The Sorcerer's Apprentice {Stephen Strange}

Thirty-Five

Don't Dream It's Over by Crowded House

After waking up next to the sorcerer, Emerson spent her afternoon training and getting used to her new legs. Running has never been as enjoyable as it is now for her. She had missed out on so much by not being able to walk. It was depressing. Life became impossibly hard when she lost her ability to walk. Now she's at the park reading after taking a long, much-needed stroll around the block. The sun shines brightly like it does any other day of the week. Birds chirp and swoop down to peck at the ground, looking for crumbs and bugs. While flipping through her textbook, her phone begins to ring. She smiles to herself as she sees the caller ID is her father. After getting a little distracted with Strange yesterday, the thought to call her dad never crossed her mind. She'll have to apologize for that.

"Hey, dad. I am so sorry I totally forgot to call. I have been so busy and you wouldn't believe-"

"It's Amanda," she pauses over the phone while sniffling. She's been crying. "He's in the hospital, Emmy. I'm not sure how long we have but if you are able to get here soon-"

Emerson cuts her off, spewing out a few words before hanging up and shoving the cell phone into her pocket. Not caring who sees, Emerson creates a portal to the hospital in her hometown using her sling ring. There isn't much time. The sergeant runs to the desk, her feet struggling to keep up with her. Before she can speak, Amanda steps up from the waiting chairs.

"Emerson? How did you get here so fast?" She questions, her eyes all puffy and swollen. The sergeant takes in her appearance. It looks like the woman hasn't slept for days. The sergeant wonders how long her father has been in hospice care.

"Where is he?" The sergeant avoids the question, already starting to walk down the hall. Amanda leads the way, bringing her to the elevator. They stand in silence as each floor passes, a beep signaling they're on the way up to his floor. The doors open and Amanda points to his room, allowing Emerson to walk in first. "Dad?" Emerson whispers as the door cracks open.

"Hey, kid," he smiles, happy to see that she made it in time. His voice is soft and shallow; barely any sound comes from his mouth. If the sergeant weren't carefully listening she wouldn't even be able to hear him. "You can walk. Must be how you got here so fast," he tries to joke but his grin struggles to appear on his face. Now that he's seen her up and walking again, pride and reassurance cloud his mind. He knows that his daughter will be fine and well without him.

"I have my ways," the sergeant winks before bending down to his bedside. He looks sickly; deathly even. His eyes are slightly bloodshot— they definitely put him back on morphine. "Jesus, dad. Have you eaten?"

"Not for a few days. Nothin' stays down," he comments before weakly lifting his arm. "But they've got me on an IV so I can't complain."

"I'm so sorry," Emerson whispers, her voice cracking when she speaks while tears start to form in the corner of her eyes. She always knew this time would come, but she never wanted it to be so soon. This man has done everything for her and once he's gone, she'll have no one. No family left to care for her. If she didn't know any better, she'd think it was the end of the world. No person has ever loved her as much as her father loved her. He was there for every up and down in her life, always by her side. He was never mad at her and hardly ever disappointed. The sergeant had a rough life and he understood that while trying his hardest to make it better. Leaving her is the last thing he'd want to do but dying only makes it worse. The tears roll down her cheeks as the sob erupts from her throat.

"Enough crying, sergeant. Pull yourself together." Her father gives her a sad smile. He doesn't want to see her cry; that's not what he wants. He wants her to be happy and safe even when he's gone. "I don't have much time, Emmy. I can feel it in my chest," he mumbles. Every time he takes a breath, his chest rattles. They call that the death rattle-- when one can't cough or swallow their spit, it builds up in their throat. Emerson is all too familiar with that sound. When serving in the military, people's lives are taken from them and they often make the same sounds. Emerson has seen what death does when it comes and it is never pretty. Her father raises his hand and holds it against her face, wiping away her tears.