Chapter Text
"America," Stephen looked up from where his shaking hands were tending to his wounds, "Why are you up so late?"
Stephen had been off dimension for quite a while now–he wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been gone; time worked differently in different dimensions and he hadn't exactly kept track–and he was sure it was dark out when he staggered into a portal he had opened in the Sanctum's kitchen, probably just before midnight. So the least thing he had expected to meet was America, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and staring at him in complete shock.
America had moved to the Sanctum Sanctorum and under his wing a long while back. Her training had continued in Kamar Taj, and she had made such progress that left pride blooming in Stephen's chest. Stephen had trained her, taught her, showed her the ways of the Mystic Arts. He had seen himself in her. He had been patient, more patient than he had ever been, and the fruit of his efforts were finally beginning to grow out. He looked forward to training her every day, planning out each session meticulously and unintentionally leaving America exhausted and struggling to catch up.
If he had to admit, he was eager to teach. Eager to become her mentor. Eager to be the one to contribute to her growth. Eager to witness the making of America Chavez, and watch her stand proud and strong one day, capable and assertive of her abilities. He was eager to see her shine.
Which was why the mission had more or less caught him off guard despite the many times he had been sent to do them before. Stephen had at first been reluctant to accept the task at hand, especially with the knowledge of leaving the young teen on her own, but if anything, his job had taught him that whenever duty called, he must answer no matter the circumstances. There was no choice in the matter, and he knew that well.
So at that moment, seeing her there and safe and unharmed was enough to brush all his worries throughout his journey away.
"I…" she visibly hesitated for a moment, loitering about at the doorway, "Did you sleep at all, Stephen?"
Her brows were creased in worry. Stephen was quick to reassure.
"I'll finish up soon and I'll be up by somewhere around twelve," he gave her a slight smile, managing to hide the wince when it moved the stinging cut on his lip.
It did not, in fact, have the effect Stephen had intended. Instead, she looked far more concerned.
"It's 6 in the morning."
Stephen blinked.
"Oh," he said, "I meant twelve minutes."
If it was possible to facepalm internally, he'd be doing it then. Nice save, Strange.
America, thankfully, did not comment on it. Instead, she sauntered over to his side and bit her lip nervously in what Stephen found was slightly adorable.
"Do you… want help with that?" she offered, pointing at his messily applied bandages.
The cloak, which had been floating frantically around, was dodged away by Stephen's trembling hands–it really never knew when to stay still.
Stephen looked at her for a moment at the offer, and then down to his hands.
His hands. His broken, scarred hands. They were shaking. They were painful. Useless, as they always were. He looked up again to meet America's eyes, trying and failing to bring his mask back up. She just had that effect on him; bringing out his most vulnerable side, making him feel safe enough around her to let his guard down. Stephen had to admit he was afraid of what it might entail. He was afraid because that meant he would be opening himself up to someone, laying himself bare amongst their eyes.
If it were anybody else, Stephen would've refused. He would be offended, even.
But this was America.
And Stephen could never refuse her. Not when he had been constantly thinking of her the entire time he was gone. Not when she stood in front of him like that, her eyes telling him she wanted to help. Not ever.
"Yes," it was said in a mere whisper. "Yes, I'd like that. Please."
He gave her a grateful smile, and let his hands drop to his lap. It was almost too easy for him to do so. Almost frighteningly so.
Stephen decided not to think too much about it. Instead he focused on giving America instructions and explaining to her which wounds to bandage and which to stitch, feeling a slight smile tug up his lips at how quickly she got the hang of it.
"There. All done," she smiled at her work, and then lifted her head to meet Stephen's eyes.
Stephen smiled, albeit wearily, silently thanking her with his eyes and hoping it would convey how much he appreciated her help. America seemed to catch on, and gave him a smile of her own.
"Let's get upstairs. I'm exhausted."
The cloak nodded its collars at that, looking forward to cuddling its master in bed after a long day's hard work. Stephen chuckled at it, and America let out a giggle of her own.
