Chapter 17
It was true. Stephen Strange was at a bit of a blank slate on where to go from here. He didn't want to admit that, he couldn't, not when America was blinking up at him with a mixture of panic and expectancy. Anxiety pooled in his chest.
“Okay,” he let out gruffly, balling his hands into fists and stretching out his fingers. The Sanctum and Kamar-Taj were compromised; now it seemed space wasn’t too far of a reach for Chthon.
America was uneasily picking at her nails. Her attention was shifting from Stephen to the treeline, as if she expected an army of mind-controlled cyclopses to emerge from the woods and snatch her right then.
The Guardians were finishing with the final mechanical tweaks behind them. The dropship door was closing.
“Alright, here's the plan.” As Stephen spoke, his hands maneuvered above the goblet and shrunk the item until it was keychain sized. “We’re going back to 838.”
“Then?”
“What do you mean ‘then’?” He groaned. “Then we regroup.” He picked up the goblet and inspected it before tucking it away in his robe.
America’s face couldn't contain her worry. “That’s a terrible nonexistent plan,” she voiced. He shouldn’t expect her to hold anything back for his sake.
Stephen narrowed his gaze on her. “Alright Master of the Mystic Planning, you have anything to offer?”
America stared at her shoes, kicking her sneaker at the ground. “No.”
Goodbyes were brief. Stephen had thanked their hosts for the ride and for guiding them through the city. But Stephen isn’t the best at the whole gratitude thing (he’s trying, okay) so it just sounds like a somewhat forced conversation, although Thor’s not the best at picking up social cues so it ends up working out for both of them. America was trying to avoid eye contact with Mantis while also tuning out Thor and Stephen talking.
Mantis is staring at her. Do you know how hard it is to avoid eye contact with someone who’s staring directly at you? The itch. She did the initial glance up, caught Mantis’ whiteless eyes, and quickly looked away. More itch, insisting her to look again. A few seconds later America peeked up, only to find the bug woman still staring at her with a soft knowingness that made America feel like an ant under a magnify glass.
Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.
America didn’t do well with confrontation.
She was allergic. It made her skin crawl and her mouth dry and her chest palpitate like she’s just sprinted up a flight of stairs. America avoids it. Ignores it. Runs away from it. No thank you. Next.
The ship began purring after a triumphant shout from Rocket in the cockpit. That's when Mantis pushed herself off the side of the ship and walked towards America.
“I'm sorry,” America blurted as soon as Mantis approached. She couldn't remember if she had actually apologized during the chaos earlier. The remorse had sat on her tongue like a bad aftertaste ever since.
Mantis continued to shrink her with a look of pity. “I should not have entered your mind.”
Is that what happened? America dug her nails into her palm. Heat settled into her cheeks.
“You are hurting,” Mantis added gently. America’s insides curdled. How the hell do you respond to THAT.
“I'm fine,” she ground out exactly how someone totally completely fine would sound. Her attention darting past Mantis’ shoulder as Stephen and Thor’s conversation came to an end. Her guardian-mentor-old man friend wasn't tuning into their chat, which America was appreciative of. Stephen had offered a hand and Thor yanked him into a sweaty hug. Stephen relented and gave two pat-pats on Thor’s back.
“Be careful, country.” Mantis offered, lips pulling into a thin line. (she has the spirit)
America gave a small nod, tentatively watching as the stragglers loaded onto the ship. Mantis finally turned and released America from the awkwardness of that entire exchange.
“What was that about?” Stephen probed as he approached, noticing the faraway look on America’s face.
“What?” America blurted suddenly, meeting his questioning gaze. “Oh that?” She gestured towards the space Mantis had occupied. The ship door wheeze closed. “Literally nothing. Less than that even,” she rambled. She really had a gift when it came to digging herself a hole. She beamed a toothy grin at the face he made. “Are we ready?”
