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Truth be told, Stephen wasn't sure why he mentioned Spider-Man's brief foray into the multiverse, but he did. He said it. Wong also voiced remembrance, but for some strange reason, Stephen cannot recall Wong being present on the battlefield.
Not to mention that word: battlefield. Was there truly a battlefield, or was that Stephen's mind conjuring memories for which there existed none.
Stephen didn't know. Truth be told, he didn't want to know.
No.
No, no, no, no. There was a battlefield. Atop the Statue of Liberty. See, Stephen could remember that much. But...
But there remained gaps. In his memory, his recollection... He was unable to quite grasp exactly what it was he was remembering, but there was something...
Something that could be remembered...
“What if everyone forgot who I was?”
Or maybe something that could save the multiverse.
(But: at a cost. At a terrible, terrible cost.)
“Spider-Man?” Chavez asked, snapping Stephen out of his reverie. “Does he look like a spider?”
Stephen's breath caught in his throat, a shadow of a memory flitting through his mind, intangible and fragmented.
His hands trembled.
“No one knows what he looks like under the mask.”
Wong eyed him curiously.
Stephen knew he was responsible – “With great power comes great responsibility.” – for upholding a position of strength, so he did he best to do so. Never mind the quivering heart that beat perilously in his chest at the mere mention of Spider-Man; nope. We don't talk about such things.
There were bigger things at stake, here. Witches and runes threatened his universe, but it was Peter Parker Spider-Man who saved the multiverse.
Except–
America wouldn't quit.
Her “Does he shoot webs out of his butt?” question was as absurd as it was unrelenting, but nonetheless she remained steadfast in her quest to unmask New York's infamous web-slinger.
Apparently, her curiosity extended far past Kamar-Taj.
“I just want to see him in action,” she said. She'd (finally) managed to conjure a portal the other day, and was showcasing her skills. Wong, obviously, was unimpressed.
Stephen, however... Stephen was strangely optimistic.
“You shouldn't have done that,” Stephen said, admonished. “You should never have–”
“Come on,” America retaliated. “Aren't you even the least bit curious?”
Sure, he was a little curious as to Spider-Man's identity, but that didn't mean he was willing to just up and leave the Sanctum unguarded. He was a Master of the Mystic Arts, don't forget, sworn to the Sorcerer Supreme. Point being: he wasn't the one holding the knife.
Therefore, he encouraged America to return to Kamar-Taj at once...
Once she'd completed her mission, of course. Hey, what could he say? Ol' Spidey's secret identity was something he'd always wanted to figure out. There was something about him, something Stephen desperately needed to uncober.
America had uncovered/semi-stalked the photographer she was adamant was behind the in-action shots of Spider-Man in the controversial Daily Bugle press – a one Mr. Peter Parker.
Stephen thanked her for her efforts before sending her on her merry way back to Kamar-Taj.
“Are you sure this was a valuable use of her time?” Wong inquired in typical Wong fashion: dry, sarcastic, a little too done with the world but persevering regardless. Stephen admired that tone.
He shot a smirk at his Sorcerer Supreme, bowed, and said, “Naturally.”
America's findings managed to snag an interview with the Daily Bugle themselves. So long as Peter Parker shoots the pictures, was her only request.
Wong was irritated. Stephen was delighted.
“I imagined this to be tidier,” was J. Jonah Jameson's first gripe with the Sanctum Sanctorum. “Seriously. How do you people save anybody in this death trap?”
Stephen opened his mouth.
Wong shut it for him.
“Normally, the people we save are in no position to judge our place of refuge,” Wong replied testily. “But if you would like to make a donation,” he continued, “I wouldn't say no to a tuna melt.”
The Cloak rubbed his shoulder in solidarity.
“Now,” J. Jonah Jameson continued, absolutely hell-bent on his mission to destroy New York's number one criminal. “What can you tell me about Spider-Man? Don't get me wrong, I understand you are very busy people, but my most pressing concern, as we can all agree, is the nature of the menace Spider-Man. In fact: Spider-Man is more than a mere vigilante– he's a menace.”
“Absolute menace,” Peter concurred.
“That's right,” the Daily Bugle confirmed.
Stephen wanted to tear his hair out.
Jameson snapped his fingers. It didn't escape Stephen's notice that Peter flinched away from his boss' action.
