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He was alone.
The Ancient One was dead. Mordo had left for parts unknown in order to follow his own path, whatever that was. Wong had returned to Kamar-Taj; students needed to be trained, two Sanctums needed to have new Masters instated, and, Stephen supposed, books needed to be sorted and late returns, punished (whatever that punishment might, in fact, look like; he had never found out).
All of which left Stephen Strange currently by himself in the New York Sanctum as its Master, in the wake of the near-destruction of this world. No, he corrected himself, not just of this world. Of all the worlds in this whole fucking dimension. It boggled the mind.
He sincerely doubted that the trick he had pulled to save them all would work a second time. He sincerely hoped that he would never have to find out, but that was probably a forlorn hope. Dormammu hadn’t struck him as the type who took defeat lying down.
So. The dust had settled. Here they were, a handful of Masters of the Mystic Arts that had survived the zealots and a dozen or so adepts, with no more Sorcerer Supreme to teach them or call the shots, the first and last line of defense against beings like Dormammu. Looking out of Agamotto’s window at a New York blissfully unaware of any of that, Stephen wondered where he had found the confidence, no, the audacity, to tell Wong that they would manage. At the moment, he certainly didn’t feel like managing anything.
Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was becoming aware of a million aches and pains from having been thrown around, been nearly killed, been forced to use his damaged hands in ways they really were no longer capable of (he’d have to check for new damage to the tendons when he had a minute, the pain he was currently in would certainly account for that), and been forced to use barely mastered mystic abilities against overwhelming odds. He could not remember ever having felt any more drained than he did now, and that was coming from someone who had spent a considerable part of his life in an operating theater performing the odd 12-hour life-and-death op.
But he was sure that, as soon as he closed his eyes, he’d be back in the Dark Dimension, getting killed over and over again in every possible way. So, sleep was not an option.
In fact, the memories were beginning to affect his waking state. Even the Cloak seemed to sense his shivers as it settled more snugly about him.
Turning away from the window, he found the empty house staring back at him, with its magical artifacts in their cases (those that were still whole), the debris from the battles that had raged here scattered everywhere, and even traces of blood on the floor. Some of that was his.
He shuddered more violently. Some tea would be good now, someone to talk to, maybe even a hot bath, comfort food, anything to drive the chills away and distract him from his thoughts. And all that, preferably, not here.
But he could not just leave. He was this Sanctum’s Master. This was a position of trust, with more responsibility than he’d ever had in his life, if infinitely less glamorous.
Well, he’d turned his back on glamor, hadn’t he? Also, he’d better damned well suck it up, stop pitying himself, and start making this house his new home. After all, there was a pretty good chance he’d be spending the rest of his life in it.
Wong looked at him with unvoiced disapproval. “When was the last time you slept, Strange?” he asked, his gentle voice in stark contrast to his stern features.
Stephen shrugged. “No idea. C’mon, just give me the book.”
Wong didn’t move. “They may be simple spells, but still, learning and using them will take a little concentration, which is more than you can currently muster. Come back when you’re rested.”
“Don’t give me that, Madonna. It’s a battlefield over there. I can’t possibly just go to sleep with the place looking like that. I need to do some cleaning up first, and I’m not doing it the mundane way.” He held up his trembling hands by way of explanation.
Wong let his stony expression speak for him.
But Stephen had heard him laugh, so the act wasn’t working anymore. “Hey, how hard can it be, learning a few simple housekeeping spells? I’ll just need a cleaning spell and a repairing one. Nothing fancy. It’s not like I’m going to be turning back time again or anything.” Even through his bone-deep fatigue and lingering shock, Stephen was aware that he was beginning to sound a little hysterical, so he shut himself up.
Wong looked at him, and his expression softened. This, more than anything, told Stephen that Wong had seen through him. “Come with me,” he said, and turned to leave the library.
Confused, Stephen followed. “Uh, the books are over there,” he pointed out, but they were already moving towards the door to the New York Sanctum.
Wong ignored him.
Then they were back in New York. Wong took a look around, sighed deeply, and set to work. Stephen watched him mend things and clean surfaces, both eager to learn and to keep his mind busy, but Wong wasn’t voicing his incantations, so it would be impossible to pick up the spells just by observing, or at least not without they aid of telepathy, and he hadn’t quite managed that one yet.
