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bad-puns-and-even-worse-magic · 6 years

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The Price of Power

this is dedicated to everyone having a shitty day and i want all of you to know that i love you <3

this started with a convo about cryptid!stephen with @ssironstrange but it grew and i liked it so much i had to write it

warnings: some gross ass shit tbh

The first time it happened, Stephen hadn’t meant to breach the fragile membrane of dimensions and land in the Avengers’ kitchen at cold and quiet 2 am. He landed on the hardwood floor with a soft gasp, feet barely touching the ground before the Cloak swooped in, bracing under his legs. It was the velvet, silk, and leather that kept him steady even as blood dripped from his forehead and soaked through tattered robes.

Black, oily sorcery dripped from Stephen’s nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Energy—cosmic energy—always demanded a price. Blood, soul, a pound of carved flesh. Each blink was a struggle, each movement was muscles screaming and tearing and consuming all that Stephen had left.

He leaned over the sink, bile rising in the back of his throat, fingers twitching and useless against the countertop.

Food. Consume calories to replace what was lost.

Stephen’s left leg seized sending crashing rock slides of cracking glass shards up his calf and thigh and only the Cloak stopped him from hitting the floor.

Instead, the relic lowered him gently, setting Stephen against the cabinets. It looked over the countertop, picked up a bag of bread, and dumped it on the hardwood. The Cloak pushed the loaf closer, inch by inch, until it pressed against a thigh that twitched beneath small spasms. With his eyes glazed like oil over a puddle of water, Stephen didn’t really see the food at first, his shoulders shaking so hard the cabinets rattled behind him.

The Cloak shoved the bag of bread up over the shaking leg and into the Sorcerer’s lap.

Stephen stared down at it, blinked once—too slowly—and tried to pick up the bread. His hands shook too hard and, with a hiss, he held the loaf between his palms, and ripped the tie off with his teeth.

The Cloak hovered, watching him eat, fluttering agitatedly in a non-existent breeze.

Halfway through the loaf, Stephen groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. There were crumbs in his robes, drying blood clotting along his face and arms and chest. He hugged the bag of food and accepted the Cloak’s assistance to get back to his feet.

At 3 am, Stephen opened a portal to the Sanctum and went home.

It was very rare for the Sanctum to be fully stocked with food and, after fighting a horde from the Twelfth Dimension, Stephen could barely see straight much less go shopping. He thought of food and safety, someplace he could go where he wouldn’t have to worry just for a bit—

And magic guided him to the soft glow of the Avengers Compound. Green numbers winked from the microwave—midnight—and Stephen used too much of his weight to wrench open the fridge. Too many colours assaulted his eyes and he shut the door, pawing at the handle of the freezer before he managed to get that open.

White boxes. TV dinners.

He grabbed three at random and spilled them over the stove, fumbling with paperboard before he just burned away the box with a spark of gold magic.

Prick the film on top, put it in the microwave.

Only when he was trying to figure out how long the food should be cooked for did Stephen pause. He ended up punching in four minutes (barely able to find the strength to get the stupid machine to register what he wanted and fuck, fuck, fuck he almost slammed his fist through the plastic but the Cloak wrapped around his wrist, strengthening and guiding) and settled in to wait.

By the time the third one was being cooked, Stephen could eat the first. His fork shook, dropping penne and splattering sauce down his front, but he managed.

He fucking managed.

Tony threw the racket ball at the wall, caught, and threw again. “It’s not that surprising,” he said, “with so many people with such high metabolisms we probably should have added more money to the food budget to begin with.”

Sprawled across the couch, Bruce shrugged half heartedly. His glasses sat low on his nose, a tablet in his hands. “That’s fine; maybe it’ll get whoever took my leftover curry to find someone else’s lunch to eat.”

“Still mad?”

Bruce looked up and his eyes were tinged green.

Stephen hit the counter, ripping open cans of soup with what was left of his sparking, sizzling magi,c and he drank and drank and drank, unable to taste the broth and cold noodles slipping down his throat.

Tony looked up at a knock, pushed up his black goggles, and turned off his torch. “Barnes,” he said, “What is it?”

Bucky was still a silent shadow that hovered around the compound—a raccoon that fled once the light came, sliding beneath cars and watching until everyone had passed. “Doctor Strange,” he sounded hesitant, “is in the kitchen.”

