Chapter Text
I'm getting out, gonna write myself a new start
Come on, dry your eyes, meet me on the other side
Run as fast as you can and we'll make it out alive
We know better now, we don't have to live like this
Go tell them all we don't have to live like this
“Get Well”, Scripted by Icon for Hire
6:56pm his phone read, bright white numbers against a starry backdrop.
The electric razor clattered to the floor. His hands trembled, pain lancing up his fingers as he clutched the porcelain sink, but the pain was good for a moment, gave him something real to focus on. The sprinkles of facial hair washed away with the flowing tap but Stephen couldn't move to even shut it off. White noise was the only backdrop as he flinched from the mirror.
His eyes were glowing again. Sickly green instead of muted blue in those sunken sockets. In a blink it was gone and the tap was suddenly off, except he couldn't remember touching it.
He had never looked into the future beyond what he needed, the final snap. To see if Banner and then Stark were successful. To see if things had gone back to normal.
Nothing about this world was normal.
And the patch of overgrown beard he had managed to shave was back.
His phone, ever displaying the time, read 6:54 pm.
Between one blink and another, it displayed 7:05 pm. The only thing he had to grasp onto was the pain.
14,000,605 futures, but it was this one that was breaking him.
"Stephen? Stop hogging the bathroom."
Wong's voice made him suck in a breath, trying to wrangle enough focus to put away the forgotten razor, now unused. His heart thumped painfully against his ribs. "Alright, alright." The first to Wong, the second to himself.
He survived a thousand deaths and plagues of nightmares. He'd survive this too.
They had won after all.
Over 14 million chances for them to lose, to do one wrong move, before and after, and yet they had managed to follow through. They had the best ending.
Hope thrummed on this revived Earth, but even the reverse of Thanos' destruction couldn't just fix it. People died of natural causes in those years, leaving blipped children to arrive orphaned. Relationships broke and moved on. Human greed prevented plenty from reaching their already delivered inheritance or locked finances, legally dead until the governments and lawyers could argue it out. Entire neighborhoods needed to be demolished and rebuilt with limited functioning equipment, cranes left to rust, oil rigs retired. Nature had happily taken root.
In the end, Thanos' prediction of limited resources was likely to become a reality. To exist as 3.5 billion for five years only for the population to explode again, there were food shortages already. The human ability to turn a blind eye to stressors, if kept just happy enough, would have them limping on. On Stark brand prosthetics, he thought, rather hysterically.
Until the stress finally burst.
But the universe tended to right itself, over time. He just didn't know how many new sacrifices they'd have to make.
While depressing, it wasn't quite enough to make Stephen crack. He was just… so tired. There was still so much to be done and only time enough to do it.
Time enough…
***
Things had started off quickly when it came to him losing track. It was the day of the funeral.
He had watched as the young Morgan Stark and barely holding it together Virginia Stark laid the wreath and reactor in the water and gave it a light push. They stood, Morgan in her mother's arms, and walked away from the edge.
Stephen had bowed his head, closed his eyes, and opened them to the pair releasing another wreath.
Except there was only one floating alone in the lake.
It was easy to dismiss that unsettled feeling as deja vu, to assume the guilt and exhaustion was playing tricks on him. And even in light of new evidence, he had no doubt that guilt still played a role in it all.
He wasn't trapped in the loop again, he wasn't in Hong Kong. While the nightmares still featured Dormammu plenty, more recently they just played Stark's face- petrified on Titan, resolved acceptance on Earth.
The screams.
It wasn't only Stark of course. He saw the fear in young Mantis' eyes, the choked sobs of Peter Parker, of Quill's pain and anger.
He had never seen the in-between years directly, the points where he had no reference because he wasn't alive to bear witness to it, didn't know who exactly was. Some futures featured running, with the time stone in hand, sometimes even with the leftover Guardians’ assistance. Some faded immediately after he vanished, Nebula too injured to help Stark reach Earth. Sometimes the titan stabbed Stark too high, or killed Spiderman in the scuffle. Both lead to similar outcomes. Stark could go on only if there was hope the boy could come back.
Sleep was a trivial thing in comparison. The nightmares were terrible but at least he was alive to have them, right?
I had to be worth it, right?
A week would pass, he'd barely be functioning. His favorite pastime was turning into 'stare at a wall and try to control your breathing'. Wong was a blessing, navigating dimensional issues and protecting the Sanctum. He had run it for five years without help, he didn't need Stephen. And Stephen tried not to let Wong hear his breath stutter on the bad days. His friend didn't deserve even more burdens.
Another memorial went up in Central Park, just north of the playgrounds on the south side. The Avengers were there in official capacity, missing key faces, but no one was going to shoo the fugitives away anymore. Stephen stood in the crowd in normal clothing. Peter Parker was also in attendance, hidden in the throng with his friends, looking uncomfortable. The memorial itself was rather tacky, commissioned in a relative hurry. It featured a partially unmasked Iron Man, except there was just enough off on it that legally Stark Industries chose to stay out of it. Tony Stark hadn't been in the ground for even a month. Stephen wasn't sure if the newly minted mayor was helping her approval ratings or not.
The ribbon wouldn't stay cut.
