Skits

Time is a heavy and reassuring weight on his chest, nestled–nestled, not caged–in the Eye, almost like an embrace, its warmth like arms wrapping around and between each slip of his ribcage; makes a home out of it. It had been, for a while now. Perhaps years had passed since he last felt free of its hold. Perhaps decades. Now all he could feel is the way it grips his heart, all-consuming but not invasive. 

It lays aglow, its shining green seeming iridescent amongst the swirls and ink-splatter of colours in the Dark Dimension. Time did not speak to him then, did not reveal its words–he did not know of its voice to begin with, but he knew of the life that pulsed within years ago–and took its seconds, minutes, hours, years, and millenia to. But only once Time was ready did he hear it: soft words whispered between non-existent teeth, its intimate whisper coming from inside his own head, susurrant and low. 

At first, he could not make out anything but sound. But Time is patient, always has been, and it took more than seconds, minutes, hours, years, and millenia to discompose it. It is, after all, a being beyond time. A being beyond Infinity. 

That has occupied Stephen for a minute–or maybe several decades–and now he knows that Time is the best teacher he’ll ever have. (Although he wouldn’t call Time a mentor, not in the way the Ancient One had been.)

It is generous with its teaching, disposing kernels of invaluable knowledge liberally, and he lets none go to waste. It is in his nature, after all, as a scholar. 

It teaches him Their tongue, Their history, the justifications of Their existence in their plane of reality. Stephen absorbs all of this knowledge, consuming it like Time has consumed him. 

It teaches him how to recognise Gods before they recognise themselves. It teaches him concepts beyond mortal comprehension, reified in verbal constructs that slip into his ears and wrap themselves in ribbons around his cerebral cortex. He swallows all its wisdom and bites those he can’t, and the more he listens the less he knows. He feels its affection clinging to every word, flowing within its energy that vibrates everywhere inside and outside and around and all over him, overwhelming in its intensity. 

He did not hesitate to accept when it lent its power into his trembling hands and entrusted him with it with an unbridled certainty. He had cupped it within his palms and let it unfurl, feeling it slipping inside every nerve-ending and thrumming beneath his skin and flesh, inside every cell of blood and bone marrow. 

He isn’t quite sure why it had chosen him. Any fool could see that it had chosen him, but it was anybody’s guess as to why. Time sees something in him he couldn’t see himself, and Stephen doesn’t intend to keep quiet in his curiosity. 

Why me? He asks, in the seconds that stretched into centuries between the end and the beginning of another loop, self-conscious in his inquiry but patient in his response. He feels Time bundle him up before another series of rings circle his wrist, green and secure as he feels the energy radiating heat on the surface of his skin there, and as he is on the cusp of being again, Time speaks. 

You will see, it says, and Stephen feels a clench in where his heart is supposed to be, before it is, and when it becomes he feels it stutter with its beats. Just you wait. Time will tell, it says. You will see, my dearest Time Keeper.

The words had since refused to leave where they had nestled deep inside his head. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

When Stephen strikes his final blow and Dormammu accepts defeat, he feels Time physically recoil itself from inside him, wrenching itself out of where roots had grown inside every muscle tissue and its substance had diffused inside every drop of blood in his body, a split second that felt like years. 

It leaves a gaping hole in its wake, like his body is more a shell that used to occupy something quintessential that was always there, was always supposed to be, and was now a mere empty space that’s lost meaning and purpose. He is no longer Time Keeper, he is Stephen. A mortal that draws blood on cuts and breaks bones on blunt impact and stays that way, irreversibly. 

He staggers as his feet land on the ground, real and solid, and most of his weight is supported by the cloak. 

He’s nearly forgotten that Time has been stopped here, frozen into a state of forever until forever ends, and forever has ended for Stephen moments ago. There’s hesitation that rears its ugly head inside him, fear by its side, and he wonders if he could stretch forever to Infinity. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt Time. The real Time, not a never-ending loop. He isn’t sure if he’s ready for it. 

You are, Time says to him–or at least of what’s left it had attached to him, staying to leave its mark like a brand–as if reading his mind. In a sense, he thinks it might have been. He feels its shards dig inside, and comfort blooms wherever it has buried itself in. There is security in its presence that his body greets like an old friend. Or at least you eventually will be, Time Keeper. 

But what if I’m not? He says. It’s been so long. Too long. 

You will be the way you were before, Time insists. But better. 

Stephen doubts the words–hardly believes in them–but he trusts Time without a shadow of a doubt. Even more so than he trusts himself. 