Finally, Stephen felt the blackness he had been fighting back all this time encroach upon him; he barely managed to lean forward to put his hands on his knees and prevent blacking out.
Wong was there immediately. Wordlessly, he took Stephen’s elbow and led him along a corridor and through a door at the end of it into, as it turned out, a full suite containing a small living room, bathroom, and bedroom.
Pointing at the bed, Wong said, “This is where you will stay for the next twelve hours, Stephen. If I catch you outside that door during that time, I promise you will regret it.”
Stephen sat down heavily on the bed. “Again with the threats, Liberace,” he quipped, but his heart wasn’t in it. He really felt like shit. All he wanted was sleep.
Wong didn’t dignify his remark with a reply, instead, he gently pushed Stephen horizontal.
He felt himself sinking back, eyes closing, not even caring that he was fully dressed, complete with his boots. The cloak draped itself over him like the world’s most willful comforter, further lulling him to sleep.
Still, he resisted, dragging his eyes open and trying to sit back up. He would have succeeded, too, if the cloak hadn’t held him down.
Wong noticed and glared at him. “Stephen, I swear…”
“I can’t go to sleep,” Stephen said, not liking how plaintive he sounded.
“Yes, you can,” Wong said. “I will stand watch in your stead. No master is expected to guard his Sanctum twenty-four hours a day.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t go to sleep. If I do, I’ll…” He trailed off. It sounded pathetic even in his head. He couldn’t say it out loud.
“Dream?” Wong completed the sentence, sounding neither condescending nor amused, to Stephen’s surprise. No, he sounded positively alarmed.
This, in turn, alarmed Stephen. “Yes…?”
“Did you ever suffer from bad dreams before all this happened?” Wong wanted to know.
Stephen frowned. “Everyone has bad dreams sometimes, right?” At Wong’s glare, he went on, “Yeah, occasionally, especially after the crash. Sometimes even before that. But… Dormammu… dying over and over again…. My mind has a whole new bag of tricks to pull on me now.”
“You confronted and defeated the dread lord of the Dark Dimension in his own realm,” Wong said with an undertone of dawning realization. “The lords of other realms will be aware of you now. Your dreams are no longer just dreams. You were right to be hesitant about going to sleep, and I was remiss in my duties by not informing you.”
Well, that sounded ominous. “Informing me of what?”
“Of the Dream Dimension and its lord, Nightmare.” Stephen could hear the capitalization in the tone of Wong’s voice.”He receives his power from people’s dreams. Certain unlucky individuals will be brought to and held captive in his realm in their sleep. I’d say you’re a prime target now, Stephen.”
Stephen stared at him. “That’s -” he began.
“I will teach you how to protect yourself,” Wong continued before Stephen could figure out what he’d been trying to say. “But first, you need to sleep. I will keep you out of Nightmare’s reach for now.”
“You’ll keep the bad dreams away,” Stephen said, smiling to himself. But despite the quip, he was touched by Wong’s unconditional willingness to help him. There weren’t many people who would do something like that for him. “Thank you, Wong.”
Wong inclined his head, acknowledging Stephen’s use of his real name with a brief raising of his eyebrows. “No need to thank me. Doctor .”
Still smiling, Stephen felt himself falling asleep, and this time, he didn’t fight it.
He drifted awake. Opening his eyes, he found the room darkened, but not pitch black. He could see the outline of a man sitting on a stool next to his bed, eyes open, vigilant. Wong.
He hadn’t dreamed at all, his first truly dreamless sleep in ages.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse from what must have been hours of disuse.
“Does it matter?” came Wong’s voice out of the near darkness.
“I suppose not,” Stephen admitted. Time, he had learned, was relative.
He realized that, although he was still covered and kept warm by the Cloak of Levitation, he was not wearing his robes, and the boots had somehow come off as well.
Dr. Stephen Strange, neurosurgeon, would have made a fuss, might possibly have threatened to sue for this violation of his privacy. Doctor Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts, merely said, “Thanks, Wong. For everything.”
It was a start. He hoped that the Ancient One, wherever she was now, approved.