Stephen tried not to blink, he witnessed it loop in a haze of green exactly eight times before the ceremonial scissors closed fully.
It took all his will power not to vomit and flee.
Two months since his resurrection, five weeks since the ceremony, he had experienced two more simple loops. Food reappeared on his plate several times until his taste buds dried up. Eating had become a chore anyway.
The bird wasn't as obvious, and that chipped him a little more harshly. The robin had been stuck on the balcony only ten feet or so away. It sung the same five notes over and over again. Stephen only realized it for the last thirty minutes- he couldn't be sure how long it had been before his mind tuned back on to reality.
Two days later, he sat at the small kitchen table. The cloak clung to him, almost child-like in its rough squeezing, and Stephen couldn't bring himself to care if it hurt. It was a comfort he wasn't willing to give up as he struggled to process Wong's chatter. He was so tired. "They want to convene now?"
"The council had to make temporary revisions while you were gone." Wong sighed, looking more serious than annoyed but Stephen hadn't quite mastered the difference. Either way the look on his face wasn't unkind. "You were hardly the only sorcerer to be dusted. We were lucky plenty of Masters were left to continue on and bolster the wards."
Not that the wards had mattered, really, Stephen thought bitterly. "I'm surprised they didn't appoint anyone in my stead." He wished they had.
"They were tempted." Wong narrowed his eyes. Irritation, though Stephen didn’t think it was aimed at him. "Perhaps more so since, learning of how Thanos got the time stone."
Sorcerer Supreme indeed. Supposedly it was the act of him giving the stone away that led to Banner being able to convince the Ancient One of the past to temporarily give up her own. She had thought him that important...
He ran a twitching hand across his eyes. His head ached, the haze was back.
The clock read 3:46 am.
Stephen looked like a vagrant, only two months and some days after order was restored. Two months after being stored away in the soul stone bearing wounds of his battle on Titan but otherwise prim and proud and functioning. It wasn't quite to the extent of his miserable time just before heading to Kathmandu, but then, he physically hadn't been able to clean himself up.
He could now. He didn't want to.
The length of his hair and the messiness of his beard were a testament to time ultimately moving forward even if his mind told him the minutes were rolling back again.
He wondered if they were going to remove the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme from him. Why couldn't they have just done it years ago? Or immediately after he came back? He wouldn't even protest. He was drained, tired. Overextended.
He just wanted to sleep, to dream something he hadn't seen before.
The pair stepped through the permanent door to Kamar Taj, Wong ahead of him, leading him as if Stephen forgot where the meeting chambers were. It was a breath of fresh air to his ache. He hadn't been there since just before the funeral, to check in. He’d notice if his mind tried to undo a whole two months, surely? He wasn't even in his robes, like that day, just brown slacks, tennis shoes, and an old blue hooded sweatshirt. His hands were tucked into its front pocket even as the cloak wrapped itself forward on his thin frame, hiding most of it from view. He'd look like some college LARPer if not for his age.
Stark would have had jokes aplenty.
It was bright, sun high, drastically different from that previous visit in the late night. He could do this. He could focus.
Except he stood again once more, trembling, in the bathroom. The style was different from the New York Sanctum, warmer, more wood, less brass and Stephen carefully avoided looking in the mirror. This wasn't yet a loop, but it could be.
The cloak floated outside the door like a sentry while Stephen tried to wait out the nausea. It didn't take long for him to end up sitting on the floor, arms braced against bent knees. His scars seemed to visibly pulse, sickly green on red lines and pasty skin. He couldn't tear his eyes away.
Eventually the color faded, just an afterimage in his eyes and he couldn't even be sure if that wasn't all it was. The sight of red colors often burned temporary greens into the cones. Sight was rarely clean. The little floaters in his eyes from their formation distracted him from the outward. The wooden walls were just a blur of brown and worn orange paints.
He refused to check his phone. He was still on the floor, if he looped it was only a minute worth. It was fine. A minute didn't matter much in his current state. He didn't even know the time before to properly compare.
He tilted his head back against the wooden wall with a deep sigh, desperate to let the breath pull from him all his frustrations and tension. He stared unseeing at the ceiling until the light burned and he was forced to shut his eyes.
***
He opened them to a canopy of trees.
Panic wasn't the first thing to take him, just confusion. He couldn't recall the last time his back had simply leaned against the rough bark of a tree.
His breath stuttered once he realized he couldn't put this moment into context. A noise he didn't recognize came from his throat. One hand clutched at his own face and it felt so distant, the touch barely registered.
There was nothing recent. It could only have been years ago, but even then would he have ever just… sat there, in the breeze? The distinctly chilled breeze. He shivered.
It didn't resemble Columbia and he had never studied outside, too much noise that he had no control over. Too little control in general. There wasn't time for this. He needed…
He needed to get his bearings before the panic paralyzed him.
The world was blurring at the edges of his vision and he clutched at his knees hard enough to make the pins in his knuckles sting. Tears only made the sight worse.
Noise finally started to break down in his ears, high pitched, laughter. He couldn't actually see much from his position, surrounded by tree trunks and snow-covered bushes, sitting on the damp bare dirt where little sun could filter through.
Stephen struggled to stand, leaning heavily on the trunk for support even as his other hand worked to find his phone deep in his slacks.
