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The day Stephen donned the white coat his wrist breathed fire then ice. Time stood still. He held his breath, and then ever so gently, so reverently, he fingered the inscription that skipped along his wrist.
Peter Parker.
The flesh that his soulmate's name now occupied ached, but it was a sweet ache. Stephen could still taste the Hippocratic Oath on his lips.
Residency wore him down, but he was no stranger to hard work and self-sacrifice. Arrogance became his fiercest companion, and solitude was a trusted friend. Besides, Stephen never was one for the mundanity of life.
Most days, the fact that he had a soulmate escaped his mind. His days were filled with observing craniotomies and spinal fusions; with running labs and monitoring patients; with picking up the slack, and never once complaining.
But then: the hem of his coat would peel back, or an accidental brush of his wrist would snap his attention back to the name of the man who had marked his soul.
Of course, it would be a good long while before Stephen could in good conscience seek out his other – better – half; with how late the brand had come, it was a sure guarantee that they were still little more than a child. It would be a while yet before they would meet. Just as well, because Stephen still had life to contend with before introducing another into his.
He had a few girlfriends, sure, although perhaps girlfriends was too restrictive a term. He had fun with women, yes – even a few of the guys when they caught his eye – but he never forgot his Peter Parker.
Christine Palmer was different, though. She was his friend – first and foremost, a true friend, the only one he'd ever known. They dated for a spell until he'd successfully driven her off with nothing more than his natural charm, but their friendship remained.
Stephen invented himself as a top-tier neurosurgeon, currently standing at the forefront of cutting-edge technology and medical advances. His soulmate would be awe-struck when they met.
(That was kind of the idea.)
Then: Stephen crashed. His body was all torn up, carved and hacked to pieces; his hands no longer worked as they should. The only shred of skin that remained untouched was the name of the soulmate. It felt like this Peter Parker was glaring at him from somewhere above, mocking his fallibility.
In the days, weeks, months during his recovery, he took to wearing long-sleeved shirts.
He chased Christine from his life. The sick rush of satisfaction was dwindled with the horrifying realisation that he was alone.
Peter Parker would not want a broken man.
Stephen journeyed to Nepal, had his third eye forcibly peeled back and opened, traded in his white coat for a cloak of the finest red, and died several thousand deaths.
Yet he persevered. Somewhere out there was a kid anxiously looking at the Stephen Strange mark on his body, and Stephen wanted to make damn sure his first impression would be a good one.
Plus, if he wanted to show off with a little magic then where was the harm in that?
The day he accepted the responsibility as protector of the New York Sanctum was the day he first saw the little spider-human that had New York enraptured. He pursed his lips, and analysed the child's jerky swinging.
All Stephen saw was a little kid in a red-and-blue makeshift hoodie.
Go home, he wanted to say, to scold, to terrify, for he was busy protecting the universe, and here this kid was just asking their little planet for trouble. You don't belong here.
But the kid never stepped close enough to hear him, and Stephen never spoke.
And then Bruce Banner fell from the sky, bringing grave news from space: “Thanos is coming.”
Honestly? After a while, he forgot all about the guy whose name he bore. Whoever he was, he was just one of many souls Stephen was tasked to protect and defend from mystical threats and higher beings. Knowing his soulmate – really knowing them – would only detract from his true purpose.
Perhaps that was why Stephen did not spare a passing thought when Spider-Man cheerfully threw out, “I'm Peter, by the way.” To be honest, he was more concerned when Stark's ward denounced his MD as a ‘made-up name’.
Yet that paled considerably in comparison to the horrors he witnessed in those realities – all fourteen million, six hundred and five of them, to be exact.
(And only one of them heralded a win. But that was a tale for another time.)
“It's a beautiful day to save lives.” Side-glancing at Stephen, the kid added, “You know, from Grey's Anatomy.”
Bemused, Stephen responded, “I know where it's from.” There had been enough patients over the years, and they had brought with them countless references to Derek Shepherd and Meredith Grey along with their neurologic conditions.
The grin the kid shot him made him frown. In response, Peter shot off into the distance, webs shooting from his wrists – and wasn't that a biological commodity if ever Stephen saw, and the clinician caged inside him positively revelled in the science. Heaving a sigh, Stephen mentally prepared himself to suffer Stark's presence.
Not long after the kid emerged with a warning: “If aliens wind up planting eggs in my chest and I eat one of you, I'm sorry.”
“I don't want another single pop culture reference out of you for the rest of the trip, you understand?”
“I'm trying to say that: something is coming.”
Indeed, it was. Several somethings. Their trio expanded to include a few others hungry for Thanos' blood.
“The more the merrier!” Stark proclaimed. Stephen wanted to hit him; the cloak concurred, itching to swat him upside the head again.
The kid appeared to be putting on a brave face. The sight of it tugged Stephen's – long believed to be non-existent – heartstrings.
“Don't worry, kid,” he murmured softly, as though he hadn't previously said he would gladly sacrifice Tony and the kid for the sake of the Time Stone. “It'll be all right.”
And despite his anxiousness, Peter gifted him a small smile of tremendous strength.
Stephen saw into the future. All fourteen-million, six-hundred and five of them.
