks his body, seeping into his bones and mixing with the adrenaline to make him quake and shiver uncontrollably.
Next thing he knows, his hands fly up to her chest and pumps with his full body weight to administer CPR, uncaring of the damaged nerves and the pain that surely follows. He doesn’t care about anything happening around him, doesn’t care as Wong calls his name or as water drips from the loose strands of his hair doesn’t care about the screeches of the wretched thing as it disappears into the lake nearby. In the corner of his eye he notices the cloak, somehow looking both nervous and worried as just the piece of fabric that it is, floating idly by the side as if unsure what to do.
“C’mon,” he mutters, breathless, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he chants helplessly with gasping breaths. A sob tears its way out of him. “Not again, please. Not again.”
He goes on like that for a while. Pumping his hand over America’s chest, ignoring the sparks of pain up his arms, trying to keep the flashes of a different little girl he couldn’t save in the past at bay, and when her body lurches forward and water spills up and out of her lips and her chest contracts in choked coughs, relief floods his system in a way that’s so overbearing that he can’t help the gasp he lets out.
“Donna,” he says before he can stop himself, “Oh god, Donna, oh thank the Vishanti,” he quickly pulls her up in a tight hug, “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I– oh god, you’re alive, oh thank god–” He tries to control his breathing as America’s hand slowly raises, placing itself on the nearest shoulder blade within her reach and rubbing weakly.
Whatever happens next is a blur to him, and before he knows it he’s taken her to the healers of Kamar Taj.
*.~ ◇ ~.*
After they make sure America isn’t gravely injured, and a considerably excessive amount of fussing over on Stephen’s part as well as Wong’s confirmation that the breach has been dealt with, Stephen brings her back home.
It’s a bit of an unspoken agreement, he realises, that they consider the Sanctum as home to the both of them. Stephen thinks it has nothing to do with the building or his role as its Master. Stephen thinks it has everything to do with the way the sentient building greets them with its warmth, and the smell of old books and tea and rusty relics wafting through the air, and the memories carved in invisible letters within each creaky floorboard, each wall that hums with quiet magical energy, each wooden step of the foyer’s stairway or the expanse of glass that make up its largest window.
He thinks it has everything to do with the presence of someone he would destroy the entire universe and then himself for. That he would protect with every inch of his life and rip himself apart in the process for.
He wonders, not for the first time, how America manages to embed herself so deep in him that he might burst with the weight of her in his heart and every part of him.
Sometimes Stephen loves too much and too hard and too greatly and far too deeply that he doesn’t really know what to do with it. Sometimes he gives too much, serves his heart on a silver platter too easily, that he’s afraid it would make him stop breathing.
He knows, eventually, that loving will always be something he ends up regretting. Something he has always been afraid of. Because he knows deep down that he doesn’t deserve any form of reciprocation and that eventually, his attachment would be replaced by loss which will be filled by grief which will destroy him whole the way it already did and the way it will again.
Each time he thinks it’s different, and each time he’s proven wrong.
Loving people was a mistake. Loving America was a mistake he couldn’t care less to make, a mistake he couldn’t help but make, a mistake he can’t stop himself from making and a mistake he’ll make the most out of.
America was his mistake, and if he had a chance to start over he wouldn’t hesitate to love her again.
Arriving in their home, the first thing Stephen does is bring them to the kitchen to get her to eat something. It’s been a long day, and preparing her a meal seemed to be in order. A quick shower is what he plans next, and then some good sleep.
He whips up something quick with whatever is left in the mostly empty cupboards, taking a mental note to go get groceries sometime later. It’s messy and it’s simple and it’s far from delicious, but it’s enough.
America insists he should also eat, but Stephen feels that if he starts eating anything it would just come up his throat as vomit. His stomach can’t handle anything at the moment, and his body’s too overwhelmed for anything at all. So instead he slumps in his seat and refuses, and eventually America relents and stops trying to convince him. They all do, at the end.
Moments pass in silence, which was unusually tense when silences between them are usually warm and comfortable. They’re both still a bit shaken up by the events of the day, and despite the tenseness of the silence, it helps them process what happened as they are left with their own thoughts.
It isn’t until America’s fork clunks gently against the ceramic of her plate, signifying that she’s finished her meal, did she begin to speak.