It wasn't there. Neither was his sling ring. Did he have them in the bathroom? He had never actually looked at his phone while in there… but he needed the clock. He needed to see.
“Don’t overthink,” he whispered as if that were possible. His brain was always on high alert. His thoughts were normally fast but now they were speedy, illogical, and unhelpful. “Focus.” Except he couldn't risk tunnel vision.
Blood rushed past his ears.
His eyes finally deigned to swim into focus and he found himself staring at a park. Jungle gyms. Brightly colored winter coats.
And beyond the mostly naked trees the familiar skyline of New York, of Manhattan.
“Central Park,” he muttered to himself, uncaring as parents watched him with caution. A mere bum emerging from his sleeping hole, Stephen thought, only a little unhinged. He quashed down the temptation to giggle out loud. He might be going insane but they hardly needed more proof.
Stephen still couldn't slot this moment in his timelines, any of them, but he took note-
No memorials.
No gouges in the soil.
It was unspoiled but for the footprints in the snow.
He turned away, feet immediately hitting the paths on autopilot until he passed under the Dipway Arch (each crunch of salt under his shoes causing him to flinch) and caught sight of the carriages. His breath stuttered into a visible plume again.
Gleaming next to the other skyscrapers, hovering above many buildings in the distance, all curling edges and swooping designs was Stark Tower, all letters present.
He needed a date.
It didn't take long in New York to find some sort of clock, one just had to keep walking. A bank proudly displayed in red LEDs, with their blinking diodes, that the time was 3:54pm on Friday, January 15th 2016.
Stephen's head swam and he nearly swooned where he stood.
He wasn't in New York that day. He should be in Seattle, if the surges back were going to taunt him. He was at a conference right now and in two weeks time he…
Stephen kept walking, mind blank and eyes unseeing. It didn't matter much in Manhattan. Crowds always lightly bumped each other, always moved in a thin flow. His thighs burned over time and his hands chilled painfully, titanium pins happily going cold. Greenwich Village wasn't far by New York standards.
What else had been going on during this period? Stephen the surgeon had been entirely absorbed in himself at the time. Soon he’d be locked into his own problems, the crash, the endless painful surgeries. He didn't pay attention to the Avengers at all then. Even during his training at Kamar Taj in the months following it was generally presented that Sorcerers were above their squabbles. The Avengers dealt with more domestic threats. They were already scattered, with the Order only vaguely paying attention to them, by the time Stephen was Sorcerer Supreme. The miscellaneous threats beaten down in Africa and Asia as the Rogues traipsed the only evidence they were still working.
By the Vishanti, such arrogance. And at that point he wasn’t entirely sure who he was more angry at.
A display tv caught his eye and he saw the words Sokovia Accords in bold. The UN meeting in Vienna soon.
“Cap and I fell out hard. We're not on speaking terms.”
This wasn't the remnants of Time playing with him. This wasn't a gap in his memory. This was calculated.
Only 20 minutes more, he’d be at the Sanctum. He could consider the ramifications then.
***
The doors wouldn't open to him. They don't recognize him.
It was the straw that finally broke him.
He sat on the stoop curled up tight on ice-cold cement and sobbed.
***
It felt like hours, like seconds. Realistically it was only minutes that were, thankfully, obeying the flow of time properly. Stephen never saw a person repeat.
No one even glanced at him when he finally lifted his head, hood pulled all the way up to give him a little bit of childish security and the barest warmth. It didn't much matter. Even without the doors open the concealing charms made him invisible from the sidewalk.
A cool feeling brushed along his spine, and he felt her long before he heard her voice. The door didn't even creak. He sighed.
“You’re early, and a little misplaced, I think.”
The tension in his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally and he wiped the tears away with his shaking fingers. “Master,” he sighed, looking up.
Her eyes were wide, shocked.
She had hair. She had hair .
“Perhaps more than a little misplaced,” she said, but the shock had vanished from her dark eyes and she glanced out over the streets. The platinum hair on her head matched the eyebrows and near-invisible eyelashes he remembered her having. It was cropped short, utilitarian much like Wong's had been. Her robes were the same style, same shades of yellow and orange, and a folding fan was clasped in her palm. “We should continue inside.” She pivoted back in on her heel, door left open invitingly.
The inside was identical to his own, but for minor changes- things he might have excused as just being moved later under normal circumstances but the Ancient One had been bald as long as anyone remembered. He had asked. He distinctly remembered asking.
A memory of Stark leaning against the Cauldron of the Cosmos flitted through his mind, but now it was twelve feet left of where it should have been.
"Tea?" The Ancient One of his memory never sat, so domestically, in an armchair. She preferred floor pillows and mats. Yet here she was sinking into the plush brocade chair, and gesturing him to its match.
Stephen could only nod, mouth dry and throat tight as he sunk down into the chair. He knew these chairs. Between one blink and the next the teapot and cups had appeared on the long coffee table he had never seen before. That, at least, was just magic.
“You’ve never seen this,” he finally said after wetting his mouth down with fresh tea and holding onto his own words to keep himself going. The cup shook as he clutched it, tethered himself to the moment. He had his time to break, he needed answers.