And then he feels it: a shift, and as the remaining energy of Time sheathed inside flows out of his fingers, he feels the seconds begin to tick. 

Everything around him begins to move. 

Motion slowly returns. He sees people and objects and life. Sound begins to filter in. He hears chatter and sounds and life. 

Well done, Time praises, and it feels as if a weight has been lifted off of Stephen’s chest. Very well done, my Chosen. My one and only. 

Stephen frowns. One and only? 

He knows there are people before him who have wielded Time. He is not the only Chosen. 

Wielding Time does not mean taming it. It does not mean owning Time’s power. The words send shivers running down his spine. There is affection laced in every word, overflowing in every part of him, filling him with so much of it he could explode. You are my Chosen. My one and only. My Time Keeper. You are mine as much as I am yours. I have chosen you, the same way you have chosen me that day. 

The words sink into his head and drown themselves. 

He belongs to Time. The same way Time belongs to him. 

He feels Time’s warmth wrapping like tendrils inside him in approval. 

Everything else that happens next feels like a blur to him; he has not spoken in mortal tongue in a long time, beyond Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain, Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain, Dormam–

So speaking proved to be a struggle. The first thing he says is smoother than he expects, and he silently applauds himself for it. It was a joke, good enough that it had Wong cracking up, and a part of him felt everything was worth having gone through just so he could hear those rumbled chuckles. 

And then Mordo left, telling him about how the bill comes due and how things come with a price. There is pride that his mortal body still holds inside that shakes and seethes in anger at that, but Stephen tamps it down.

Have I not paid my price? He asks Time, because surely Time knows. Surely Time will tell. Surely Time will answer. Is it not enough? He says, Is it? 

There is a pause, and Stephen wonders if a being like Time could ever feel anything close to hesitance. 

Not yet, it finally answers, and Stephen feels something fragile shatter inside him, setting aflame a burning fire. You will, soon. You will. Just you wait. 

What do I need to do? 

He feels Time reach out from inside and embrace him, the same way it had the first time, and Stephen feels warmth. He feels nothing but Time. There is nothing but Time. It always makes him feel so alive, having Time’s power inside him. In this moment he doesn’t need to think; he only needs to feel, needs to know that Time is here and Time will take care of everything else. 

It has him floating in a headspace he wants to be in forever, where there is only him and Time and nothing else. 

Time will tell, it says. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Thanos is after the stones. 

He had taken Power, something Time had warned him about years ago. He had taken Reality, something Time had told him only some time ago. 

Now it is Time’s turn, and that gives birth to fear which gives birth to defensiveness which gives birth to a feeling of possessiveness, dark and twisting inside him. 

Thanos came to them. Stephen would rather sacrifice himself than give away the stone. 

He can sense the stone’s distress in where it remains, encased within the Eye that he refuses to let go of, and feels the way it attaches itself tighter inside him, curling up inside gaps and filling in space, gripping. 

Thanos’ god-awfully covetous fingers will not lay a single print on Time. He will make sure of it. 

Time Keeper, it whispers, and Stephen feels shock go through him, having not heard its voice in what feels like forever ago and yesterday. It is your Time. 

His words take their time as they form in Their tongue, a language he has not spoken in far too long, and it comes out warped. I will defend you, he assures, with my life. 

Approval, dripping like honey inside him, loosens his muscles as a breath slowly escapes his lips. 

My one and only, it says. My Chosen. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Stark takes them to Titan–straight to Thanos–instead of back to Earth. Their ego clash had been immature and embarrassing, but Time tells him he made the right decision in yielding. 

“When it comes to you, or the kid, or the Time stone,” he had said in the throes of their heated argument, and he knew he should know better than to try and one-up someone as hot-headed as Stark is, but goddammit if he couldn’t help himself. “I will not hesitate to let either of you die.” 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Power, he says, and watches as Quill flinches. You are a Vessel of Infinity. Like me. 

Stephen can sense it. There is Power written in this man’s veins, stars hidden beneath his eyes and blood hidden between his teeth. 

Quill watches him, observing, almost wary. Stephen returns the eye contact, firm and steady, and ever so subtly nods. 

At first, there was nothing. He can tell Quill isn’t accustomed to speaking Their language. 

I’m. I. I’m. I. I. 

He’s a fresh God still, if that’s anything to go by. There is something more that lays ahead of him, and Time seems to agree. 

Stephen gives him an encouraging incline of his head. 

