Chapter Text
When Doctor Stephen Strange walks down into his dining room to the sight of steaming coffee, toasted bread, and poached eggs, he just sits down to dig in. After all, why would he suspect anything? It was neither common nor rare for Wong to have breakfast made in the morning. The man did get up awfully early. He was the Supreme, if someone had broken in, he would know; he also sincerely doubted that an enemy would be making breakfast for him.
Maybe on a different day, he would have recognized the silencing wards on the kitchen entrance. After three days of no sleep, one really can’t blame him for his oversight. So, he eats his eggs—made simply with just salt and pizza toppings sprinkled on top—a uncommon combination that Strange particularly enjoyed. Pizza topping perfectly flavored and balanced out the pungency of the runny yolks. Wong did consider the combination blasphemy. He wipes off the yoke with his toasted break and is halfway through the strong and flavorful coffee before he notices the person across him.
Chestnut skin, hazel eyes, black hair, dark mauve beanie, long straight black hair, a thumb-width white band painted across her face.
The good doctor doesn’t so much as startle. “Good morning, Zelma Stanton.”
The woman does flinch though. “You know who I am . . . ” she nods from side to side, “you foresaw this?”
Strange nods, “I am the keeper of time Zelma,” then takes another sip of coffee, “so, is this the part where you try to murder me?”
“Was it too much to hope for this to be easy?” her voice trails off.
The reaction is instant. You wouldn’t notice it unless you knew what to look for. But the coiled preparedness is back in Strange's heart, soul, and mind. This personable, calm, and somewhat mercurial man was the Sorcerer Supreme. The best of them all. One wrong breath, and she’d be incapacitated, two, and she’d be injured, three, and she really didn’t want to know what would happen.
Zelma doesn’t make any sudden moves; she is also quick to explain herself. “Just a joke Stephie, I’ve known you for decades now.”
The curiosity is back in his eyes. The preparedness relaxes, but not completely. She could probably hold out against him now. Victory itself would probably be a tall ask. “Decades huh? Didn’t really expect that.”
“I’m not the next Supreme.” She didn’t think she could bear to be. Her Stephen Strange was immune to death from age and disease, for her to succeed him would be to both grieve his death, and carry the burden of life. “I’m not reading your mind Stephie, I’ve known you for decades. Really.” She didn’t know if he was peeking into her thoughts or not, she wasn’t checking, but she kept her mental shielding down as a sign of trust. Her Supreme was a healthy amount of paranoid, she can’t remember if he was as paranoid this long ago. She doesn’t have an eidetic memory. She didn’t start using memory spells for at least another half a century.
The man laughs, warm and soprano. “Never said you were.”
It brings back fond memories. She smiles, “You were thinking it.”
He hums thoughtfully.
She takes another bite of her breakfast.
“So . . . Stephie?”
She was almost sure he was going to ask her why she was here, not that he was going to latch onto her innocuous nickname. Once upon a time, she would have rushed to answer. Stephen was a consummate trickster; all good sorcerers were to some degree. She couldn’t tell if it was an honest question, his way of being tactful, or an intentional curve-ball to throw her off balance, it could also be to simply surprise. With Stephie, you really couldn’t tell, he was sharp enough to make a decent prediction of what his friends would expect him to think. “For about a quarter century in between, you were a woman—Stephanie Vincent Strange, Sorceress Supreme,” Zelma wears an amused smile as she continues, “I used to call you Stephie.”
“And I just let everyone call me that?” He didn’t probably wasn’t even aware of his lone eyebrow flying into his hairline.
“No, just me, and your wife,” Zelma huffed, “I bargained my way to keeping the nickname because it was funny when people realized that Stephie was a man, and a well-respected doctor at that.” She knew he noticed her emphasis on the word ‘doctor,’ it was nice to be the one dropping cryptic hints for once.
He wisely doesn’t enquire about it like she would have. He simply settles for a rhetorical “Wife, huh?”
“Yeah, you were rather smitten.” Zelma can’t help but smile, goofy Stephen really was something.
“No spoilers, apprentice mine.”
These were fond memories for her. Stephen changed her life. She went from college student, to librarian, to teacher, to mystical warrior, to wise old monk, to a legendary mystic known and respected across the realm. She didn’t care much for the renown, it wasn’t worth the boot licking, but it did expand her horizons. It was all trial and tribulation, but now when she looks around, she sees so much more. She sees the potential of all things, the causal importance of it all, and Stephen Strange? He’s a shimmering kaleidoscope of shattered glass chaotically shattering and merging, vanishing and reappearing. It’s almost headache-inducing to so much as glimpse at him even after the five centuries she’s had to get used to these ‘shatterpoints’ as she likes to call them because of how they shatter and split the time-line. In her not so important opinion, that’s too much burden for one man to carry. She’s seen how it twisted her Stephie, how it took everything and then some more. It brought to mind a story her Stephen told her once, about how the ancient one had told her that he was supposed to be “the best of them all,” and how he didn’t know if that meant the best sorcerer supreme among all the past Supremes, or among all Supremes in the universe, or all Supremes across all of time, or all Supremes across the multiverse, or just a plain lie, or the ancient one’s personal conviction. Sometimes Zelma had to wonder whether Stephen became such an important touch-point in causality because he was always meant to be or whether he was trying to live up to expectations placed on his shoulders. Stephen basically spawned generations of mystical revolutionaries, and to that end, she owed almost everything she became to the man humming through breakfast across her.
“Do you know what day today is?” Stephen asks. The defensive preparedness still invisible but existing.
“Sunday?”
“And what day did we first meet?”
Zelma doesn’t remember but she’s willing to go out on a leg and make the most obvious guess, “Sunday?”
“And that means that you can’t be here when I invite college going magic skeptic Zelma when she comes in with the mind maggot infection.”
“So you were lying when you said that you’ve never seen a condition like mine before?” Zelma couldn’t ever forget that incident even if she tried. It’s what got her involved in this world of magic.
“I said that?”
She raises an unimpressed eyebrow in response.
“I probably meant that, I have dealt with mind maggot infestations before, but there probably was something unique about your situation.”
“Like—”
“No spoilers dear.” He has an amused smile ready for her.
She knew that he had only been the supreme for two years, and a sorcerer for seven years at this point if she was counting the five years he was dusted for. She knew that the smile and talk and blaise-ness was all for show. She’s seen him after he truly settled into the role with years on years of experience to back himself up. It’s a mantle that he wore better than even he could possibly ever imagine.