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"Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain!"
Stephen wakes up with his nails digging into his pillow.
It takes seven minutes for the last vestigial ache to fade away, this time from the crystal projectiles that had been speared through his chest and stomach. The pain always peaks at the moment the spikes hit him, which is usually the split second his mind can’t handle the stress anymore and forces him to wake up. He grounds himself by watching the minutes tick by on the clock on his bedside table.
“Alright,” Stephen mumbles, words still slurring a little from sleepiness. “Alright. We’re good. We’re good.”
He isn’t good.
In a way, Stephen thinks that maybe he’s brought this onto himself.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out that he’d been developing some degree of PTSD after the accident. The first time he’d gotten into Christine’s car when he’d left the hospital, he had been overcome with a sudden shakiness, nausea, sweatiness, remembering all too well that the last time I was in one of these things I went head-first off a cliff and almost died.
When Christine had asked him what was wrong, he had claimed motion-sickness. She probably didn’t buy it; Christine was always too smart for that kind of lie, especially coming from him, but she hadn’t called him out on it then. Stephen had managed to keep it together until they were back at his apartment; then he’d had a quiet little breakdown in the bathroom, partly from the car and partly from the fact that he was back home and his hands were still fucked up.
And he had meant to see a psychologist. Really, he had. Christine had found him one that she claimed was excellent.
But then the follow-up appointments came, and they conflicted with the sessions, so he canceled the sessions.
And then the surgeries came, which meant a lot of time and money was being spent on that, and there was little to none left over for the psychologist appointments.
And then the money had run out, and he hadn’t been able to afford anything but a ticket to Kathmandu.
So now, Stephen wonders if maybe he should have dedicated more time- or at least, as much time- to therapy as he might have to the surgeries. The money would have run out eventually anyway, with him being out of work, but at least now he might have some better coping mechanisms for this new layer of Hell.
One would think that, given that it was a time-loop and that time did not otherwise exist in the dark dimension, that Stephen would not have the same concept of how many times he’d been forced to jump down from one planet to the other, speak those words, and proceed to be obliterated by Cthulhu on steroids.
But he does.
Four-hundred thirteen times.
It takes four-hundred repeats of the same words, same scene, to drive an Eldritch abomination to raging madness, and thirteen more to get him to finally break down and agree to a deal.
And since Stephen has a really awesome memory, he remembers every single one of those failed attempts at striking the bargain.
Fortunately, there are very few things in or on Earth that trigger any flashback episodes or anything like that: The dark realm had been such a uniquely weird place that it was difficult to find anything that might remind him of it in day-to-day life. But occasionally he’ll hear something that somehow reminds him of the sound of those crystal-rock things burying themselves into his gut, or it’ll be too dark in the artifact room and that weird goblet-thing he tried to brain Kaecilius with will glow like those weird planets in the dark realm.
And then, whoops: Batten down the hatches, here comes the panic-attack.
No, what really messes him up are the nightmares.
Because in there, Stephen’s wonderful memory can replay all of those four-hundred thirteen deaths in HD surround-sound. Sometimes the memory of the pain is bad enough to wake him up, and sometimes it’s not. So sometimes he gets to relive a lot of deaths before he’s lucky enough to wake up. Thankfully, Dormammu was not one of the more inventive Eldritch abominations, because his killing methods were more or less Smash, Stab, and Blast, so there’s only so much variety to be remembered.
Doesn’t really make it any better, but Stephen’s always benefited from the knowledge that it could definitely be worse.
Tonight, Stephen does the exact same thing he’s done every night since the nightmares started:
He gets out of bed.
He drags himself to the kitchen.
He makes coffee.
He sits down at the table.
And then he lays his head down on the table.
There is, actually, a definitive process to everything that follows. Stephen’s always done well with structure and neat scheduling. The Ancient One had called it a manifestation of his desire to control his surroundings as much as possible.
Whatever. This is what he needs to do to calm the hell down.
