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He hasn’t had a moment to rest since banishing the Dark Dimension from Hong Kong, and to be honest he's welcomed the distraction. As it turns out, there is a great deal of pomp and circumstance involved in officially naming Stephen Strange as Master of the New York Sanctum, and throughout all of it the absence of the Ancient One is a constant, nagging sting. He can feel the awkward pauses, the silences where she should have been in a ceremony like this. They make do without a Sorcerer Supreme, but it isn’t right. Just when he needs her guidance the most, now that he's finally set out on the path she’d envisioned for him, the Ancient One is gone. And Mordo - Mordo who believed in Stephen Strange when no one else did, who took Stephen’s impossible sacrifice and threw it in his face - his betrayal aches, because he'd grown to consider the man a friend. He should be angry, he thinks, but he's just tired.
He distracts himself for a while, repairing the damage done to the New York Sanctum when it had been attacked by Kaecilius. Wong helps when his duties at the library allow, and the man’s quiet, solid companionship is something of a balm. He tries not to think of Wong’s body, battered and broken under the rubble, before time had walked him backward into life. Stephen wonders what he remembers, almost asks him, but holds back. Wong has not asked him for the details about what happened in the Dark Dimension, after all. The least he can do is return the favor. The closest they come to talking about it is the look Wong gives him, just before he returns to Kamar-taj, when Stephen tells him he's okay. It's piercing and compassionate, and Stephen has to look away.
“Even a master must rest, Stephen Strange,” the man tells him, before walking away into the portal.
He’s left with nothing to distract him from the fact that it’s over, and he is tired, and he is alone.
Rest, Wong had said, but that isn’t easy. He goes to bed and wakes scant hours later with the Cloak of Levitation wrapped around him like a cocoon. It must have moved of its own accord again - he’d left it hanging in midair beside his wardrobe - but he can't bring himself to push it away. His body is shaking, his own words ringing in his ears - Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain!
--No. He shakes his head as if that will clear it of the images, so vivid that he’s afraid he'll forget they aren't real if he dwells on them for long. It feels as if part of him is still there, dying, impaled and bleeding out in a hostile, alien dimension. And Dormammu is still out there, and a thousand and one things like him and worse, and Stephen has deliberately placed himself between them and Earth. A frail, pitiful defense he feels, wrapped shuddering in the slight protection of his own cloak, incapacitated by his own nightmare, and he wishes heartily for the relative simplicity of a medical career. But he can't leave now, knowing what he knows. It would be unconscionable. Wong would be dead, so many would be dead if you hadn't been there, he thinks, and that helps, a little.
Sleep is hard-won and fitful in those long nights after Stephen has taken his place in the Sanctum, and he takes to leaving his body behind to let it rest while his mind remains conscious and unmolested by nightmares. He finds himself often spending those nights hovering in incorporeal form over his bed, composing emails to Christine in his mind that he knows he'll never write, let alone send. It's not much better than the alternative, but he can't seem to stop. A few days after the battle in Hong Kong she finally sends him an email, demanding answers and wondering, hoping that he is all right. And he can't quite find the words to answer her.
A week passes in solitude; Stephen studies, trains, explores the magical artifacts stored in the Sanctum, anything to keep his mind off what has happened. He’s exhausted, and he’s starting to suspect that his body is not getting the rest it should while he’s astral projecting, but he’d woken himself up with his own screams the last time he tried to get a proper night’s sleep, and the habit of projecting has become a defense mechanism. He is in his study trying to keep himself from nodding off at his desk when the Sanctum wards alert him that someone is at the door.
And whatever he’d expected, it’s… not this. Wong is at the door, and next to him, Christine. He stares at them, blinks, and wonders if he’s hallucinating thanks to sleep deprivation. “Well, this is a surprise,” he manages, finally.
“First,” Wong says, without preamble, “just because you’re the master of a Sanctum now does not mean you should be neglecting your training. Second, I’ve had to warn your friend here about drawing attention to herself. She’s been making a lot of noise trying to find you, Strange.”
“Christine…?” Stephen turns to her, still too befuddled to react clearly. She takes a quick step forward as if to reach out for him, then stops short, thinking better of it.
“I’ve been worried sick,” she hisses. “Stephen, what on earth have you been doing? You show up at the hospital out of literal nowhere , once at death’s door, and then… nothing? Really? You couldn’t have at least taken the time out of your busy schedule to let me know you’re alive?”
“I’m… sorry,” Stephen mutters. He’s not even going to try to make excuses for that. “I couldn’t… couldn’t think what to say to you. And after what happened… it’s dangerous, Christine, I don’t want to get you involved.”
“Well, you’ve involved me.” She crosses her arms. “Twice. And I think you owe me an explanation.”
He sighs deeply, feeling a headache coming. “Well, you might as well come inside. Both of you.”
He ushers them both inside. Christine stops short just inside the doorway, eyes wide with wonder as she looks around the entry to the Sanctum. “You live here now?”