He moved to stand up, but made the mistake of bracing his hands on the edge of the table to lift his weight off, and then made a pained sound as he doubled over and very nearly dropped to the ground. He clutched at his hands, cradling it close to his chest, face twisted in pain. He barely managed to stifle the cry of agony when his sensitive hands made even the slightest of contact to the rough texture of his robes. The cloak and America were instantly at his side to hold him from falling down, coupled with a distressed "Are you okay?" from America.
It took a moment for Stephen to regain his composure, tired eyes blinking away frustrated tears and clearly holding back his pain as he breathed unsteadily through his nose.
"Y-yes," he hadn't intended his voice to tremble. "Yes, I'm fine."
What he said then was a shock to even himself.
"Thank you, Donna."
Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the state of vulnerability he was still in. But whatever the reason was, Stephen hadn't expected he would ever utter her name to America. He hadn't expected to utter her name ever.
"Donna?" America said, and Stephen felt his breath caught. "Who's–"
His knees buckled on their own accord and he fell, his weight falling down with a thud even though aided by the cloak. The impact on his knees sent sparks of pain up his thighs and throughout his battered body.
"Stephen!"
Why had he said that? Why had he let it slip past his lips? Why had he been so stupid to ease his guard? This was the consequence he deserved for opening himself. He should have kept his mask up, should have stayed to his rule that he wouldn't ever break down in front of anyone or let them see him like this.
His eyes clenched shut. He felt stupid. There was something acidic burning in the back of his throat. Something like tears of shame stinged in his eyes. Something like fear was bubbling from within, reaching out its tendrils to encase his heart and making him choke as it squeezed it. He felt his blood ooze out of it like an open wound, felt his heart tearing itself apart.
Some functioning part of his mind registered that America was speaking to him, but her voice sounded too far away. He thought he might've heard a strangled, wheezing sound, realising it was his own, but the beating of his heart in his ears was drowning out every other sound around him.
There was something blocking his breathing. He didn't know what, but swallowing it down didn't seem to work. His vision was blurring out the edges, the exhaustion taking over and spreading through his body. He was falling down down down, and he didn't know if he could ever go back up. He was slipping away. He was drowning.
Drowning in ice cold water that felt like shards on his skin, slowly descending with no one to help pull him back up. Drowning in the fear and the guilt and the anger to himself and all the conflicting emotions that suddenly burst out of him and clouded his head. Drowning in everything and nothing all at once, feeling the water seep through his nostrils and into his lungs, feeling it fill him and every part of his being until his very essence was merged with the water.
He was drowning. Drowning like she had.
And it felt deserving.
Then everything went black.
*.~ ◇ ~.*
A gentle breeze blew gently over his face, whisking through loose strands of his hair and letting it fly about. He could hear the gentle lap of water hitting the shore, could smell the wet earth and the peaty smell of algae, could feel the air freshen every pore of his being.
Stephen blinked his eyes open. He was in the lake.
He breathed in, letting the air fill his lungs and feeling it slip gently out of his nose. There was a net of what felt like slimy weed entangling over his legs, keeping him from the water's surface, but feeling the gentle waves washing over his feet regardless.
He moved to sit down, crossed-legged, on the wet ground beneath him. He felt one with the earth, like he's made friends with the wind and the water and the trees. He should feel utter bliss.
But he didn't.
He heard more than saw her take her place beside him, extending her legs to feel the water dance over her feet. Stephen turned his head to her, letting his eyes fill with emotion as she looked ahead, oblivious to his staring eyes.
She looked almost too real.
A beat passed in silence, only disturbed by the whisper of the wind and the distant flaps of wings from a herd of birds that flew up from afar.
"I miss you, you know," he confessed, voice a mere whisper.
He felt his heart skip a beat as she turned her head to him, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Her face was a blur, an image that was once ingrained in his mind but was now just a faint memory, like an old, faded photograph. There were now only cold, dead, empty eyes staring back at him.
(He had a photographic memory, so he should have remembered. But he didn't, and he didn't know why.)
"I'm sorry, Donna," he clenched his hands into fists, feeling the pain shoot up his nerves. Felt it ground him, tether him to the ground. "I miss you, I really do," he breathed, "but I know you aren't real."
She blinked at him.