In them, he saw Peter Parker die in exactly fourteen-million, six-hundred and four of them, because he knew who he was to him now, knew that behind the jovial Spider-Man exterior belied a kid who just wanted to do the right thing and protect the little guy, Stephen's soulmate who he said he would sacrifice for the sake of the universe.
Seeing countless futures, he only prayed Peter would forgive him for their one.
Stark gave his life to save the universe – to save Peter, the kid he saw as his own. Just as Stephen foresaw.
Tears streamed down Peter's face in the fallout, and Stephen wanted nothing more than to provide his soulmate comfort, to give him all the love and kindness he'd reserved for Peter Parker over the long years alone.
Alas, he did not. By the time he found the words to convey his emotions, his truth, the kid and his aunt disappeared.
If Stephen was being frank, it was just as well Peter vanished following Stark's funeral. The kid was still, well, a kid and Stephen was a man, and there were laws in place for a reason – yes, even soulmate contingencies had laws.
He would have to follow his original plan, and leave the kid alone until he was of age – and perhaps even older, if Peter preferred.
But still, maybe he could reach out. If only as a professional courtesy...
“Hey,” Peter cheered lamely down the phone one night. He had given the kid his number in a moment of mad folly, and Peter apparently did not hesitate to take full and unrestrained use of his lapse in judgement. “You wouldn't happen to know any super-duper magic tricks to help a concussion go by faster? Or maybe there's some medicine you could prescribe, 'cause you're still an actual doctor, right?”
Stephen's exasperation was evident even in his silence. Without missing a beat, he hung up the phone.
Still, he had sworn a vow a long time ago, and so he typed the kid a simple message.
Rest. Plenty of fluids.
And for the love of God, don't text me unless you're actually dying next time.
Then: Quentin Beck. Then: Spider-Man's real name is... PETER PARKER.
Then: “Hey, Mister Strange, sir, could you help me?”
He should have said no. He really, really should have. Maybe everything that happened could have been averted.
(Maybe.)
Would you believe it, but the day finally came where Stephen took him to the mirror dimension – where he was in control.
Peter, drunk off self-righteousness and driven by the tragically pure goodness of his heart, opposed him every step of the way.
“What if we could change their fate?” he posited, and Stephen spoke with his actions.
He trapped his soulmate – never hurting him; he would never dare harm him – in the elongated train, and then conjured portals to snatch the Machina away from him.
Eventually, Stephen won... and then Peter – wonderful, glorious Peter – outsmarted him with, “Math!”
Stephen was suspended above the Grand Canyon, his Sling Ring stolen from him and with Peter ignoring his warnings.
When he finally emerged, it was to find Peter's gobsmacked friend having created a portal with Stephen's stolen ring.
“Huh,” he said. He actually meant it.
And there he found his confoundedly stupid, idiotic, moronic soulmate, battling foes and archenemies from across the multiverse.
"Peter!" Make no mistake, Stephen wasn't messing around. Not this time.
“Sorry, sir,” he began, interrupted by a sand man, of all creatures. “I wasn't, I mean, I didn't... I didn't plan for any of this to happen,” he said, and there was more than a touch of regret in his tone; Stephen's anger cooled at the sound. When they were finished here, he would get the full story.
“Uh huh. We'll talk later.” And then Stephen fought the kid's fight for him.
The green creature blew up the Machina, and all spell broke loose. Fractured, the sky split open, their world cracking under the might of the multiverse. Stephen did his best to hold the many souls at bay, but it was all in vain. There was but one thing he could do, and that was–
Nope. Nuh uh. No way. Not an option.
As it turned out, Peter was the one to give it a voice: “Cast a new spell. But this time, make everyone forget who Peter Parker is. Make everyone forget... me.”
Now, see here, Stephen made was guilty of amending the original spell himself – he included himself in the small number of people who would remember Peter's identity. Why wouldn't he? But here, this – his soulmate was begging to be forgotten, was asking Stephen to actively erase him.
That could never be an option.
“Why not?” Peter asked. The way he looked, you'd think he wanted to be erased from living memory. “It would work, right?”
Yeah, it would work, he should have said. Instead, he uttered: “Because I will not forget my soulmate!”
Peter's face was an assortment of emotions that even Stephen's eidetic memory failed to capture. “I'm your– You're my–”
Oh, right. Too fast, too soon.
Stephen barked a laugh. “Surely you've been wearing my name for as long as you've been alive. It can't be too much of a shock.”
“No, but I thought that,” and here Peter blushed, teeth tugging at his lip like they weren't currently witnessing the end of the world. “You never said anything.”
Stephen grimaced. “You were supposed to be older,” was the only defence he could name.
Peter's expression was indecipherable. “Cast the spell.” His voice was hard, layered with a maturity beyond his youth.
Stephen opened his mouth to retort, but then Peter carried on, “It's the only way.” He leaned in closer to Stephen, “I'll come and find you. Soon. I promise.”
Well. Stephen had never been able to refuse his soulmate anything. And he was no stranger to sacrificing others for the greater good. What's one more person to damn his soul to eternity?
“You better say your goodbyes. You don't have long.”
Days later:
“Hi. I'm Peter Parker, and I think you're my soulmate.”