Stephen Strange considers himself to be very good at what he does.

The thing he does, is magic. And magic is a skill that takes years upon years to learn. But he figured it out in way less than that, so he’s just a teensy bit smug about that.

He also considers himself the Avenger that rarely gets his ass kicked. Sadly, he’s lost that title within the last few weeks.

Because of you.

Tragic backstory, yada yada, now you actively cause chaos with easy, skill-free magic to let out your pent up emotions, and one of your ways to do so is by beating up the keeper of the Time Stone. (That’s how Strange words it, at least. The other Avengers just think he’s a petty loser.)

(He is.)

Still, he’s been doing everything he can to get you out of his damn way to actually attempt a goddamn fight, in hopes that he’ll be able to do his literal fucking job. It’s a nightmare, and he wants to wake up.

And he’s definitely not lying to himself!! He despises this!!

…He might be lying to himself!! (Damn masochist.)

Listen, the poor thing is struggling. He’s got a lot to deal with and this random witch adding to the pile isn’t fucking helping. Especially when you’ve cannon balled into this pile like it was a swimming pool full of money. Like Scrooge Mcduck. I’d be surprised if anyone got that reference.

Ugh, whatever. He’ll deal with it, he’s capable of figuring shit like this out. This is his whole purpose — seeing four dimensions and being a mysterious riddler like the bald lady he’s suddenly and conveniently forgotten the name of, and it’s totally not because the author has suddenly forgotten her name and can’t be bothered to look it up.

He’ll just sort this out the old fashioned way.

…He will figure out what the old fashioned way is when he finds you.

———————————————

Strange expected to track you back to some kind of hideout in a mountain, or maybe just some average NYC apartment. He did not expect to follow your trail of chaos back to a fucking crack in the fabric of reality itself.

It’s terrible out here, and he is in pain. Screaming but silence, boiling hot but freezing cold, eyes watching him but the dreadful feeling of being completely and utterly alone. Why the hell are you out here?

His footsteps echo around the empty space, the lingering feeling of dread starting to strike up again when his steps start to range between both loud and quiet, shifting between echoey and completely solid.

This place is a nightmare. He bets that “nightmare” is in its name. He hopes so.

After a while, he feels water under his feet. A shallow puddle that barely even swallows the sole of his dress shoes. But as he walks, the water starts to rise. No visible movement, yet it’s like a curve of water just lingering in the same spot.

It’s up to his knees when he starts to notice the stars twinkling above him. But they don’t feel real, and yet at the same time too real. Like they’re both painted onto the walls of the void itself and also close enough to singe his skin.

Like he said. Nightmare.

He feels like he’s been walking for ages, but at the same time only seconds. And he eventually comes across you.

He expected to hear screaming, see you in some kind of pain or fear from the place you seem to reside to after killing a few people and ruining some lives. But no. You’re just… sitting on a floating armchair that’s been pulled out of reality itself, it seems, scrolling on a phone that somehow has internet.

He blinks, watching you for a moment, before glancing around at the void that surrounds them, taking in the soft gold that clings to the walls, as if it can change because of some kind of factor.

The walls look like a broken mirror, both too close with its cracks and too far with its reflection of both him and you, millions of tiny versions that stare back at him, and he has a feeling that something like an Artificial Intelligence wouldn’t be able to comprehend this. (The author doesn’t think so either.)

Eventually, he manages to teleport over to your side, staring down at you like a stern parent.

This’ll go great.