“This possibility is not one I’ve seen, no.” But she didn't seem particularly bothered by it, face as serene as ever. Smooth and ageless. “And yet it exists, against all others.” She paused, took a sip and noiselessly placed cup to plate. “Vincent-"
His breath stuttered in his lungs again. “Stephen.”
She blinked, seemingly unaware of how close he was creeping to a panic attack, but he doubted it. “Oh? Interesting.” The tiniest squint of her brows as she stared at him. “The Dr. Strange of this world is Vincent Stephen Strange.”
“Of course he is.” Mother had mentioned it once or twice, how she couldn't decide which order she wanted, and how she quite literally picked his name from a hat. Little Stephen Vincent Strange. “And he’s destined to have an accident in two weeks time?” As long as he could force the words out he'd be fine.
“He is.”
His mouth was suddenly dry again, rolling it all over in his head. His heart was beating too fast. But he needed to voice it. “This isn't my universe.”
She tilted her head a fraction, the ghost of a smile on her lips, only blocked by the fine china. “And you didn't intend to come here.”
His cup clattered loudly as his shaking made it impossible to set down in a careful manner. “How do I get back?”
She was silent, giving little away after centuries of erasing all her tells, little bits of emotion. Stephen scrambled for the simple adjusting of her brow, trying to find any sliver of hope. “Dimensional travel requires knowledge, energy, and intent. Traveling through the branches of the multiverse is quite… different. Difficult.”
He huffed humorlessly, his vision swimming. "I suppose I am due a vacation." Ultimately, did it make much difference? He had been hoping for a reprieve, another miracle, in his own world. Did it matter if he just suffered here?
Without his Wong, without his Cloak.
A cold realization slithered through his bones. There was a Cloak of Levitation here, likely upstairs in a glass case. Destined to be worn by this Vincent Strange.
The insane part of his mind quietly wondered why it couldn’t be his. Why he, perhaps, couldn't just fill in this Strange’s place, stop the accident. Steal away this pleasant world for the few years he'd have.
Relive the existential nightmares he knew was coming.
I’ve come to bargain…
The stone for his life…
“You’re welcome to a room upstairs in the meantime.” She sliced through his spiraling thoughts so neatly. He sucked in a quick breath, nearly gasping aloud, but she paid him no mind as she stood. “I’ll inform Master Drumm of your stay. Perhaps when you are feeling more settled, I’ll bring you to Kamar Taj.”
“Thank you.”
“And Stephen?” She paused before the stairs and he helplessly followed. “Do not stress about preserving the timeline you know.”
His being here had already changed things, even if he hid away forever.
It almost sounded like permission, and if he had been in a better state he might have quipped back about such. Between her placid gaze and serene smile, he suspected she'd be using the Eye of Agamotto tonight.
A shudder went through him. Everything felt out of his hands- just as he had hoped for, right? A break from being in charge, for shouldering the burden.
It gave him enough strength to tiptoe into the relic room in the middle of the night. Surrounded by glass cases, never with the correct object, it took him a moment to find the Cloak. It was floating passively, collar not even curling in recognition. There were differences here too, the checkered pattern on the inside having a more silvery look, and silvered clasps.
He pressed a twitching hand to the glass, knowing better than to try opening it. It would be nearly a year, in his own timeline, before he’d encounter the relic.
This one had a different master in mind. The Sorcerer Supreme of this world.
He let his hand fall away and went back to bed, slipping away into a dreamless slumber.
It was, perhaps, the best he had slept in years.
---
Sunday, January 17th 2016.
“I don't know the specifics, but if you didn't bring yourself here, then something else obviously has.”
“Don’t say its destiny,” Stephen said tiredly, glancing up from his plate. A simple sandwich he had struggled to make, not only with his hands but the lack of available condiments. Sanctum pantries did tend to be on the slim side. Conjured food didn't often taste correct, but it functioned.
Master Drumm grinned wide. “I wouldn't dream of it, stranger.”
Stephen had been there only a couple of days, but it was as if the weight of the world, his world, was dissipating. Lack of proximity perhaps. There were no expectations of him here, he was open to be miserable and lay about long as he could survive.
It finally started to feel like a relief instead of a nightmare, even pushed from the people and things he knew, to be back somewhere that didn't have the scars from Thanos etched into its core.
And seeing Master Drumm again, before his untimely death, was soothing. The Sanctum Masters didn't often train with the acolytes at Kamar Taj, but when they did it had often been spectacular. Stephen had liked him as a teacher. This particular relationship was less… structured, now, just a stranger from another land visiting for an unknown time. Master Drumm was skeptical but welcoming none-the-less.
He still didn't have a sling ring, but he did have a level of invisibility.
Generally conjuring money was frowned upon by the Order, but he really wasn't part of this one, was he? And money was so simple in comparison to actually creating devices, food that tasted worth a damn and…
He just really needed a phone.
Of course, paying in bulk amounts of cash at large retailers was a bit suspect. He needed to go to the less flashy parts of town, find a small junky electronics shop full of bright neon signs advertising no down payment iPhones and garbage.
He'll admit, he got really used to Stark brand phones over the years, but he'd make due.
