Work Text:
It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them.
Stephen would portal to the Kamar-Taj courtyard after a fight or a mission or a trip through the multiverse, anything that had him gone for more than two days. Wong would wait, setting up camp under the courtyard tree, sleeping in the backrooms of the library. He’d even move his classes to the courtyard or nearby training rooms until his husband came home.
No one questioned it. Sure, Wong got a few odd looks from the younger students. A few of the older Masters gave him knowing looks, fully understanding why Wong was doing what he was doing. No one dared to question the Sorcerer Supreme, leaving him to wait for his other half.
~
When Stephen came home, Wong would find him and kiss him. He would wrap his arms around Stephen's neck, Stephen would pull him into a hug, and they would kiss. Stephen was the one who always broke the embrace, then Wong would grab his hand and lead him to the kitchen. There, he would sit the man down and make him eat something before Stephen fell asleep in Wong's arms.
It was a habit, treated like a ritual. Something that they just did .
Occasionally, it would be the New York Sanctum. That would be negotiated beforehand. It was Usually Kamar-Taj, the place Stephen had accepted as home and the place Stephen felt the safest (outside the New York Sanctum and Wong's arms). It was the place that he always came back to. Until one spring morning, when Stephen left and never came back.
He left on a Monday. He was supposed to be back that Wednesday. Wong had set up his area, leaving his Apprentice in charge of the library. He had been doing paperwork (even the Sorcerer Supreme had to do paperwork, just to keep things running. Bills, negotiations, insurance policies, etc) late into the night before he finally retired to one of the rooms off to the side of the library. Tuesday was the same. Wednesday passed with bated breath. Stephen was nowhere to be found.
Wong kept waiting. Waiting through Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Again and again, until two weeks had turned into a month and Jio begged him to stop. Told him that Stephen was gone.
Wong ignored her. It wasn't three days later when the Cloak of Levitation came flying through the entrance of Kamar-Taj, clinging to the bloody remains of Stephen Strange. His robes were crusted with blood, he was missing his right leg, ripped off below the knee. His neck was bent at an odd angle, head lolling awkwardly. His tongue was swollen, his eyes open and glazed. The Cloak flew to Wong's side, gently setting its dead Master at Wong’s feet. It seemed to be in a frenzy, asking Wong to help, but it was too late.
No one had ever seen the Sorcerer Supreme cry. Not until the day that Stephen Strange died.
~
Wong made sure Stephen had a good funeral. He picked out a plot of land in New York, one that overlooked the city that Stephen loved so much. Wong helped bury his husband, gave the eulogy. Cried. He made the arrangements for him to be buried next to his husband when his own time inevitably came. The Cloak refused to leave the body. It went dormant, lifeless, like relics tend to do after the death of their sorcerer. A simple spell revealed that the Cloak had died, inflicting magical wounds too deep to heal. They buried it with Stephen, wrapped it around his body. Wong wished he could do the same. Part of him was already dead, the part of him that belonged to Stephen, that had died the day Stephen left for the last time. If half of him was gone, why couldn't the rest of him join?
The funal was a small service, but many came to pay their respects. Kamar-Taj, Stephen's Apprentice, now promoted to Master. Old colleagues. Friends. The Avengers. It rained that day. Even Mother Nature mourned the loss of Stephen Strange.
~
Wong was barely around anymore. Barely 48, the light had faded from his eyes. He wandered Kamar-Taj as a shell of his old self. His Apprentice took over the library, promoted to Master.. The council deemed Wong unfit for his job and elected a new Sorcerer Supreme. Wong locked himself in his – Stephen’s – room.
He only left his self-made prison to sit under the large jacaranda tree, blankly watching the students training, waiting for Stephen to come home.
The loneliness got to him eventually. He cried, he yelled. He would stare longingly at the daggers in the armory, weigh the steak knives in the dining hall. The Masters found him almost exactly a year after Stephen's death, curled up on his bed and clutching a set of Stephen's robes. He was still, quiet, his wrists bloody and his eyes glazed over, still damp with tears.
Wong was buried next to Stephen. The second set of bloody robes were buried with him.
After the second funeral, students began to complain. Walking past Wong's room brought students unmeasurable pain. Those with partners couldn’t rest until they knew that their significant others were safe. The new Sorcerer Supreme dreamt of Stephen and Wong every night, her dreams laced with unbearable grief and images of Strange's mangled corpse. The Sorcerer Supreme moved out. The room was exorcised and closed off.
Years later, when the past was nothing but a memory and the newest recruits under Wong's administration were old and gray, when the famed Stephen Strange was a single page in a dusty old textbook, their room was still blocked off. Some still shed tears when they passed. There were stories, as there always were, and rumors. If you walked past the door on a Monday night, you could hear a man sobbing.
Some said that if you stood in the entrance hall on a clear day, you could see a figure sitting under the ever-young jacaranda. Its eyes are cold and empty, its skin nearly transparent. Books are scattering around it, a pen cradled in its hand, empty papers balanced on its lap. Its robes, like the rest of it, are old and faded, still bearing the marking of a Sorcerer Supreme.
It sits there, motionless. Day in and day out. Sometimes it cries, silently.
The stories said that it was waiting. Waiting for time and all eternity.
Waiting for Stephen Strange to come home.