Chapter Text
The snow was falling on Bleecker Street when Peter Parker stood in front of 177A for the first time since the spell. Since the world forgot him.
Since he became nobody.
His finger hovered over the doorbell. He'd died in this building—or would have, if Stephen hadn't been there. He'd fought here, bled here, watched the
multiverse tear itself apart in the sky above this roof. And now Stephen Strange doesn’t know his name.
So why are you here? Peter asked himself. He didn't have an answer.
He pressed the doorbell.
The door opened on its own, the ancient wood swinging inward with a creak that sounded almost... welcoming. Peter hesitated on the threshold. He could hear movement inside, the rustle of fabric, footsteps on the grand staircase.
"Hello?" Peter called out, his voice smaller than he intended.
Stephen Strange appeared at the top of the stairs, the Cloak of Levitation billowing behind him even though there was no wind. He looked exactly as Peter remembered—sharp cheekbones, the white streaks in his hair, those intense eyes that seemed to see through everything. But there was no
recognition in them. No warmth. Just mild curiosity and a hint of wariness.
"Can I help you?" Stephen asked, descending the stairs with practiced grace despite the tremor in his hands.
Peter's heart clenched. He'd prepared for this. He knew Stephen wouldn't remember. But standing here, looking up at the man who'd saved him, who'd sacrificed so much to keep him safe, and seeing nothing but polite distance...
"I—" Peter swallowed hard. "I'm interested in the mystic arts. I heard you might take on students?"
It was a terrible lie. Stephen's eyebrow arched skeptically.
"Did you." It wasn't a question. Stephen reached the bottom of the stairs and studied Peter with an intensity that made him want to squirm. "And who told you that? I don't advertise."
"I just—I've seen you. Fighting. Protecting the city." Peter scrambled for something believable. "I want to help. I want to learn."
Stephen's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "You've seen me fight."
"The thing in the sky. A few weeks ago. With all the—" Peter gestured vaguely.
"The portals and the people coming through. I was there. I helped evacuate some civilians."
This, at least, was true. Even if Stephen didn't remember Peter being at the center of it all.
Stephen was quiet for a long moment, studying him. Peter had the uncomfortable feeling of being x-rayed, of having every secret laid bare. Then the
Cloak of Levitation did something unexpected—it floated forward and brushed against Peter's shoulder, almost like a cat rubbing against someone's leg.
Stephen's eyes widened fractionally. "Interesting."
"Is it... is that normal?" Peter asked, watching the Cloak circle around him.
"No." Stephen's voice was soft, almost puzzled. "No, it's not. The Cloak doesn't usually take to strangers." He paused. "What's your name?"
"Peter. Peter Parker."
"Peter Parker." Stephen repeated the name slowly, like he was tasting it, testing it. A line appeared between his eyebrows. "That's... strange."
Peter's pulse quickened. "What is?"
"Nothing. A sense of déjà vu." Stephen shook his head, as if clearing it. "I don't take students, Peter Parker. The path of the mystic arts is dangerous,
and I have enough to handle protecting this reality without adding untrained—"
"Please." The word burst out before Peter could stop it. "I don't have anywhere else to go."
It was too honest. Too raw. Peter saw Stephen's expression shift, the hardness cracking just slightly.
"You're young," Stephen said quietly.
"I'm nineteen."
"That's young." Stephen sighed, the Cloak returning to rest on his shoulders. It seemed almost agitated, tugging at him. "I'm not equipped to mentor
someone. I'm barely equipped to handle my own responsibilities."
"I'm not asking for much. Just—let me help around the Sanctum. I can organize, research, whatever you need. I'm good at science, I can learn magic,
I just—"
Peter's voice cracked. "I need somewhere to belong."
The words hung in the air between them. Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts, studied this strange young man who'd
appeared on his doorstep, and Peter could see the moment he gave in. The softening around his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders.
"Two weeks," Stephen said. "Trial period. You help Wong with the library organization. If you prove trustworthy, we'll discuss further arrangements.
But I'm not promising anything."
"Thank you," Peter breathed. "Thank you so much, I won't—"
"Don't thank me yet. Wong is very particular about his library." Stephen turned back toward the stairs. "Come back tomorrow. Nine AM. Don't be late."
"I won't. I promise. Thank you, Dr. Strange, I—"
"Stephen." The word was quiet, almost reluctant. Stephen paused on the stairs, not looking back. "Call me Stephen."
Peter's breath caught. It felt like a gift, that small permission.
"Thank you, Stephen."
Stephen didn't respond, just continued up the stairs, the Cloak trailing behind him. But just before he disappeared from view, Peter could have sworn
he saw the Cloak turn and give what looked like a thumbs up.
Peter left the Sanctum feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He didn't know why he'd come here, what he was hoping to find. But as he walked
through the snow-covered streets of Greenwich Village, he felt something that had been absent since the spell.
Hope.