Stephen internally groaned and swore he could feel the hairs on his head turning grey. Instead of pressing, he made a mental note (beneath the thirty other mental notes) to press when they had the time. Maybe he could bribe the truth out of her with food.
“Yes,” he rolled his eyes. “Preferrably before the space ship takes off and disintegrates us.”
“At least it’d be a quick death,” she quipped with snark, raising a brow. She took his small disapproving head shake as prompt to lift her hand and concentrate.
Her fatigue was apparent in the portal’s limp, flickering gold and blue border. It had been a DAY, okay? The dried goop and scales on her clothes and skin should attest to that. She lowered her hand at her side after getting the star shape to appear, although neither expected it to stay open for very long, considering it's state. America frowned at it's lopsidedness and how the edges almost looked frayed.
The portal had opened in Christine’s lab. The glowing tubes along the workstation provided a faint light and silhouetted the lab equipment in the otherwise dark room.
Stephen ushered her in, already comfortable with the decision to see 838 Christine again. Unsurprisingly, it collapsed behind them.
“Why did I think Christine lived here?” America whispered roughly in the darkness. The blue and red glow illuminated their features.
“She just works here,” Stephen commented dryly, trying to think of the best way to go about this. He didn’t exactly have Christine’s number. His fingertips felt along the edges of his pockets for the outline of the goblet. It was still nestled in his robe.
“Hey, you live where you work.” America pointed out, she could feel Stephen’s annoyed glare on her. “Why don’t we pause regrouping and look for food instead. I’m starving. And if I do get possessed by an old, evil god, I’d rather it be on a full stomach.”
“Fine, but—“
“Oh! Different idea,” America interrupted. When did this become his life? “Let’s find Christine and then get food. She’s probably hungry too. Unless that takes too long, then food first.”
“Have we ever played the quiet game before? I think you’d like it.” Stephen walked towards the door, seeing a light from beneath the space between the floor and door.
“Hilarious. You should do stand-up.” She trailed behind him.
“I know.”
The laboratory, unsurprisingly, had taken some extra security precautions since the Scarlet Witch buzzed in and quiet literally slaughtered a good chunk of the world’s superheroes. This meant extra ultron bots roaming the halls. While they were far from comparable to Stephen’s ultron bots, he still tried to go undetected. Luckily, they bots were relative clunky and made a whirring noise as they walked, making it easier to maneuver through the halls.
What a convenient design flaw! America followed behind him, only bumping into him twice the entire time—plus that one occasion she stepped on his heel and he whirled back to scowl at her. She held her hands up apologetically but something in her expression suggested she’d do it willingly next time.
They exited the doors into the darkness of Earth-838 New York. The geographical parallel between 838 and their version was definitely helpful, considering Stephen knew where his Christine lived. He had the directions memorized like the scars on his hands.
He just had to hope they'd get lucky and other-Christine lives in the same place. It’d be good for the plot.
Though Stephen would normally use this as an opportunity for America to practice her portals, he opts to make it himself. It opens to a brick house, sandwich between other homes. It’s not inner city, so the neighborhood is quieter. There's soft lighting coming through the windows and an outside light over the red door.
“In you go,” Stephen gestured. America stepped through on the asphalt road. It must’ve rained. The street lights glint off of the wet road and it has that it-just-rained smell. The portal closed behind them.
“You know the last time we did this we ended up drugged,” America points out as they walk up the three steps to the door.
“Not likely to happen a second time,” Stephen responded, swallowing a lingering ache of guilt over that situation. He should've known better.
“He didn't even give us the good kush,” she mumbled as he knocked with the handle.
“I'm sorry, the what?”
And he'd never know, because the door opened and any other words of confusion dissolved in Stephen’s mouth. Christine was standing there in a long sleeve maroon shirt and dark jeans. Her hair came down in soft waves.
“Twice in a week?” She arched her eyebrow and smirked before her expression fell into concern when noticing the bandaged cut on his hairline and the splotched blood on America’s shirt. “What happened?”