"Well, then," her voice sounded voiceless. It sounded like silence, like unspoken words. It sounded like things that weren't and things that never will be, it sounded like nothing and everything and all in between. It sounded empty. It sounded hollow. It sounded foreign. "Wake up, Stephen."
*.~ ◇ ~.*
When Stephen awoke, eyes fluttering open, he was met with the sight of the horrible patterns of his bed's top canopy. It was dark, save for the gentle light of the noon sun cascading through the open curtains of his windows and casting lines over his bed and onto the wall opposite, specks of dust floating about in the air from where the soft glow flowed inside his room. The cloak, which was draped over his blanketed form, perked up and very nearly strangled him to death with its hug. He chuckled softly at it, lifting his trembling fingers to rub over the fabric.
“You’re choking me, cloak,” he said, and it loosened its hold a bit at that.
There was a gentle click and a long creak as the door opened, and the sound was loud in the eerie silence of his bedroom. The cloak perked its collars towards the direction of the door, and then swooped its way there.
"Stephen," he heard, and immediately registered the voice as America's. She let out a little ‘oomph’ when the cloak wrapped itself around her, and then settled on her shoulders. "You're awake."
Hearing her voice then, something in his mind shifted back into place. The memories of what happened began to rush through his head again, so suddenly that it made a spark of cold shock go through him. Instead he blinked, pushing his head further down the pillow and feeling its softness engulf his head, trying his best to stay casual and hoping America had forgotten what he did. He felt an involuntary sigh slip past his lips.
"Yes," he whispered, and then cleared his throat a bit. "Yes, I'm awake," he said, louder now.
He heard footsteps padding gently to the side of his bed, felt the mattress dip under her weight.
"You've been out for a couple of hours…" America started, "I didn't want to wake you because you seemed exhausted."
Stephen breathed in, breath stuttering out.
"How long?"
America considered it for a moment.
"About eight hours."
He sighed. It didn't feel nearly enough, for some reason. He still felt exhausted, could still feel it seep through his bones.
He never liked waking up. The instant his eyes opened, a switch was turned on almost immediately without his permission and his brain would start running. His thoughts would begin to overlap. Which was why it was never easy to shut his brain off, never easy to just fall asleep. To break the tremendous effort of ruling his body into slumber… It was almost ridiculous the number of times he had found himself awaking more exhausted than he had before going to sleep. Almost.
He resisted the urge to rub his temples in frustration. His head throbbed.
"Hey, um, Stephen?" America started, "Actually, I… I was just wondering."
Stephen's breath caught.
Oh no. Here it comes.
His body tensed involuntarily.
"Y– So– If… if you don't mind me asking," she bit her lip a little, and then breathed in as if preparing herself, "You… You mentioned a name earlier. I don't know who it was, but… Was it Diana? Dana? D–"
Stephen sighed.
"It was Donna," he said, and tried sitting up. He felt the movement pull against a couple of his bandages, managing to stifle a wince, and gave America a grateful look when she tried to help.
"Donna…" she said, "Who… who's Donna?"
"She…" Stephen hesitated for a moment. He considered lying, or brushing it off, but part of him… part of him wanted to tell her. He didn't know why. He didn't understand why. It was a foreign feeling, he was sure it was never like this with anybody else. He was always trying to keep up his walls, even now as a sorcerer humbled by his mistakes. He was sure of the idea that doing… any of this always repulsed him. It was too dangerous a territory to be in.
Why did he want to open up to her? Why did it feel so easy?
What did he want from this?
But maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he just wanted America to know, and that was okay. He trusted her. She would never hurt him.
"She's my sister," he didn't realise how low his voice turned, how nearly inaudible it sounded.
The room was silent, he only noticed then. His mind had been too loud.
"Sister?" America seemed intrigued. "What's she like?"
Stephen smiled, feeling a flutter in his chest that bloomed from within and glowed gently. He didn't know what that feeling was. Maybe there wasn't a word for it. Maybe it was just a feeling–vague but warm, something like joy with a twinge of melancholy, a mix of blues and oranges and spots of shimmering white.
"Wonderful," he said, "She's wonderful. She was the reason I wanted to be a doctor."
"Really?"
He smiled, but there was a twinge of sadness in it.
Stephen hummed. "You and her… share a lot in common, actually."