I am, he finally says, and there is something in the way those words were shaped that Stephen can’t put his finger on. 

Time, he says, the sound odd and unsteady. Did Time teach you Their tongue? 

Yes, he admits, I am Time’s Vessel. Its Chosen, the same way Power chose you. 

A look of understanding flashes in Quill’s eyes. He nods, and Stephen returns it. 

They do not speak this way again after that. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

The rest of the team attempts to come up with a plan. Stark does not relent as he holds his head high, expectedly so, and Quill–Power’s Chosen, of all people–is not as intelligent but just as determined and stubborn. 

It’s a mess. 

He secludes himself in a corner, wondering for a split moment if he should mediate their petty dispute instead of stepping away, but discards the idea quickly. 

The only person–or, rather, the only being–he can consult now is Time. It sits inside the Eye still, waiting for its wielder for something. Anything. 

Stephen sits on a nearby ruin, one of the many that reside on this desolate, barren waste of a planet, and thinks. And thinks. And thinks some more. 

And when he comes up with something, he grasps the idea firmly in his shaking hands on a desperate hold. It leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. 

There is only one way we can accurately plan a victory. Or something close to it. He says after a short bout of dubiety. One where everything will go accordingly, without hiccups and the potential of mistakes, with as minimal destruction as possible. 

Time does not respond for a while, and Stephen fears he has stepped a boundary before it speaks up. 

Time Keeper, Time whispers, tentative. Mortal, it calls him, in a way that does not feel as demeaning as it should. This path may not be one you can bear traveling. Are you sure? 

Stephen doesn’t hesitate. Yes, he whispers back just as fervently, Yes, I am. It’s the only way. 

Time stands still, and Stephen waits. He’s good at that. 

Very well, it says, eventually. One small matter: you will die. Does that worry you? 

Stephen, despite everything, considers it for a moment. 

Will I come back? 

If Time could smile, it would look the same way he feels it curl inside him. 

You will, it says, Time promises you will. 

Stephen breathes. He breathes again. And again. Over and over until he feels it is real. 

Then yes. His breaths are real. He savours the way the air flows in his airway, swirling in his lungs in gentle whirls, providing him with life. I’ve been through death. I can go through more than that. 

There it is: the soft thing, a feeling like cotton that settles inside when he knows Time is pleased, and Stephen couldn’t help a smile. 

My Chosen, it says, I have chosen correctly. 

Stephen preens inwardly at that, his appreciation of such validation returned with an influx of soft, sweet nothings inside. 

You are my one and only, my dearest Time Keeper. 

And so it begins. He settles down, in his meditation position, one that his limbs know best as they bend and adjust accordingly. His eyes close, and he feels Time signaling it’s ready. 

It is Time. 

The power of Time returns in his bones, absorbing him more than he absorbs it. It makes Stephen feel so complete. He feels full of everything he’s ever needed. He feels energy sparking in his fingertips and tastes stars in his mouth like dust. He feels like he could take over the world. Suddenly he is aware of every drop of blood running in his veins, every heartbeat of the muscle he calls his heart concealed in his ribcage, every nerve signal sent up and into his brain. 

He feels everything and everything feels him. He is everything and more. He is Time.

But one thing rings loud and clear to him: in this moment, he is playing God again. In this moment, he is invincible, immortal, all eternal in the way his skin and bones weren’t fit to be. In this moment, he is the puppeteer, the seer, the orchestrator. Everything is decided by him and everything decides his fate. Everything is against him and everything is his to control. 

He has the power of everything. 

He has the power of Infinity. 

And in this moment, Stephen is reminded that he was once mortal. Maybe he still is, in a sense. Only Time can tell if that is bound to change soon. 

He feels deja vu wash over him in crashing waves.

Time passes, and it passes, and it passes. One timeline to another, a string of events with altering variables depending on his every calculated risk taken. Years pass and then some, each one ending and beginning with flashes of green, and Time is there every millisecond and nanosecond of the way. Time is a steady, constant, dependable presence that stands with him through every step. 

Which made sacrificing it all the harder. 

You must do what you must, Time Keeper. 

Stephen doesn’t want to. He’s not sure how to express it. 

I can’t. I don’t think I can. 

You can’t, or you wouldn’t? 

Stephen doesn’t want to. He does not want to give the stone up. He had vowed not to. 

Time is silent for a moment, and so is he. 

Stephen Strange, it utters his name, for the first time, you must give up Time if you wish to succeed, it says. You are my Chosen, and you will always be. That will not change. 

