The Sorcerer's Apprentice {Stephen Strange}

Thirty-Seven

It's Time To Cry by Paul Anka

He should've died differently. Cancer stole his life and took him from the sergeant. She almost wishes that he would've been turned to dust, just like the other half of the population. Maybe then it would've been a painless death. Her father wouldn't have suffered if he had simply disintegrated. Well, that's what the sergeant wants to believe anyway. She never actually watched anyone disappear. Maybe that's a good thing, but for her, it wasn't the closure she needed. If she got to see those around her turn to dust, then she would know if it really was a painless death or not. Rather, she was sound asleep, hoping to wake up with news about the sorcerer.

Her sorcerer.

But instead, she awoke to Wong frantically knocking on her locked door. He wouldn't stop calling her name in hopes that she didn't disappear as well. Confused, she opened the door wondering why Wong was so worried about her. After explaining all that happened, Emerson now sits alone in the sorcerer's office. Wong ran off to see how many students had disappeared from Kamar Taj. He had tears in the corners of his eyes when he was telling her, but all she could think about was Stephen. "Fuck everyone else," she thought. All she cared about was her mentor.

And now he's gone. He's dead, just like everyone else in her life that she cared about. Emerson must be cursed. God, it feels like everyone that the sergeant has ever loved has died because of her. She always thought she could've saved her father. There could have been a cure for his cancer. John died because of her too-- if she had just listened to him and threw the fight, he'd still be alive. Now Stephen is gone because she couldn't save him. Emerson's not sure how she would have done it if she could have saved him, but now she feels guilty for letting it happen. How come she didn't turn to dust too? Maybe then she wouldn't feel so awful. Strange didn't deserve to die-- to turn to fucking dust. His ashy remains are probably sitting on some alien planet, just getting carried away by a gust of wing, and not even being spread around in places he'd want to be spread around in. It's disgraceful and utterly disrespectful. He didn't even get a proper burial.

His belongings still sit on his desk, waiting for him to come back. His laptop sits open like he had plans to come back and finish working on whatever it was he had been doing. His doctorate hangs on the wall and papers are still cluttering the room. Books are still stacked high. Maybe Emerson should work on putting those back in the library eventually. She opens a few of the drawers, looking at the few remnants left of her mentor. Stashed in one of the bottom drawers is that damned watch. The one with the broken face while the back had a little note inscribed from Christine. The sergeant wonders if Christine turned to dust too. It's not that she'd want her to disappear, no, not at all. Maybe if she's still alive, she'd agree to get lunch. Possibly talk about Stephen too so Emerson can learn more about him-- hear the things about him that he never told her. It's not like Christine is competition, not anymore at least.

Emerson drops her head down, not bothering to stop the tears that pool in her eyes. It's been a day and she's already a mess. She's in charge of the sanctum now and she has no idea what she's doing. Strange was supposed to teach her these things and be there for her when she needed him. The sergeant makes her way to his bedroom, stopping just outside the door. Taking a deep breath to calm herself before she enters, she slowly pushes the door open. She gets a whiff of him. His smell fills her nostrils, making her smile in the most bittersweet way. His cologne sits on his dresser and it's the first thing Emerson stops to open. She takes the top off, spraying a little bit around the room. Just enough for her to feel at home and safe as if he were still here. His bed sits in the middle of the room, the sheets still freshly made. The laundry basket sits half full of dirty clothes-- clothes that she'll need to wash and hang for him. His sweatshirt hangs over the chair in the corner of the room and Emerson decides to slip it over her head. It's a bit long for her but it feels so much like him. If she closes her eyes and imagines hard enough, maybe it'll feel like he's holding her. She shakes her head in dismissal, feeling stupid for thinking of such a thing. With the sweatshirt still on, she pulls back the bed covers and climbs into his bed. The bed she was going to sleep in anyways. Why couldn't the "snap", as they call it, happen a day later? Just one more night she could've had with the sorcerer. Tears spill from her eyes, wetting his pillow as she cries to herself.