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Stephen trudged through Bleecker Street, aware of his state after a particularly gruesome battle. He didn't care. It was past midnight anyway, the streets were empty, and he couldn't seem to muster up the strength to create a portal. His feet practically dragged against the ground, blood trailing from several wounds in his body. His hair was a haphazard mess, his robes ripped and torn, a hand clenching tight against his side where he felt the warmth of blood seeping through.
Stephen panted for breath, trying to make it through the several steps it took to reach the Sanctum.
Just a few more steps.
His head repeated its mantra over and over again.
Pain's an old friend, pain's an old friend, pain's an old…
He sobbed, almost stumbling to the ground before he caught himself, trying to keep the pain in, trying to bury it further, wishing he could numb it somehow. He was usually more adept at doing this, at enduring the pain and hiding it away from prying eyes. But the exhaustion from the battle had been too much, leaving the idea of 'enduring' too overwhelming for him at that moment.
He just couldn't take it.
When he was finally in front of the Sanctum's door, opening itself automatically upon sensing its Master's presence, the sorcerer practically staggered in for a few steps before collapsing to the ground, bleeding out on the floorboards.
He heard footsteps run down the staircase.
"Stephen!"
Wong.
Hands held him up, and an involuntary wince escaped him as Wong's fingers made contact with his battered body.
"Wong…" he croaked out, relief and embarrassment flooding through him. Relieved that his dear friend was here, and embarrassed that the man would see him in a state like this. Again.
"What the heck happened?" Wong asked, slinging Stephen's arm behind his shoulder to help him get up. Stephen tried to reciprocate, wanting to stand on his own feet, but his knees were too weak to carry his weight.
"Battle…" Stephen gulped, clenching his eyes shut. "Had to… had to use atlantean black magic."
Wong tensed.
" Atlantean – Atlantean black magic? Stephen, that could've… that should've killed you!"
"'S worth it." Stephen mumbled back, "Are you sure it hasn't killed me yet? 'Cause being dead couldn't possibly be worse than this…"
His words were slurring now. Trembling.
Wong made an exasperated sound. Just as they were about to reach the stairs, Stephen suddenly dropped to the ground with a pained sound.
"Wong," Stephen breathed out, "Wong, I can't see. I can't– what's happening?" His breathing was ragged, stuttering every time he exhaled.
There was a pause, an eerie silence settling over them for a moment.
"Stephen," Wong said evenly, in that tone he used whenever he tried to stay calm during trying situations, "Your eyes are bleeding."
Ah. That explains it.
"Oh," was his response. "Okay. That's new."
Stephen clenched his eyes back shut, feeling the blood drip and trail down his cheekbone, almost like tears, before he couldn't take it anymore and collapsed on the floor.
The last thing he remembered registering were Wong's hands carrying him up bridal style, followed by an exasperated sigh the librarian had perfected during his course of taking care of the reckless, self-destructive Stephen Strange.