Stephen had the opportunity to don some spare robes in the loft but had opted to just conjure his sweatshirt into something more suited for the weather. A padded leather coat, down to his knees, jeans, boots, and a red scarf that made him a tad nostalgic but…
He felt better. He looked a little lighter, the shaggy hair and growing beard notwithstanding. He chanced a glance at the full-length mirror.
No green, just pale gray.
Stephen released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and quickly went outside. The doors opened without his touch.
No one paid him any attention on the streets, but he couldn't stop himself from burning their faces into his mind. He followed the flow of traffic like he did most days, before, risking a little spare cash to get him and Wong sandwiches from around the corner as a break to their cheaper meals.
Meow .
Traffic continued to move, the push of bodies during rush hour giving him no time to even pause until they, the throng, reached a crosswalk together. He kept his hands and wallet clutched in his pockets though his elbows were jostled and something was rubbing against his leg.
If it was a child he prayed they weren't sticky. There was a reason he never wanted to touch pediatrics.
Merow!
He glanced down, something orange slipping through the sea of legs without getting stepped on. He couldn't stare long without risking smashing head-first into someone's back, but as he turned a corner the crowd thinned. The mob followed the major arteries of Manhattan.
"Morow!" And an old trash can by his elbow clanged as a cat leaped up to it. Its claws sunk and stuck to his coat sleeve.
Stephen winced, jerking back and letting the claws pop out of the leather with a harsh little rip. His coat was thick, how did its claws even reach skin?
The cat's arm was still outstretched, toes spread and claws bared as its tail did little curling swishes. A black collar was loosely visible from bright orange fur. The purrs were audible even over the traffic.
"I don't have anything for you," he said and continued walking.
There was another buckle and clang before the cat quickly reappeared in front of him, nearly causing him to trip as it took point in front of his stride. He didn't want to kick the poor thing. Its right ear was already oddly split down the middle from obviously fighting something. He sighed.
It didn't matter how many times he almost kicked it, stepped on one of its paws, or tried to dodge around that lithe and skinny body. It kept up with him all the way to the store, only stopping at the door.
And it was waiting patiently on an old newspaper box forty minutes later when he reemerged. The cat licked the back of its paw twice, very quickly, before dropping the paw back to the ground.
Thankfully the electronics store was next door to a deli mart and Stephen was able to quickly shamble inside before the cat followed him. It was waiting again, but this time he had ammunition. "Here." He tugged out a piece of salami from his sandwich. It had a bit of mayo clinging to it, but whatever. He dropped it at the cat's feet and it didn't even glance at it. "Go on, eat it."
The motor level purrs were still running.
"Fine." He took a bite of his sandwich, stretching the tendons in his free hand before tucking the rest of his food back into the bag. Nervously his hand hovered over the creature's head like it was an alien or dimensional monster and not some mere house pet.
He pat it, twice, not quite petting so much as flattening the cat's ears to its head. The purring never ceased, and Stephen took the moment to feel around the collar.
No phone, no address, just a name.
Goose. What a name.
"Well, come on Goose." He pulled out his shiny new-used phone, ancient by current tech trends but perfectly functional with 4g and prepaid data. A lot of data. He punched in animal shelters.
One up near the edge of Chelsea, which thankfully was both on his way and would take him out of Hell's Kitchen. He moved, the cat followed. Fifty minutes later at the door of the shelter, he held it open for the cat and it just walked right in.
Stephen had to take a moment to stop staring at the cheeky-looking thing and sighed.
He wasn't paying much attention to the whole thing, just plopped the still purring cat on the counter, citing it seemed lost, and they took it in the back to check for a chip. No chip, they'll hold it in case someone called.
"She's very skinny," the helpful girl at the counter said. "We'll fatten her up a bit in the meantime. Thank you for dropping her off."
And he left.
Good deed for the day was done, power of the not-Sorcerer Supreme, he snorted to himself and headed back to the Sanctum.
The door opened at his barest touch and he bit back a pleased noise at the Sanctum’s acknowledgment of at least his guest status. He slid in and almost fell onto his face as something scurried in between his legs. "Hey!"
The orange cat with the split ear stopped on the inner steps and licked the back of her paw, before meowing.
"You can't be here, I saw them put you in a cage," he muttered, that unhinged chunk of his mind slipping off, but kneeled down to do that thing he's always seen people use to attract cats. He didn't know why, or even if it worked. "Psp psp, kitty kitty…"
Apparently it didn't. She turned and ran up the stairs before he could even shout, scaling the steps in a heartbeat and running right into Master Drumm, who scooped her up into his arms. She didn't seem to appreciate him cradling her like a baby if her claws were any indication. He swept down the stairs, unhurried and unbothered. "Adopting a familiar, stranger?"
"Absolutely not," Stephen snapped back, but it just made the smile widen on Drumm's face.
"Well, little one, sorry. Can't have housepets around the relics," Drumm cooed to the ginger cat as he walked, dropping her off outside and shutting the door on her final meow. "Did you get everything you needed?"
"The most important part, yes." Stephen didn't dare assume Drumm wouldn't know about the money, but if all he was going to get was a raised brow and a tiny smirk he'd consider it a win. "Dinner's my treat."
***
Monday, January 18th 2016.