Act One: Raging Self-Pity with Stephen Strange
My life sucks I wish I wasn’t a sorcerer I wish I’d never left New York I wish I’d never been in the accident stupid stupid stupid I wish I’d never called Billy that night I wish I’d never looked down at the brain of that woman with the chip in her brain I wish I hadn’t been driving so fast I wish the other car hadn’t come around the bend at just that moment I wish I hadn’t been driving on a fucking cliffside if I hadn’t been I would still be a doctor I’d still be fusing spines back together the usual way without magic-
Ding!
Coffee’s done.
Intermission:
He pours the coffee.
He takes three swigs of the coffee.
He stares out the window that’s enchanted to look out at the Hudson instead of the building next to it.
He finishes half the coffee.
He lays his head back down.
Act Two: Raging Self-Hatred with Stephen Strange
I hate my hands I hate my brain I hate my life I hate what a complete fucking asshole I was to Christine and the Ancient One and Mordo and Wong and basically everyone who’s ever come within a ten-mile radius of me except Kaecilius and his asshole followers I hate that my hands still shake I hate that I’m alone in this stupid Sanctum because I basically drove Mordo away by exposing the Ancient One and Christine doesn’t want a relationship and I hate that that’s probably a good idea since fuck knows what other things will come knocking on the door trying to kill me this week I hate that I can’t sleep without remembering the dark realm I hate that I can’t get into a car without freaking out a little I hate that I can’t even talk to a therapist about this now because exactly what the fuck am I supposed to tell them about my trauma-
Ding!
Second pot’s done.
Intermission
He lifts his head.
He downs the rest of the original cup of coffee in one go.
He pours more into the cup.
He puts his head back down.
Act Three: Finding a Positive Before You Drown Under the Weight of Your Misery with Stephen Strange
It’s not that bad I am a sorcerer which is pretty cool Christine doesn’t hate me we left things off on a good note Mordo and Wong could both be dead at the hands of Kaecilius and his crew who are currently perma-banned from this dimension the accident could have killed me I could have actually lost my hands completely or I could have had my spine completely severed like Pangborn and either been killed or stuck in a wheelchair or stuck constantly channeling magic through my spine so I can walk at least this is mostly just manifesting as killer nightmares and some anxiety at least I can get into a car instead of being so traumatized that I can’t even deal with them at least the dark dimension looks nothing like Earth at least Dormammu was an idiot who used three ways of killing me instead of getting really inventive and I don’t know summoning demon monster bunnies to eat me alive or anything like that and at least-
At least-
“…At least I stopped him,” Stephen murmurs into the table’s woodwork. “At least we’re not all in the belly of a gigantic shadow-monster. At least I managed to actually fucking save some people.”
Even if he’d messed up his brain even more in the process of doing it.
The self-pity/loathing sessions go a long way to chill him out a bit. It’s like draining the poison from the wound, except that it’s anxiety and insecurity draining from his banged-up brain.
Slow as the sun rising outside, Stephen’s been coming to the fact for a while now that he’s going to have to talk to someone about this. It’s just going to be a matter of finding a therapist willing to sit down and talk to him about the crazy shit he’s been through in the last (almost) two years without running out of the room screaming, or trying to lock him away in a padded cell (they’ll probably take his sling-ring, too, so that is a genuine concern).
He might talk to Christine.
He might talk to Wong.
He might even consider, if those two fail, going to the Avengers facility and checking to see if Tony Stark’s got any therapists accustomed to insane-but-true stories lying around. But given their recent business with the Accords and Steve Rogers breaking his buddies out of prison and going into hiding with them, Stephen’s not sure he wants to step into that hornet’s nest.
So for now, Christine and Wong.
And until anything comes to fruition, he will manage the nightmare and the constant feeling of unease the same way he has been, by doing his best to drain the bad stuff from his head in the morning and give it some space to fill up again over the course of the day. He’ll run out of coffee far more often than he should, and he’ll get far less sleep than he should.
But he’ll make it.
Stephen drinks the second cup a little more slowly than the first, not entirely content with the plan, but resigned to it for the time being. He’s had his morning routine, it works as well as it can be expected to, and now he’s going to face the day as best he can.
He has to: Doctor Strange is having brunch with a God.
-End