The assurance did nothing to calm his nerves. 

Do what you must. 

Stephen doesn’t want to. Stephen doesn’t want to. Stephen doesn’t want–

For the greater good, Time urges. It is the only way. 

Stephen doesn’t…

(Stephen thinks of Dormammu. When the world was supposed to end but he managed to stop it. A miracle is what that was. He thinks about the timelines, all the ones he’s gone through, how everything ultimately led to this. 

Stephen thinks of everything that happened that has not happened.)

You said I will die. 

It’s not a question. Stephen knows the answer anyway. 

Yes, Time replies. That remains true, the same way you will come back. 

There is a beat as everything comes at a standstill. There is another when Stephen isn’t sure where he’s taking this. 

You didn’t say everyone else would. 

(He could care less about dying. He could care less about it so long as the world would live.)

Momentarily, Time explains, for some. For most. You know this. It is as minimal destruction as we can afford. 

He does know that. Knowing doesn’t make it feel any less unjustifiable of a deed. 

But he knows, most of all, that everything else will end worse. 

Time is waiting for him. There is only one answer to this question, now that remains is whether Stephen wants to answer it or not. 

(There was dust fading into nothingness and desperate hands clinging on tear-stained skin, the roar of a battlefield overhead as blood stains the ground over and over. There is a loud snap and eyes that turn lifeless as life is slowly drained out of Stephen’s Rogers’ Peter’s Pepper’s Stark’s body and knees falling in tandem with thumps as they land to honour his death.

There are wrinkles that form in the edges of Tony’s eyes as they make bad jokes in the lab, there is tears that speak of trust and vulnerability in Natasha’s eyes as she speaks about things she refuses to speak before, there is a muttered thank you slipping out of Clint’s lips as he patches up an open wound, there is echoing laughter in the Sanctum halls where Peter has settled in his library–)

Stephen relents. 

Alright. He sighs. Let’s get this show on the road, then. 

When he comes back, it feels like Dormammu all over again. It leaves him shaking, like he’s been slammed to the ground from high up in the sky. 

Time is not still this time, so everything around him is alive and real and very much happening, here and now. There is Stark’s–in another world, Stark is Tony–face hovering above his own, and Stephen steels himself from the rise of panic. He sets up his composure, lips trembling as he explains what should be everything but isn’t. 

They agree, eventually, to follow his instructions. 

He cannot hide Time on Earth anymore, and he knows having it in its home–the Eye, dangling from his neck–serves nothing but increase its risk of being in harm. So he buries it in the stars, inside a sea of blue and orange and white, a twinkling light in disguise, and sets to work. 

Everything goes as planned. 

~

Silence. Silence is familiar. 

Silence was there in nights where terror would slip into every crevice of his fragile mind and silence was there in days where his heart rotted from the inside and his throat refused to give in to desperate breaths. Silence suffocates him. Silence grounds him. Silence grips him by the throat, sinking its claws into his flesh. Silence is an old friend. (The same way pain is.)

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Some mornings, Stephen wakes up with pain clawing into the metal-clad nerves in his hands. Some mornings, Stephen wakes up shivering under his blanket, curled up in a fetal position as he focuses solely on steadying his breaths, visions flying and returning beneath every blink, slowly ebbing away into fading sound or static. Other mornings, Stephen doesn’t wake up at all. Not in the real sense, at least.

He gets out of bed, yes, but only after the sight of the ceiling above him is burned into his eyelids and the blanket feels too tight and too heavy and too suffocating, body too heated but not enough to sweat. Only after his back hurts from laying too long, feeling every second and every minute and every hour slowly weighing down on him until all he could do is wait, wondering what it is he’s waiting for. Only after his head attempts hundreds of millions of times to detangle its mess only to twist and wrap itself around and all over his mind over and over and over again. Only until sick rises up in his throat and forms a lump there, unmoving, solid, stubbornly blocking his airway despite his multiple swallows. 

His days, however, were at least predictable. Sure, a normal Tuesday for him could either be a makeshift-sandwich-date with Wong or fending off interdimensional threats that could possibly result in the end of humanity and all of existence in his plane of reality, but at least in those he didn’t have to face the apprehension of what awaits him when he’s asleep, or worse yet, the aftermath when he wakes up. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

The face in the mirror is his. It's different, and it's almost foreign, but it's his. It's hard to remember that Stephen used to be somebody else. It's hard to remember he was an older brother, or a doctor, or God.