Of course he hadn't actually voiced it to himself, but he subconsciously was already pondering the need for a pencil and notebook- because he couldn't not meddle. He’d just be… picky on which burden’s he’d subject himself to.
His world was on the best path it could be. His Order was reconsidering his place and had functioned fine without him for five years. Even then he had only been the Sorcerer Supreme a mere year and a half, alive. There was no Time Stone to guard anymore. They didn't necessarily need him, if they even wanted him anymore. Wong and the Cloak would.
But this world hardly needed to follow the same path.
Despite his tiredness he felt a level of freedom in this cause. There were zero expectations, and if all he could do was steer them to the same path his world had been stuck in, well, it wasn't the worst.
It just sucked, substantially.
Not to mention he hadn't slipped or looped once since arriving, far as he noticed. The telltale nausea and body shudders hadn't come, green light had been blissfully absent. He still occasionally snapped to focus, throat tight, but the moments weren't followed by a frantic realization his clock had ticked backward a minute. Normal panic attacks were almost a blessing.
Staying here was obviously healthier for him, a selfish little voice whispered in his ear, one in which he'd make many excuses to agree with. And the remnants of the Time Stone on his being obviously dragged him here for a reason. He could help.
He would help.
Now if only he could figure out how .
A day later, Stephen went up to the roof-top patio, snow sprinkling everywhere but directly on the Sanctum. A simple spell kept the place more than warm enough. No one outside, perched on their own roofs or peering out windows, would notice him.
He sat down on the wicker chair, slowly curling his hands around the blessedly small and light phone. The newer models made his hands ache (except for Stark tech, of course). He adjusted his font size to old-man massive so he could see clearly when he plopped it on the table and scrolled without hunching his neck. The pencil floated nearby, tangled in gold threads, and hovered just over his notebook.
Two columns, Avengers and the Order. Stark perhaps as the focus, he was key to every other future he had seen before. They were the only two things he could substantially effect at the moment. The Guardians were entirely out of reach, and even if they weren't he had no idea where to even begin. Captain Marvel fell in a similar vein- though he supposed he could contact her through Shield.
He split Shield off into a mini-column, and Asgard- though they weren't due to return to Earth until at least another year from now.
Though that only mattered if this world kept mostly parallel with his own. Five minutes in and he was already feeling a headache come on.
He flicked a finger to turn the page. He needed to start with what he knew. Himself.
Vincent Stephen Strange.
The name made him grimace, sounding so wrong and yet still too similar. The Ancient One confirmed Vincent was both a doctor and doomed for an accident very soon. He had about 12 days until the time of his own accident, but Vincent's could happen sooner, later, or on a different stretch of road. It didn't even have to be in a car.
He gave himself a moment to groan, rubbing his eyes lightly. His hands dragged down his face before plopping gently onto his lap. The scars were still wind whipped and in need of lotion for the night.
Alright, he needed to assume things followed his path close enough or he wouldn't get anywhere.
Accident, approximately 8pm, February 2nd on a stretch of road in Manhattan that was mostly devoid of traffic. He had taken Billy's call foolishly while pulling over 80mph and had stared at his phone too long.
Air force, male, 47*, crushed spine.
He had dismissed it at the time but now knowing how much of the Avengers war overlapped his last days as a doctor, it was easy to assume who that was. If it falls on the day of Vincent's accident like it did his own, then there was no Dr. Strange to take it. Not that it had been particularly tempting to his massive ego at the time.
Colonel James Rhodes was integral to the late game. The best-worst ending.
There'd be no surgical fixes, but- two options. Stop the battle or magic. Healing him directly wasn't an option but would the Airforce colonel be able to handle joining the order just long enough, like Pangborn?
Of course he didn't even consider stopping Vincent's accident at this point. The loss of his career and ego were too big a turning point. The best he could do is try to influence the man to seek out Kamar Taj earlier, perhaps before Vincent went bankrupt… Stephen just wanted to make sure the man actually survived the accident. Stephen's arrival could have easily interrupted something. He absolutely was not taking the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme here .
A passing motor made him come back into focus, and he glanced at his notebook to make sure the pencil had scribbled down his scurrying thoughts.
The orange tabby had it trapped under one paw.
Stephen's nostrils flared, anger passing through him quickly, exhaled in a huff. "Persistent little beast, aren't we?"
Goose (still ridiculous), tilted her head, still purring, gravelly and far too loud
"You could replace Chewbacca," he sighed again and reached to tug the pencil from under her. She tucked her head and butted his hand.
It should have hurt. Well, technically it had, just a bit, only enough for him to snort in surprise and hold still. It gave her enough time to walk over his frozen arm and drop into his lap from the table.
"Fine, I yield." He ran a palm and stiff fingers along Goose's skull, hard enough to stretch the skin of her eyelids back. He couldn't really curl his hand for a proper scratch and stroke. His other hand righted the pencil. "Alright, how do we keep the Avengers from blowing up?"
It was easier making decisions for his doppelganger. If Vincent had a fraction of Stephen's old ego then it was just a harsh necessity. But was the Civil War? Did it shape anything in anyone that was worth keeping?
An explosion at Vienna was next, he remembered that much but he didn't recall reading the exact date. He did know the body count though.