"Um, Stephen?" she says, breaking the silence.
Stephen takes a deep breath, one he hopes isn't very noticeable. "Yes?"
America just stares for a moment, and Stephen knows she wants to say something. “Is there a problem, America?”
“I’m…” The words linger in her lips for a moment. She sighs. “I’m sorry.” Her head lowers. “You were right. I should have stayed in Kamar Taj.”
Stephen looks at her. Something in his heart sinks at America’s expression.
God, what is he supposed to do with this little girl?
“It’s okay, America.” Admittedly, he would’ve done the same in her position. He doesn’t say it aloud, though.
America nods. “I just…” Stephen’s eyes flick down to where she twists her fingers together. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to worry you like that.”
Stephen lowers his voice, speaking gentler. If America is slightly further away, he is sure she wouldn’t be able to catch what he says then. “I said it’s okay.” He leans forward a little, trying to catch her downcast eyes. “I’m just glad you’re safe now.”
America looks up at him, searching for something in his eyes for a moment, and then a small smile slowly graces her lips. “Thank you,” she mutters, and Stephen gives her a smile of his own in return. His heart warms a little at her upturned lips. “But seriously, when do I get to fight, too?”
Stephen gets caught off guard by the question, and finds himself laughing. “When I say so,” he repeats for what must be the millionth time today.
“Oh but it’s unfair. I’ve trained enough, Stephen.”
“Not until I say so, stardust. What happened today just proves that you’ve still got much to learn.” Despite the words, a smile sticks to his lips.
America grumbles a little bit, but her eyes look playful as they look at Stephen’s. He chuckles at that.
Silence falls over them again, and this time it’s a bit lighter. A lot less tense. They return to their own thoughts, and Stephen’s head replays what happened in the lake today.
A fierce surge of protectiveness goes through him at the memory of America’s unconscious body in his arms. It reminds him too much of another day, where he sees the way life drains out of his sister’s body as he clutches her head close to his chest. It didn’t feel real, at the time, as he holds her liveless form. It didn’t feel true. If he had to describe it, he would say it felt like a dream more than anything.
But today, as he held onto America on that lake, everything felt too real. He couldn’t lose her. He doesn’t think he can take another loss.
He silently vows to do everything in his abiltity for that to never happen again. He’ll destroy anything that wishes harm upon America.
America snaps him back to the present when she speaks up again, but something about her stiff shoulders and hesitant eyes tells him she had to work up the courage to say whatever it is she wants to say.
"Also, um, another thing–” She looks away for a moment, and then lands her eyes back to him. “When you... After I–" She pauses, mouth still hanging open and then closing in her hesitance. She shuffles in her seat. "Earlier," she starts over, "you um… After you got me out of the lake–” She grimaces a little, and Stephen holds his breath.
This is it. This is the confrontation.
Despite what one may think, Stephen knows exactly the slip up he made. He knows this conversation may or may not confirm whether America notices it, but some part of him still hopes that that isn’t the case. He hopes it isn’t the case at all.
“You uh… You called me another name."
Stephen tenses up, freezing. Fuck. She did notice. He doesn't really know what to say. "Oh," he says instead, "Did I?"
America nods, slowly, and his head spews out a litany of curses repeatedly.
"Yes. You..." Stephen tries to look away from her eyes when she speaks, but something about her gaze keeps him locked on. "Who's Donna, Stephen?"
There it is. The coin’s dropped.
The name, as much as he had expected to hear it, still made his breath catch in his throat and made him feel as if his heart had stopped beating. His eyes flick away to somewhere behind America’s shoulder, his fingers twining together in a nervous gesture on his lap. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, taking another deep breath before schooling his features into that of nonchalance.
See, Stephen's tired of hiding. He's tired of locking himself away, he's tired of lying, tired of concealing the truth. Sometimes he wishes he isn't the way that he is, but vulnerability comes with the price of his pride and he's never been very good at not letting his ego take over him.
But at this moment, when the person he cares most about right now more than he cares about himself, asks him to be vulnerable without realising so – what can he do? He's so tired of keeping up pretenses. Maybe it's time to let his walls down, risky as it is.