(It was all in his hands. The stone, between his trembling fingers; all of the thrumming power sheathed inside was his to control. He was playing God. His hands, the same fragile ones that could barely carve the letters of his own name on paper, held the power of God.)

Stephen was not fit to play God. He is a human, a mortal, and he was not God.

And here, in the silence of the kitchen, Stephen feels human. He feels mortal.

He puts his hands to work, dropping a teabag in his old china dug out of a wooden cupboard–perhaps it belonged to the Sanctum more than it belonged to him, the same way the Sanctum is its own more than it is his–and boils the kettle until it croons its whistling tune. 

The Sanctum is alive. He knows this, feels its heartbeat in its thrumming walls and feels its breaths rattling from where his feet make contact with its shifting floorboards. He senses life pulsing from the gently carved wood of its furniture and its well worn knitted cushions that have surely seen better days. 

The morning air held a scent that told him of the Sanctum’s mood that day. Some days it’s sour, on others it’s sweet, almost playful. Today it smells like fruit and clove; the citrus sour of bergamot, with a hint of saccharine sweetness trailing around its edges. 

Everything here is alive; from the way the curtains gave way to the light streaming in through its windows to the way each door handle yields itself willingly–almost as if assisting him–against the weight of his hands. 

Sometimes Stephen wonders if the Sanctum perceives him the same way. A being filled with life, who had a mind and emotions of his own. He finds comfort in the thought.

He watches the teabag surface as water fills his cup just shy of its brim, seeing the colour unfurl as it spreads until the liquid turns a shade of brown. He adds in some sugar and watches it dissolve, feeling the heat as he lightly touches the ceramic.

He lifts the cup up to his lips, hands slightly trembling, and sees the cloak reach up to assist him. The hot liquid slides down his throat as its steam fans across his nose and up his face.

It's a beautiful morning. The sun is warm as it cascades into the room, his tea is warmer as it settles in his stomach, and the silence holds the warmest comfort he often finds in it.

But still he feels it: the thing, writhing in its spot behind his sternum and in front of his spine, demanding more and more.

He isn’t quite sure what it wants. 

If Stephen is honest, he does not remember much of his childhood, the crunched-up taste of it. 

He remembers the good things: starry nights in his rebellious youth, sneaking alcohol as he drinks under the moonlight, back hurting but a boyish grin plastered on his face as he lays on his pickup truck, making bad jokes with his friends. Warm, sunny days with endless blue skies that stretch up and up and beyond. The scent of summer and its heat sinking into his skin. He remembers further back than that, mowing his neighbour’s lawn with the other kids, remembers his walks to school every morning as he watches the lush, damp grass dance against gentle breezes and birdsong accompanying his every step. 

He remembers the bad things, too: nasty insect bites and the scars from its scratched itches, finding bugs and worms hiding underneath every crevice, dirt sticking underneath his fingernails, bruises and cuts on his knees and elbows from falling off his bike, bee stings and sunburns from staying out too long. 

(He remembers knowing how to brew the darker things–he remembers letting them sit on a counter, long forgotten, a cup left to cool. He remembers watching himself sink into the water, waiting for something to bloom. He remembers the bitter aftertaste of it, and the burn from its scorching heat like disappointment on the tip of his tongue. Only some years later did he learn the vanity of overly-eager expectations.)

All of it felt like it was just yesterday and some years ago. Life was easy, and things were simple. 

Stephen didn’t want that. Something in him, in his young body and dream-filled mind, with stars in his eyes and naive optimism in every flesh clinging to his bones, all awkward limbs and stiff fingers and sun-smelling hair–whatever it was, demanded more. 

He was young, enough to still be filled with so much pure, unadulterated humanity but not young enough to still be adjusting to his own skin. He was young, and he wanted a life. He wanted to live through something, to be a part of something, to experience something. The world offered so much to him and he wanted everything it could give him and more. He wanted to meet every person and pick every fruit and learn every word of every book. More, more, more. 

Moving into the city was an easy decision, after that. 

And yet. And yet. 

The feeling has not left. He does not know what it yearns for. He does not know if he could ever satiate it. 

Now, as he watches the sun shining outside and the leaves rustling down the road from a gust of wind, Stephen could only remember home. He could only remember Nebraska, with its starry nights and rolling hills and sunny skies. 

He feels the thing inside him, that’s too soft and too hard and too gentle and too rough and too light and too heavy all at once, morph and turn into something like longing. 

~