“Yeah?” Tony leaned back on his stool. “I know we haven’t given him a badge saying he’s an Avenger but—”

“He needs medical attention.”

Tony’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“And his...” Bucky waved his hands in some odd waving motion, “won’t let me near.”

The stool clattered to the floor before Tony’s mind had caught up with his legs. But he ran for the kitchen, Bucky a silent, jogging shadow behind him.

Strange was sitting on the floor, looking as if he had collapsed when his legs couldn’t hold him up any more. There was a shattered plate by him, spaghetti spilled in a mess of noodles and sauce. His head was bowed forward, face blocked from view by his hanging bangs and the Cloak that twisted back and forth, looking like a worried parent that wanted to do something but didn’t know what. It flared around when they approached, spreading out like a pissed off alley cat.

“Whoa!” Tony lifted his hands, “Hey! It’s just us! We’re friends!”

The Cloak froze in all its movement for one second and that was all Bucky needed to slip past and tug Strange’s arm over his shoulder. Red fabric turned on him and Tony took the chance of pressing the flat of his hand against velvet. He wrenched back as the relic spun and almost smacked him across the face in its fury.

“We’re going to help him,” Tony’s own voice had risen but he tried, tried, tried to keep from yelling. “I promise! We’re taking him to medical—you can come—”

The clock ticked, the Cloak hesitated, fluttering in thought.

Strange groaned.

Silk hissed as it snapped around, lunging like a noose towards Bucky. The super soldier had to drop his cargo, meeting enraged fabric with metal and flesh, stopping the Cloak from wrapping around his face as they both slammed into the table and broke it in half.

Tony froze, his eyes wide, staring down at Strange.

Even in the dim light of the kitchen he could see something thick oozing from beneath the man’s eyelids, dripping from his mouth, creating rivers from his nose. He couldn’t tell if it was blood or something else but it was leaving dark stains on the floor, smearing across the wood. Groaning, Strange pressed a hand against the ground and tried to push until his wrist gave out under his weight.

“Hey,” Tony kneeled by him and watched as blackened eyes opened, unmoving and blind.

“Stop,” Strange coughed and something thick and black slid out over his tongue and hit the floor with a sickening plop. “Stop, stop—” He reached out, brushed his fingers against the flailing Cloak and it tore from Bucky in an instant, wrapping like a safety blanket around Strange’s arm.

Hands hovering, having no idea where he could touch that wouldn’t hurt the Sorcerer, Tony swallowed. “What happened?” he snapped.

“Too—” Stephen gagged and his body lurched, almost flipping him over until a metal hand grabbed his shoulder, keeping the sorcerer from slamming his nose into the floor. “Too m-much magic I—”

“What do you need?” Bucky said and Tony swallowed down his lungs, grateful for the super soldier’s almost calming presence.

Strange groaned, hair and cheek dragging through the black liquid. “F-food,” he managed after a moment, voice chopped and slurring like a banana in a blender. “Jus’ food.”

“Alright,” Tony soothed, “alright.” He looked up at Bucky. “There’s a spare room close to the labs, I think it’s got a bed.”

“I know where it is,” Bucky said, hoisting the Sorcerer up as if he weighed no more than some hollowed out cat.

Tony stepped over the spaghetti on the floor and winced, making note of having Friday call someone to help clean it up.

Stephen groaned and rolled over. Bubbled cotton rubbed against his face, scratchy and slightly damp. He opened his eyes, prepared to shut them again in case there was too much light, but was greeted by the softened amber of a desk lamp in the corner. It wasn’t the Sanctum—the walls were too white and plain to be the Sanctum—and Stephen sat up.

A small fridge sat in one corner, a microwave on the table beside it. There was a grey tub with a printed label that said DISHES and, next to it, was a small box of silverware. His Cloak floated at the foot of the bed and guided closer to greet Stephen as he sat up.

Someone had placed a towel across the pillow—a white one that was now stained by black splotches—and, taped to the wall was a note.

Stephen let the Cloak fall around his shoulders as he unfolded the paper.

A room for the resident wizard, Tony had written in his classic chicken scratch and there was an arrow, pointing to the back of the paper.

Stephen laughed.

P.S. Bruce has forgiven you for eating his curry.

#Doctor Strange #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #Fabulist Tales #Long Post

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