He trusts America. More than he trusts himself. And she deserves the truth, because he knows keeping the truth away just means lying, and he's tired of lying his entire life.
"She was my sister," he says, voice soft and low, words whispered as if they were a secret. They are, in a way. "She was the reason I became a doctor, why I am the way I am." In a good way, for the most part, and in a bad way in others. He doesn't say it aloud, though.
Maybe it's the way he said it, or the way his face twists in a grim expression, but America seems to understand that there's more to this than what he is willing to share.
"What happened to her?" she asks further, and Stephen tries to resist the urge to turn away and leave the conversation. He wants to hide. He wants to open up. He wants to run away and disappear. He wants to slice open his heart and let himself be human for once. He wants the ground to swallow him whole. He wants America to hug him. He wants to hug America. He wants to flee away from this conversation, from this room, from the world, from everything.
Instead all he can do is shrink in his seat, words forming in his mind and turning to ashes in his tongue. All he feels is the ground beneath him, all he can hear is the drumming of his heartbeat, all he sees is America's gentle but heavy gaze, all he tastes is the weight of the unspoken words on his tongue that he's kept that way for years and years – that’s been locked away for so long that when it comes forth it burns and scorches the tip of his tongue until all he can focus on is the pain.
America deserves the truth. She deserves everything and the truth and more. He can trust her.
And Stephen's tired of running away.
He weighs his options, considers his wording, before going fuck it and let his mouth decide before his head stops him or before his heart burns him.
"She died."
He never considered what it felt like when those two, simple words are spoken aloud. He never realised that the confession made it sound so real, too afraid of the fact that it's true, and even after all these years Stephen realises he's been avoiding the thought of Donna – as haunting as her smile is in rainy nights and as terrifying as the sound of cracking ice is in his nightmares – because he's afraid of how true it is.
Grief isn't a simple concept. Grief can't be easily explained through five, concrete, consecutive stages. Denial can't be separate from anger, bargaining doesn't come without depression and depression can't be shaken away, and acceptance isn't something you can achieve or truly believe in.
Grief is complex and grief clings to his being the way guilt always has, the way fear always will be.
He finds it ridiculous that, after all these years, grief is still something deeply embedded in him. Something he can't let go of, as if doing so would mean letting go of the grip he has on an edge of a cliff that would surely send him falling.
Grief is all he has left of Donna and grief is the one thing he hates most. Letting go of grief would mean letting go of Donna, which would mean ripping away a part of him and brutally tearing him apart until there’s nothing left of him. But holding onto grief would mean letting the flames consume him from the inside and slowly pick at the sore wounds in his heart.
He closes his eyes and breathes. He closes his eyes and shuts out his emotions that fill his chest to the brim and threaten to spill as tears in his eyes. He breathes as the thoughts running through his head stack upon one another, overwhelm him and threaten to burst out as sobs out of his mouth.
Stephen can handle many things. Stephen has handled many things. And he won’t let this, of all things, break him down.
“She died and it’s all my fault.”
He leaves it at that. He senses America trying to piece things together, and that angers him in a way he doesn’t understand the reason of. But Stephen’s too tired to figure out. He wants to rot in his bed, knowing it won’t ever change anything that happened but allowing him to pretend for a moment that nothing else existed or ever mattered but the way the blankets cover his body or the soft pillow cushioning his head or the way he focuses on taking consecutive breaths.
Sometimes he wishes he could forget things that happened. He wishes they didn’t happen to begin with. He wishes he would get over it, move on, go on with his life. Another part of him wants someone to know. Wants someone to understand. He’s afraid to let the world know who he is but part of him, the part that’s inherently human, craves recognition.
But right now, as the truth spills from his lips, leaving bitterness in its wake, he runs out of things to say. He doesn’t think he can take any more of this, or tell any more of what happened.
He’s grateful when America drops the subject, grateful when she doesn’t make a move to stop him when he excuses himself to his bedroom.
One day. Maybe one day he’ll be able to reveal the full truth. Today isn’t that day, but he knows one day it will be. He trusts America, after all, and she deserves everything and the truth and more.
But as he falls into bed, feeling the mattress underneath what he realises now is his shaking body, he realises this is what he needs. For now he lets himself take consecutive breaths, and escapes.