“Yes. It’s… a long story. Tea?”
They both assent to that, so Stephen leads them to the kitchen. Before they reach it, however, a sudden dizzy spell overtakes him and he has to stop, bowing his head and shutting his eyes tightly for a moment. Christine looks concerned.
“Stephen?”
Wong frowns at him. “How long has it been since you last slept?”
“I sleep every night,” Stephen protests. “I’ve just been - I’ve just been studying most nights, using astral projection. My body is still…”
Wong turns his eyes skyward in exasperation. “You are a never-ending fount of bad ideas, Strange,” he says. “Your body is still connected to your mind . No wonder you look like you’re about to faint. Never mind the tea, you need to sleep .”
“You can’t order me around,” Stephen says indignantly, trying to cling to the last shreds of his pride in spite of the throbbing pressure increasing in his skull. “I’m not a novice anymore. This is my Sanctum.”
“He’s right,” Christine tells him sternly. “Look at yourself, Stephen! Go to bed. We can talk when you’re more rested.”
Panic starts to set in at the thought of what will come along with proper sleep. “No, I--”
They’re not having any of it. Stephen finds himself grabbed by the arm and forcibly marched to his bedchamber by Wong, Christine following closely behind. He can feel the cloak move of its own accord and thinks for a minute that it’s going to try to push Wong off of him, but all it does is help usher him along. “Traitor,” he mutters under his breath.
He sinks down on the edge of the bed, sagging under the weight of his own exhaustion. “To be honest, I… I haven’t been able to sleep without projecting. Not well, at any rate. After everything that’s happened…”
Christine’s brow furrows. They're both watching him with concern, and he wants to snap back against the worry he sees in their eyes, but he hasn't the energy.
“You should have told me,” she says. “I could have prescribed you something.”
“It's not just…”
“Strange, you did something few sorcerers have ever been capable of, and fewer still would dare attempt,” Wong says gently. “It's not shameful that you need time to recover after that. Any of us would.”
Stephen buries his head in his hands, dragging aching fingers through his hair. “Do you know how many times I died in there, Wong?” he says quietly, and doesn't wait for an answer even as he hears Christine’s sharp gasp. “Neither do I. Because I lost count. All I want is just-- just--” His voice breaks off, and for a moment there's only the sound of his ragged breathing. Then Christine sits next to him on the bed, her face set in a stubborn expression he knows well.
“I won’t pretend to understand what you’re facing, Stephen,” she says. “I want to, but I don’t. But don’t - don’t ever think you have to go through this alone. You have me, you have your--” She glances uncertainly at Wong. “Whoever they are. Cult.”
“We’re not a cult,” Stephen protests, and hears Wong give a soft snort that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“She is right, you know,” he says. “You are one of us. We are stronger together, and the Ancient One knew that.” A pause as the other sorcerer’s brow furrows. “And that is something Mordo forgot, but you’re still here.”
His former friend’s name stings. Stephen winces. “I trusted him, you know,” he says in a small voice.
“So did we all.” Wong puts one hand on Stephen’s shoulder and squeezes briefly. “Get some rest. I will stay to look after the Sanctum while you sleep. If nightmares trouble you, I know a spell to set the mind at ease.”
“Thank you,” Stephen mumbles, staring at the floor.
Wong leaves Stephen sitting on the bed with Christine beside him. She looks at him, lips tight. “You died?” she says quietly.
Stephen nods slowly. “It was a time loop. The being that was trying to take Earth… I trapped him. But he killed me… must have been hundreds of times… before I was able to convince him to leave the Earth alone.” He swallows, his mouth dry, hoping she won’t notice how his voice shakes. He has studiously avoided even thinking about what happened in the time loop until now; talking about it is dragging those memories to the front of his mind again.
She stares at him, the haunted look in his eyes and the way his hands are balled up in the cape at his sides. “Hundreds of times,” she echoes softly.
Stephen shrugs carelessly. “You don’t have to believe me. But it happened. It was real. I remember… everything.” He can’t suppress a shudder, forcing back unwanted thoughts. “I knew I couldn’t stop him, but I could delay him. For an eternity, if necessary.”
Christine reaches over and gently lays her fingers on top of his shaking hand. “You really have changed,” she says.
“I hope so. I’m out of practice.”
“At what?”
“At being a good man.”
She squeezes his hand, very, very gently, then lets go. “Go to bed, Stephen,” she tells him. “It’ll be okay. You’re safe.”
And it’s amazing, Stephen thinks, how his friends’ presence manages to be more reassuring than all the ancient, powerful wards guarding the Sanctum. He’s been safe all this time, but for the first time, he believes it. The light touch of Christine’s fingers on his makes Dormammu feel very, very far away.
He doesn’t ask her to, but Christine stays with him until he’s fallen asleep. Maybe it’s Wong’s spell or maybe it’s the presence of people he trusts, but this time the Dark Dimension doesn’t creep into his dreams - just sleep, pure and restful, as the Cloak of Levitation wraps itself protectively around him.