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Stephen’s felt this way before.
Alone.
It was a deliberate choice, back then, to be alone, to push Christine away. She was the one person he had taught himself to love, but he couldn’t bear to let her see the husk of a person he’d become after the accident.
After she left, tears in her eyes and a door closed firmly behind her back, he spent a long time staring into bottles of liquor and disfigured hands, contemplating his own pathetic despondency. He had never felt so detached from the person he used to be, the life he used to have. He had to heal himself before he could begin to heal their relationship.
Eventually, he did.
Their relationship healed around its jagged edges, softened some of the hurt and disappointment he had caused her. He might not have regained her love, but it didn’t matter; he regained her trust, and her respect.
It was enough.
On Titan, before he vanished, when the cold had risen up to his throat and he couldn’t feel his body, Christine was the last thought on his mind.
Five years later, when his very last fiber mended back together, it was as if it had never left.
But five years is a long time to be gone.
He’s seen it, been there to witness comatose patients open their eyes for the first time in weeks, months, years. There’s an emptiness in their stare, a hint of fear at the realization that the world changed, people changed in their absence, yet they remained the same. Locked away in a dark, dreamless corner of their minds.
To Christine, he was effectively dead for five years. Not lying in a hospital bed, waiting for his body to deteriorate beyond saving while she cried above him. Dead.
Rightfully, she moved on. She fell in love.
It did always come easier to her, love. Sentiment. Stephen has rarely allowed himself the luxury. He’s not devoid of emotions, but he is cautious around them. Suspicious, even. Some would say utterly untrusting.
Still, he cares.
Stephen cares about Christine being engaged to someone that isn’t him; someone famous enough to make the headlines before she can call him with the news, her voice equal parts happy and wistful on the other end of the line.
He cares about Wong, as capable as he is, taking the one job that gave him purpose when he had none. He cares about having to sacrifice Tony Stark to save countless others.
He may not say it, or show it, and he might even speak to the contrary, but he cares.
Funerals are the kind of caring, sentimental affairs that Stephen tends to steer away from. He’s there out of respect, and stays just long enough not to be the first one out the door. He says his goodbyes to Pepper just as the remnants of sunlight fade into the horizon, and walks out onto the porch to find Peter Parker sitting on the steps.
The door closes softly behind Stephen. For a split second, he considers going back in to avoid any potential heart-to-hearts, but Peter is glancing over his shoulder at him before he’s finished fully contemplating the thought.
Peter’s eyes are red-rimmed, looking up at Stephen through the wetness of unshed tears. In moments like these, Stephen wishes he was completely devoid of emotions.
He takes one careful, deliberate step closer, and Peter averts his eyes, looking down at what appears to be a mutilated dandelion resting between lanky fingers.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Stephen slides his hands into his pockets, fingers curling into his palms, and allows the sound of a brittle breeze to fill the silence. There’s nothing he can say that’ll make Peter feel any better.
“Need a ride back?” he asks, instead, peering down at Peter.
Peter blinks up at him.
Sighing, Stephen makes his way down to the lawn and summons a portal. There’s a second’s delay before Peter’s eyes light up, realization dawning on him.
“Um, yeah. Yeah,” he says, jumping to his feet. “Let me go get Aunt May.”
He comes back out with his aunt’s arm curled around his frame, one hand softly rubbing his shoulder, the other safely tucked inside her pocket. She regards Stephen with a smile before she crosses over, gives his arm a timid squeeze that he would object to in any other circumstance.
At the edge of the portal, with one foot about to cross into Astoria, Queens, Peter pauses, glances up at Stephen. “Thank you, Mr. Strange.”
Stephen ignores his mild annoyance at the honorific in favor of reciprocating the smile.
“Don’t mention it.”
*
Life is quieter when you’re not the Sorcerer Supreme.
Stephen’s, in fact, has been quite meaningless.
There’s only so many grimoires one can read before it starts becoming redundant, and Stephen’s read more than his share of them. He decides he’s had enough when he stumbles upon the same transmutation spell, with minor, useless tweaks, for the thirtieth time that day.
(How many ways can one change water into liquor before they have to start regularly attending A.A. meetings, anyway?)
Then, through the frosty doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum, in walks Peter Parker, and Stephen’s morning lights up like an overpriced Christmas tree.