Four dead. Plenty of simple and debilitating injuries. The bomb was louder, scarier, but that was the terrorist. It was the following destruction in Bucharest that was the problem. Twenty-two deaths, millions in structural damage, destroyed cars, livelihoods- that was all collateral damage caused by the Avengers, though he didn't have the details.
The bomb was wrongly attributed to one James Buchanan Barnes. He ultimately wasn't a major player in his world, not for Thanos. He had no idea who the actual perpetrator(s) were.
"What if I stop the bomb?"
"Murrr."
No bomb meant, ultimately, that there shouldn't be any incidents at any German Airports resulting in one Colonel Rhodes from shattering his spine and pelvis.
"This could work- hey!" Goose interrupted his musings by butting her head into his chin and rubbing her fur against the bristle of his beard. "You're insufferable."
***
Tuesday, January 19th 2016.
Goose had thankfully not tried to follow him inside. He managed to sleep unplagued by the mental or physical but he swore he saw green light on his eyelids before he opened them.
He didn't dream.
It was early, no one in the kitchen yet so he took the opportunity to make his tea properly and cradled the warm cup just to soothe his aches. It was almost meditative.
"The Ancient One brought this for you." Drumm's voice broke through and Stephen let his eyes slide back open. Hopefully it was a sling ring.
A heavy thump hit the table, startling him. Drumm slid the thick volume to him, curling golden medieval script, worthy of Celtic monks, circled the cover.
A book on familiars.
Stephen frowned, sly gaze sliding to Drumm. The man held up his hands. "I did not tell her about your guest."
Great. She must have seen something then. Well that pretty much settled that. "Is all the cat hair worth it?" He sighed, despairingly. He was still finding orange in his beard from only five minutes with the beast.
"Many seem to think so."
Before relics were readily available to Masters, it wasn't uncommon to take a familiar. They wouldn't be absorbing centuries of dimensional energy like any relic, but they do grow, learn, attach themselves to their one Master. Usually dying with them. Cheap and easy enough for even acolytes to take on if they were in need of an assistant.
Stephen downed the rest of his tea and tucked the thick volume under his arm. He hated Olde English. Gave him a bigger headache than Egyptian hieroglyphs. "Give her my thanks."
He'd read it soon enough but today he had other plans. Today, he was going to spy on the Avengers Compound.
Except that apparently five years inert and two-plus months stressed (unhinged-depressed-anxious) made the very simple act of projecting his astral form difficult.
He sat, comfortable, in lotus position. His hands weren't giving him much trouble today, only twinging under too much pressure. He breathed, only a small hitch, he relaxed.
So why wasn't he projecting?
Tiny noises pricked at the edge of his hearing, but it wasn't much to worry about- he literally projected during battles and stress.
He tried laying down, settling in his bed, hands resting on his chest. Nothing. He huffed, eyes sliding open to glare at the ceiling. Magic was still available, he could often feel it brushing against his fingertips without him even calling it.
"Merooow."
"Should I even be surprised you got in?" He glanced over only to see a pair of red earbuds dangling from the cat's mouth. "Where'd you get those?"
In lieu of revealing her secrets, she jumped from the floor directly onto his stomach. He grunted. The earbuds were dropped onto his chest.
"I'm not using someone else's earbuds." That was disgusting. The amount of earwax that gathered up under the silicone caps, only to never get cleaned. Ugh. Was it any wonder that the average smartphone was dirtier than a bathroom? People didn't think about it anywhere near often enough for Stephen's standards.
He took a fingernail against it and came up empty. "Hmph, suppose you licked it clean?"
Goose stretched, still on his stomach, before tucking her legs under her and laying down. A perfect loaf of bony orange cat. She purred.
After staring at her for a beat, he reached for his phone on the side table. Disappointing that he lost all his playlists, but he had a few albums downloaded for the moment. There was music he wanted that wouldn't even exist for another year or so. With another check, he plugged the earbuds in and blocked out all sound.
No pumping lyrics, for now, he needed to meditate.
Between the purring and music, he was sure if sleep was going to be the ultimate end but he could feel his mind begin to empty. The tether to his body became looser. He breathed.
The purring got louder.
When he opened his eyes again he was floating. Goose blinked up at him. She chirped, standing upon his chest and swiping at his incorporeal form with a paw.
He could still faintly hear the sounds pumping up from Thomas Bergersen's Fearless .
"Wish me luck."
She meowed after him as he phased through the walls, flying to Esopus* was going to suck.
***
Astral projecting far from one's body took a lot of energy. He was going to feel absolutely miserable tomorrow. But the compound was in view, though completely different to how he remembered it. Seven years was a lot of time for Stark to add and change things, he supposed.
The largest building drew him in. He slipped in through the walls, coming out to a living area. A woman was standing there, quietly and he watched her stiffen.
Shit- that was Maximoff.
He glided back as she turned around, gaze sweeping the room curiously, obviously sensing him. His rescue came in the form of the Mind Stone- or rather in Vision. The android easily distracted her, the stone's power likely overpowering.
At least, he could feel it. The remnants of Time reached for both of them- siblings to him and yet… not.
Green flashed just out of his vision and he refused to even glance at it. He went right.