**
Christine was cooking when they arrived. Thank GOD, because America was pretty sure she was twenty minutes away from turning herself in just to end the torment of hunger.
Stephen had explained the zealot situation over a glass of wine and then added in the bit about an evil god trying to possess a fourteen year old. Just your typical stuff.
America was absolutely destroying a bowl of beef stroganoff and her eyes were feeling heavier by the minute as Stephen divulged on the details. The little key chain sized goblet sat between them after Stephen retrieved it to show her.
“There’s something you should know,” Christine starts after Stephen fills her in up to arriving at her front door. “After our conversation the other day, I went through Stephen’s journals—my Stephen.” It goes without saying yet her using my Stephen makes him twinge with a weird sort of jealousy. “And I found a few entries about the TVA.”
America dropped her fork against the bowl. It clanked dramatically. She hadn’t actually gotten the chance to ask Stephen if they had talked about it. Her eyes widened imploringly.
“It’s not much,” she says quickly, trying not to stir America’s expectations. “They had seized a few artifacts from Stephen’s collection. He had an extensive inventory. One of them is described very similarly to this one,” she holds up the shrunken goblet.
Stephen sank back in his chair.
“So we need to go there next.” America said with a mix of emotions. Excitement? Anxiety? Fear? The pasta was sitting heavily on her stomach.
“We don’t know how to get there,” Stephen reminded. America was sitting beside him with Christine across.
“Not necessarily,” Christine responded. “Stephen was paranoid, more so towards the end. He wanted access to different realms as a.. I don’t know,” she brushed her hand over her cheek before crossing her arms, “a safety net?”
“He was going to run?” Stephen asked, his tone was lofty with surprise. He didn’t think it was in his nature to run. Maybe before all this. When he'd push away anyone close to him and keep himself shielded from vulnerability with sarcasm and money.
Christine glanced away, almost bashfully. “He could be unpredictable,” she replies quietly. “Anyways, he wasn’t able to find a portal incantation for the TVA—“ America huffed. “—But he did get his hands on a transport device. Somehow.”
“And this transportation device, where is it now?”
“His locked room in the Sanctum,” Christine answers, pushing a pasta noodle with her fork.
America grimaces remembering the room he kept Chthon’s spooky, dramatic diary thing. Going back with incite some fun memories for her.
Oh goodie. Yay for her. She scowls at her remaining few noodles before stabbing them with her fork.
“You should wait until tomorrow,” Christine says pointedly. Stephen opens his mouth to argue. “I have a guest bedroom and a pretty comfortable couch,” she adds. Her tone is somewhat demanding. And if you know Christine, (which he does) you’d know she usually gets what she wants.
“We shouldn't risk it,” he comments. “They found us in a different planetary system. I doubt it’ll take long to find us here.”
“A few hours then,” Christine suggests with a shrug. “Enough for a shower and a nap, maybe?” She looks over to America at the ‘nap’ part and the girl can't even argue against it because she's midyawn when Christine says it.
Stephen turns his head towards America, who is looking a bit raggedy. Unbrushed hair. Stained clothes. Dirt and scrapes on her hands and face. He tsks, “she does seem to get more annoying without her beauty sleep.”
“He uses dye in his beard,” America snaps back with immediate precision, like it was already locked and loaded. Christine let's out light laughter. “I've seen it in the bathroom. Just for men.”
Stephen tried to fight a smirk, deciding to play along and quip back. “America drools in her sleep.”
“Stephen drools when he’s awake.” America sneered. “He’s getting up there, yknow,” she tells the woman, who’s finding this entire exchange endearing. America’s hand shields one side of her mouth from Stephen as she whispers loudly to Christine, “I think it’s time to put him in a home.”
Stephen scoffed indignantly but lets a smile creep up on his face.
She is so dumb.
He thinks he might love her.