He’s sipping his first Irish coffee of the day and wearing a hoodie that hasn’t seen a washer in a week, but he’s not presently concerned with formalities, and invites Peter in with a, “So, Peter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Right, um,” Peter says, his sneakers squeaking over ice as he follows Stephen around to the fireplace. “I’m really sorry to bother you, sir, but—”
“Please, we saved half the universe together,” Stephen interrupts, calling fire into existence with a twist of his fingers and a silent incantation. “I think we’re beyond you calling me ‘sir’.”
“Okay, uh, Stephen.”
Stephen quickly considers the sound of it rolling off Peter’s tongue. “That feels weird, but I’ll allow it.”
“Um, when, um,” Peter stutters, looking up at him. “When Mysterio revealed my identity, my—my entire life got screwed up and—” It’s a little annoying, the whole stumbling-over-words routine, but Stephen’s hoping the kid will get to the point sooner rather than later. “I—I was wondering, I mean, I don’t really know if this would actually work, but I was wondering if maybe you could go back in time and make it so he never did?”
It’s not quite a question. More of a hopeful, incredibly naive request.
Even a little heedless.
But interesting.
Stephen’s got to give it to the kid: he’s got heart. He cares about the people in his life more than Stephen is capable of comprehending, but tampering with space and time, again—this time, not for the universe, but for this one sloppy, mildly annoying teenager—is not only impossible given the current state of affairs, but too big a risk.
“I’m so sorry,” Stephen says, measuring his words, “but even if I wanted to, I don’t have the Time Stone anymore.”
It’s audible, the moment the breath hitches in Peter’s throat and reality sinks into the downward curve of his shoulders.
“That’s right,” he says. Blinks, gives out a humorless chuckle. He’s turning around to leave, averting his eyes and shaking his head in defeat. “I’m really sorry if I wasted your time—”
Stephen finds himself mimicking the movement. “You didn’t.”
“Just forget about it.”
Stephen wishes he could help, he does. He’s itching to remember the feel of the Time Stone’s magic pulsing deep under his skin, but this is not up to him.
Unless.
It might not be quite as bold as turning back time, but it’s something. Something’s better than nothing.
Or is it?
The spell doesn’t quite work as intended, what with Peter’s incessant trying to change it, and then the fabric of reality starts bursting at the seams.
With magic, there’s always the possibility that something will go wrong, but this is on another level. Before he knows it, Stephen is left dangling over the Grand Canyon.
Until he isn't.
It would be infuriating if it weren't so endearing, the kid’s need to do right by everyone. It’s an impressive feat, really, what he’s accomplished in half a day, but it’s also dangerous, and they need to send these outsiders back to their own reality before theirs collapses into itself.
There’s a shift in the atmosphere as the sky begins to twist and crackle, a dozen universes threatening to spill onto theirs. Stephen’s magic is faltering under the weight of it, his lungs struggling to keep up, and it won’t be much longer before they give up entirely.
If Peter had just listened. If he hadn’t been so stubborn—
“What if everyone forgot who I was?”
Stephen peels his eyes away from the splitting skies to glance at Peter’s bruised, bloodied face. “What?”
“They’re coming because of me, right? Because I'm Peter Parker?” Peter asks. His breath is coming out in short, ragged puffs. “So cast a new spell. But this time, make everyone forget who Peter Parker is. Make everyone forget… me.”
“No.”
After everything. The kid can’t be serious.
“But it would work, right?”
Stephen reluctantly nods. “Yeah, it would work,” he says, but his mouth is dry, tongue like sandpaper, his body violently protesting the idea. “But you got to understand that would mean that everyone who knows and loves you, we’d…” Through the strain, the adrenaline, the pure dread bubbling in his gut, it’s hard to breathe. God damn it, kid. “We’d have no memory of you. It would be as though you never existed.”
And Peter is peering up at him, eyes bright with fear but unrelenting, fixed on Stephen as if the world has ceased to exist around them.
“I know,” he breathes. “Do it.”
It’s a strange feeling, to think that, in a few minutes, Peter’s face will be nothing but a blank. That Stephen’s photographic memory won’t be enough to retain any aspect of him.
He’ll be gone. Truly gone, in every way that matters.
“You better go and say your goodbyes,” Stephen says, jerking his head toward Peter’s friends. “You don’t have long.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Stephen.”
Peter regards him for a long second. “Thank you, Stephen.”
The laugh that escapes Stephen’s chest isn’t genuine, but it fills him with warmth all the same. “Yeah,” he says through gritted teeth. “Still feels weird.”