He saw another one- he was the one that wore wings, but Stephen never learned the man's name and he was ultimately unimportant. The next room was Romanoff, presumably in her bedroom. She was quietly reading her tablet on a chair, her legs curled under her.
A spy, turncoat, assassin… he didn't have many good things to think of her but-
She didn't deserve to be the Soul Stone's sacrifice.
She glanced up from her tablet, glancing around the room once, and sighed to herself. Probably had a tingle that she was being watched but felt secure enough in the compound that she assumed she was being foolish.
Damn enhanced individuals- and here he could have sworn she was baseline.
Empty rooms greeted his exploration until he came upon what looked like an office, with Rogers and Stark. Perfect.
"They're going to happen, whether you want them to or not," Stark said, clutching at his head with one hand while Rogers glared down at his desk at a stack of papers. "Better we roll with it now so we can keep our hands on the wheel."
Perfect, the Accords. Now if they could just mention the exact time and date…
There was a powerful tick in the Captain's jaw as Stark just sighed, rolling his eyes. He stood up and threw his arm through Stephen. "If you need the legalese translated, come find me."
Huh, Stark was a bit shorter in this universe.
Stark left, Rogers continued to glare at the packet. He fiddled with the front, turning over one page and stared down at it. There was an almost immediate glaze coming to his eyes. Then he sighed, stopped, couldn't have been more than a paragraph by Stephen's measure, before leaving the room without it.
"Arrogant ass," Stephen muttered but sighed. He didn't know if this is how it went down in his world but he can't imagine it was better.
He ended up finding Stark again in what Stephen could only assume was his workshop. Several projects flared to life in front of him- new suits, new upgrades, a running newsreel. That one he just continued to stare at, eyes blank.
"Come on Stark, just a date and time." Stephen really wished he could subtly influence things, but he was no better than a poltergeist without revealing himself. He was hovering over every scrap of paper he could find without touching anything. Reading books while projecting was easy, manipulating technology was entirely different.
And there's no way Stark wouldn't realize even if he just assumed he was being hacked.
"Platypus, speak, and be heard." Stephen snapped out of his snooping as Stark violently spun himself around in his chair several times, eyes closed. A small holoscreen of Colonel Rhodes hovered over the table.
"I take it warning him didn't go well."
Stark smiled, sad and maniacal. Stephen hovered just over the back of his ridiculous massive leather computer chair. It was like a throne and Stark had sunken into it. "He doesn't seem to understand why everyone is upset at them instead of just me."
Once the spinning stopped, Stephen leaned on the back of the chair with his forearms, chin in one hand. His weightless presence didn't even move it.
"Seriously? Nothing about DC even sunk into his head?"
"Naw, Ultron, Sokovia, Sokovia Accords- you see the logic jumps his brain's gonna make." Stark sighed, slouching to the side so much that Stephen barely stopped himself from trying to catch him, but the tech genius just swung his legs up and over the other armrest. "He's stubborn enough to think his secret missions are subtle when he's wearing the American flag on his ass."
Hmm, this is what he deserves for never looking into the Avengers in detail. What secret missions?
Stark flicked a screen to the edge of Rhodes hologram. "I mean look at that, tourists got footage of him sneaking around Guerrero before a mysterious explosion rocked the border in the mountains." Rogers wasn't in his Captain America suit, but he easily stood out accompanied by the Scarlet Witch at his side. One stern and determined, the other nervous."They look like baby drug dealers waiting to get arrested."
Stephen snorted and Stark paused, trying to unsuccessfully look around his chair.
"You going to the signing?"
Stark groaned, rubbing at his face. It struck Stephen that Stark always looked perpetually tired. His heart twinged in sympathy. "Sunday is already booked tight."
Sunday, good.
"If I could get Captain pole-up-his-ass to go I'd make time, but I'm sick of being the only face at these gigs." He turned to Rhodes with a grin. "Plus you know me, I hate morning meetings."
Ugh finally. That was enough to work with.
Still, perhaps feeling a bit like a nosy neighbor or… well he was definitely on creepy stalker territory, Stephen lingered.
"Anyone else read it yet?"
"Natasha has a copy, gave a few to Steve to hand out. Pretty sure Vision just downloaded it into his head." Stark shrugged. "I don't know if any of them will sign, but if they don't listen to me-" He shrugged, head lolling back to stare through Stephen. "This isn't gonna be pretty."
Stephen winced, startled he glanced at the back of his hand and saw 3 little welts in perfect lines. "Damnit, Goose."
He looked down on Stark one last time, wrinkling his nose up before pinching one hand together pinky to thumb. He drew it over the prone man.
Stark's eyes fluttered for a second before he let out a jaw cracking yawn. "Fuck, fatigue hitting like a truck today."
"Get some rest, Tones. Don't you dare get coffee."
"I'm not, I'm not," Stark mumbled, slowly righting himself in the chair. "Nothings gonna happen for a while, anyway, I'll nap."
No, he wouldn't. That spell would conk him out several dreamless hours. "Need all the rest you can get," Stephen muttered before falling back, letting his body anchor him.
Even if he did this right, Stephen knew something would interfere anyway. The laws of nature seemed rather fond of explosions.