“What do you have for me?” Jameson continued.
Peter Parker's gaze was razor-sharp. Kind of made it hard to focus, but Stephen persevered. Yes, he would like a medal for that.
“It's the court of public opinion,” Peter said, a sardonic half-smile curving his lip, “and every single person's welcome on the jury.”
Wong, as far as he could tell, was fairly sure there was a joke somewhere in there. As was Stephen.
“Tell me,” Jameson said, “why should anybody trust this vigilante?”
“Because he's a hero,” Stephen said, voice obeying as if on autopilot, speaking the very words Wong himself had spoken. Stephen was, after all, an honorary Avenger; maybe the Daily Bugle might actually listen to him.
Yeah, okay. Even Wong looked at him funny. Stephen wasn't known for his public speaking.
“What?” Jameson asked, shock painted so obviously on his face it could not be mistaken for anything else. “Am I– Am I hearing that right? Dr. Strange thinks that Spider-Man is a–”
“–a hero, yes,” Stephen finished. “And please don't interrupt. I have a control complex.”
The Cloak rubbed his arm sympathetically. Control complexes were not to be trifled with.
“Spider-Man is a hero. An Avenger. When Thanos he invaded, he came up with a plan not even Iron Man could. He saved my life, and blasted the Maw into space.”
Sure, Spidey's plan had its roots in an Aliens movie, but we can look past that.
“He fought Thanos not once, but twice. All in the span of, for all intents and purposes, a few hours.”
“To be perfectly honest, there, doc, there were quite a few other heroes during those battles,” Jameson pressed on, unperturbed by Stephen's rendition of Spider-Man's highlights. “Why single out a masked pretender, the notorious Web-Head who demonizes the good city of New York on a regular basis?”
Something dark coiled in his gut: anger. Raw, white-hot, inexplicable rage. His expression hardened, solidified, crystallized.
Stephen lifted a shaky finger. “I haven't finished.”
Jameson grumbled, but otherwise remained silent.
“He is the underdog,” Stephen said without rhyme or reason, words spilling from his mouth with as much fervour as a four-year-old child – or something more eloquent than that; Stephen couldn't get his metaphors in order. “The champion of the little guy. He's the one you don't expect, you don't count on, you don't call on.” A ghost of a smile played with the corner of Stephen's lips, just for a whisper of a second. “But he's the one who shows up. He's the one you will forever be glad to have your back – and you will unreservedly have his in return.”
Jameson's throat made an interesting noise. Apparently that was as regal a response Stephen would be ordained with.
Peter's eyes were trained on Stephen's mouth. It was very distracting.
Stephen paused, tilting his head in thoughtful consideration, trying to do anything to detract from the warm weight of this amateur photographer's stare.
“Not that I condone the use of the name Web-Head,” he said, circling back to Jameson's question. “Just because superheroes go around saving people does not mean they're entitled to such ridiculous names.”
“Right, ‘cause Dr. Strange is a totally believably normal name,” Peter mumbled under his breath, and Stephen– and Stephen–
“I'm Peter, by the way.”
“Dr. Strange.”
“Oh. You're using our made-up names. I'm Spider-Man, then.”
Stephen's blood boiled to a dangerous degree before freezing to sub-Atlantic temperatures.
It was those words. Four little, innocent words that cracked open the spell Stephen carved into the dawning sky:
I'm Spider-Man, then.
Wong was looking. Stephen was fairly certain at that, but even as his stare remained fixed on the kid Stephen botched those damned runes in the name of, it was J. Jonah Jameson's reaction Stephen registered in his periphery.
Because, see, all along this was what Jameson was vying for.
Jameson wanted a moment. No, no, no. He wanted The Moment. The Moment which would blast all other moments clean out of the sky. The Moment in which he could manipulate the scenario, implicate Spider-Man in petty crime and large-scale warfare all at the same time. The Moment to finally put a face to the masked hero.
As it turned out, Stephen was the unfortunate one to give him his journalistic Moment.
The moment when Stephen turned to him, halted, and said:
“Peter?”
And Jameson, as if in a daze, turned to the kid – the gloriously stupid, self-sacrificing fool Stephen could never quite find it in himself to stop thinking about, try as he might – followed Stephen's trail. Eyes wide, mouth agape, pen dropping from in between his fingers.
“What the f–?”