Peter smiles, nods. “I’ll see you around.”
“So long, kid.”
And he’s gone.
*
It’s the third year after Christine got married to What’s-His-Name, and her son is turning one.
Stephen is sitting at a hotel bar across the street from her penthouse, his bowtie loosened and flopping around his neck, nursing a glass of bourbon.
What kind of person throws a black tie event for their child’s first birthday, anyway? Christine had apologized for the dress code when she called to invite him to the party, but apparently, What’s-His-Name had insisted.
He’s some billionaire-celebrity-businessman who’s insignificant enough that Stephen never bothered to commit his name to memory. In fact, he made a point not to.
He holds no ill intent toward the man, though he does mourn the life he could have had with Christine if not for his own pride and arrogance. But their moment has long passed. If she’s happy, that’s enough.
Stephen’s had his own share of entanglements throughout the years, men and women alike. Nothing meaningful. Distractions to fill the void and occupy his time in the lulls between run-of-the-mill threats to the world.
It’s been quiet on the supervillain side of things. The last time he remembers breaking a sweat was when the multiverse was threatening to break, though there are uncharacteristically large gaps in his memory surrounding that time.
“Um, excuse me?”
His brain takes a moment to process the words, already dipping its metaphorical feet into the haziness of liquor. The voice belongs to the man sliding onto the barstool next to him, clad in a slightly ill-fitting tuxedo and a crooked bowtie.
Stephen sips his drink and mumbles listlessly, “Yeah.”
“Do you mind?” the man asks, pointing at the general vicinity of his seat. A little late for that, isn’t it? Stephen shakes his head in response and, seemingly pleased, the man offers his hand. “I’m Ben, by the way. Ben Reilly.”
There’s a spark, somewhere. Somewhere deep in his mind, tucked behind painful and forgotten memories. Stephen regards the feeling with a frown, his old-fashioned glass stopped in midair, amber liquid swirling against the sides until it settles neatly at the bottom. It’s not a romantic spark, but it’s certainly not an unromantic one. Bittersweet. Almost… nostalgic.
He studies the outstretched hand in front of him, then drags his eyes up to meet Reilly’s.
“Stephen. Strange.”
Ben Reilly smiles. “I know.”
“Have we met before?” Stephen asks, putting his drink down to take the man’s hand.
Lanky fingers curl around his, the grip firmer than Stephen anticipated for such neat, unmarked skin. He takes his own scarred hand back after a second too long, reaching for his bourbon once more.
Reilly makes a sound that’s not quite a chuckle, and Stephen realizes the question sounds like a cheap pick-up line. He opens his mouth to elaborate, but finds himself at a loss when a blush surfaces across Reilly’s cheeks.
Stephen’s not blind. The man’s attractive, if a little on the younger side. If that blush means embarrassment rather than interest, they can chalk it up to a misunderstanding, but he wouldn’t say no to a distraction.
“No, I don't think we have.” Glancing down at his feet, Reilly shakes his head, smile fading. “I, um, I was the photographer.” He clears his throat. “At the party.”
Did he follow Stephen here?
“Right.” Stephen flags down the bartender again, gestures for a top-up, and one for Reilly. “You do that a lot? Photograph one-year-olds in tuxedos?”
That sound again. That laugh.
“Not exactly.”
It shakes something loose in his chest. He feels the peculiar need to wet his mouth, and does, downing the rest of his drink.
The bourbon burns, but it’s not responsible for the heat that rises in his throat. It’s a nagging feeling, like wondering if you forgot the stove on but worse, as if knowing the house is burning down and smelling the smoke. Hearing the wood combust.
Reilly is looking at him eagerly, as though expecting some kind of reaction, but Stephen can only watch the other man. The careless curls of his hair, the slight fault in his left eyebrow. Deep, dark eyes searching Stephen’s face.
Silence descends upon them, broken only by the sound of Reilly clearing his throat again.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, half-turning as if to leave. “I didn’t mean to bother you, Mr. Strange.”
Stephen reaches for his arm instinctively, trembling fingers wrapping around the soft material of Reilly’s sleeve. Reilly dangles awkwardly off his seat before regaining his composure, casting a surprised look to where Stephen’s hand connects with his forearm.
“It’s no bother,” Stephen says, releasing his grip and immediately missing the warmth. Reilly’s eyes find his and he adds: “And call me Stephen.”