America smiled brightly at that. He always loved her smile. He wanted to see that smile more often.
"Really? Do I?" her voice was filled with something like joy, and it made Stephen's smile widen. He loved the look in her eyes, loved the twinkle in them. It was like stars.
"Do you think we can…" she looked hesitant, "meet up? You know, I'd love to get to know another you."
Stephen chuckled at that. His smile remained.
"She…" he looked down, nodded to himself, and looked back up. He didn't want eye contact as he said this, so instead he looked behind her shoulder. "She died at seventeen."
America looked a bit struck at that.
"Oh," she said. "I'm… sorry."
"Don't be," Stephen said. He was surprised at how steady his voice was.
He felt America scoot closer.
"What… happened?"
He breathed in.
"We were…" he felt a smile stretch against his lips at the memory, "We were playing in a frozen lake."
He leaned his head back against the headboard, closed his eyes. He could hear her cheers of laughter ringing in his ears. He could hear her voice speaking to him, could hear himself giggling in return. He remembered that day. Remembered how wonderful it was. Remembered how beautiful it was. Remembered how painful it was.
"It was wonderful."
And then he heard the terrifying crack of ice. He heard her scream, echoing in the chilly air around them, heard the splashes of water as she flailed and struggled. His smile dropped.
His eyes snapped back open.
"At first it was. Until the ice broke, and she… fell," he said, fingers gripping the sheets. "It was… it was my fault. I could've saved her, I could've– if only I had…"
He felt the warmth of America's hand atop his. He looked down on it.
A frantic intake of breath, a stuttered exhale.
He lifted his head to look at her.
His breath evened.
She had a gentle smile, had a look in her eyes. He knew what that look was. He knew what it meant.
It wasn't pity.
It was understanding.
"I'm sure it wasn't your fault, Stephen," she said softly, "I blamed the loss of my parents to my inability to control my powers… But you assured me, Stephen, you told me it wasn't my fault."
She breathed in.
"And I believe you."
He felt her tighten the hold on his hand. He turned it upside to grip her fingers in return.
"So you should believe me," she whispered.
The feeling in his chest burst into sparks. The dam was broken down, the wall was pushed over.
He didn't know what got into him. He reached out and pulled her into a hug, gripping tight and fisting his hands in her shirt, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He felt America freeze, but it only took a while for her to process what was happening before she returned the hug. He felt her hands wrapped around him, felt himself holding on tighter as if she was his lifeline.
There was a pang of guilt in his chest as he realised how ridiculous the situation was. He was the adult. The grown up. And yet he's the one nearly sobbing over her shoulder. He considered pulling back, but the warmth of their embrace was simply too comfortable.
And then his worries were washed away when America put her head on his shoulder in return, when she said: "It's okay, Stephen."
And he smiled. Genuinely.
"Thank you," he whispered. And then willed himself not to cry. He needed to be the strong one. Needed to be the one in control.
The cloak, apparently, did not want to be left out. It wrapped itself around both their forms, collars tickling both their noses.
“Cloak, please–” he tried dodging it away with his hands, but it only snuggled in closer. He heard America’s giggle at that, and couldn’t help the way his lips tugged up in a slight smile in return. He loved the sound of her laughter.
For a moment, silence spread in the room, only disturbed by the occasional rustle of sheets, inhales and exhales of breath, and shifts in position. It was a comfortable silence, a silence that didn’t feel empty. They held each other close, so close Stephen could feel her breath on the skin of his neck. It wasn't the best position, and his wounds stinged in protest at the weird angle, but he didn't care because he'd rather be in her arms than anywhere else. He wished he had the Time stone then, just so he could freeze time to that moment and embrace her forever. Just so he could hold her, be in her company.
(The realisation sent a shock through him. Proximity had always repulsed him, what was it about it this time that was different?)
(America. It was different this time because it was with America.)
But alas, he couldn't stay there for long. He was sure Wong and the other masters were probably questioning his absence now, waiting for his report on his last mission. He was surprised Wong hadn't appeared in the doorway yet.
When Stephen pulled back, he stared into America's eyes and saw the twinkle in them that he had always adored.
He remembered now, to his surprise, how Donna looked like.