Chapter Text
Sanctum Sanctorum, New York, NY; Present Day
“Stephen, stop! You're gonna hurt yourself!” A voice shouted in the distance. Stephen ignored it, instead choosing to continue the potentially fatal spell.
It took a lot of energy to conjure- arguably more energy than Stephen had to spare- but it was the only viable option to contain the tendrils of rogue magic escaping from every relic in the vast room.
A group of idiotic sorcerers decided to harness the Winds of Watoomb in the relic room (which they weren't invited into) on the night before Christmas. They didn't realize their naivete until it was too late; by then, the Winds bounced off the Brazier of Bom’Galiath, sending the energy throughout the Sanctum in unharnessed beams of blazing red and sickly green.
Due to the Macchina di Kadavus being destroyed in a battle he hardly remembered (he must have blocked out the memory), Stephen had to improvise and use a containment spell he'd barely studied. Praise the Vishanti for his eidetic memory!
The spell presented itself as a net, the entwining ropes straining to contain the various spells. It was ironically beautiful- the multicolored bolts fighting to escape the encompassing orange net.
Everything began to spin, whether because of magic or dizziness, Stephen didn't know. He felt the radioactive tendrils slowly withering away at his magical reserves, making him weaker by the second. Everything throbbed: his muscles, his head, his ears, and his soul. He wanted nothing more than to drop the spell, puke up his lunch, and take a nice long nap.
Despite the pain and overwhelming fatigue, Stephen's stubborn nature decided to keep going; after all, it wouldn't be the first time he died of overexertion.
Stephen grunted, bringing his hands together slowly in an effort to close the net. His eyes screwed shut, the bright lights assaulting his retinas.
Amidst the sweat, something warm and sticky trickled out of Stephen's nose and into his mouth, overwhelming his taste buds with a bitter, metallic flavor.
“Stephen, stop!” The voice cried again, barely audible over Stephen's panting.
He couldn't stop, not when the fate of sorcery hung in the balance. He'd rather sacrifice himself than risk anyone else getting hurt.
He spread his legs further, lowering his center of gravity to provide himself more leverage. Through the pain of his straining muscles and the nausea in his stomach, Stephen felt something hit his foot.
The Elixir of Ebenezer Scrooge
Blue beams of magic sprouted out of the relic, distracting Stephen enough to lower his mental defenses and allow the relic’s magical tendrils to enter his mind.
Cold enveloped his entire being as he felt his sore body go rigid.
A woosh of power blew at Stephen, not just from the Elixir, but from all the relics throughout the room, their pent-up energy being released at last.
A scream from behind and the recognizable fizzle of a spell dropping was all Stephen heard before being pulled under by the frigid embrace.
Stephen's Mind; Present Day
It was so bright!
In the back of his mind, Stephen knew he was still knocked out, but his mind was wide awake, albeit stuck in a dreamlike fog.
“Well, hello!”
Stephen quickly turned around, catching sight of an older man. He leaned over a cane, the position making his hunched back very apparent. His long nose was adorned with small spectacles that brought out the gray of his wiry hair and the wrinkles of his face. He wore a long, outdated black coat that fell to the pointy boots he wore on his feet. He had a black 1800s top hat that was long out of style, but who was Stephen to judge fashion?
“Who are you?” Stephen asked, his voice echoing throughout the white empty space.
“Ebenezer Scrooge,” the little man responded.
Stephen arched a brow. “Like the fairy tale?”
The man- Ebenezer Scrooge - rolled his eyes. “It's not a fairy tale if it truly happened!”
“Yeah? Then prove it!” Stephen looked at the man, awaiting an answer. There was no way this man was the same as the character in the Charles Dickens classic. But then again, stranger things had happened.
Rather than replying defensively as Stephen had anticipated, Scrooge chuckled heartily. “You are acquainted with the story, I'm sure. A well educated person such as yourself would know that I was visited by three ghosts: Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Future,” he explained.
Stephen stared at him suspiciously. “Are you suggesting that I'm going to be visited?” He chuckled in disbelief. “I'm not a bah humbug!”
“I too was arrogant and selfish, especially around the time of Christmas.”
Stephen sardonically chuckled. He'd heard that one before.
“You're so selfish!”
“All you care about is yourself!”
“Come on Strange, have a heart!”
He let his bitter laugh melt into a frown. How was he selfish and arrogant? Before the accident, yes- he'd be the first to admit his mistakes- but now?
He'd been through too much to care only about himself.
“I don't mind Christmas!”
“Is that so? Then why is every December 25th dedicated to you trying to sacrifice yourself?” Scrooge tilted his head, revealing a cheeky smirk.
“W- when did trying to save the world become a bad thing?”
“It isn’t. The issue stems from when you become suicidal. Your life doesn't belong just to you.”
“I'm not suicidal,” Stephen spat defensively. It's not like he tried to harm himself.
“Then why do you recklessly dive into missions without caring about the outcome?”
Oh. Scrooge had a point. “But-”
“You purposely put your life in harm's way. You think that if you die, you won't be alone for another Christmas. That is selfishness, Mr Strange.”
“Doctor!”
“Yes, right.”
Stephen pondered Scrooge's explanation. Stephen truly didn't have issues with Christmas, it was just the loneliness of it. Sure, he had Wong, but all the empty seats at the table- seats that his family and the Avengers should be in- he couldn't help but feel guilty.
The radio blared songs about presents and family, but Stephen had neither.
It was true when Scrooge said Stephen tried to avoid Christmas. There were too many feelings.
“Maybe the root of your problems lie in the past,” Scrooge said a little too happily for Stephen's liking.
Stephen eyed him suspiciously, a gesture in which he got merely a giggle in response. “Behold, the first ghost: Christmas Past.”
The bright white backdrop repainted itself, replicating the familiar colors of the Sanctum. Stephen was now lying in his bed, its signature mahogany bedposts easy to distinguish.
Scrooge disappeared into thin air (and not via sling ring), replaced by a ghost that resembled a candle.
It was peculiar, neither young nor old, but rather ageless- light beaming from its head and body. It wore a simple garb of pure white, its head adorned with a white sleeping cap that didn't do much to dim the fiery glow sprouting from its head.
Shit. It was like A Christmas Carol.