bigbeefyman

“I can’t go home?”

Your question lingered in the air, heavy with desperation. Stephen didn’t immediately respond. His gaze flickered away, avoiding your searching eyes, and a faint frown tugged at the corners of his lips, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed if you weren’t watching him so intently. His silence only made the knot in your stomach tighten.

Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, Stephen broke the tension with a voice softer and more hesitant than you had ever heard from him. “No,” he said, his weary silver eyes meeting yours at last. “You can’t.”

“Why?”

The single word escaped your lips, trembling with confusion and frustration. Nothing made sense. The events of the night were a chaotic blur: shadowy figures, shattered glass, the word Chthon uttered with dread. And through it all, you had been at the center, plucked out of New York’s millions of inhabitants for reasons still unknown to you.

Stephen hesitated, the silence between you stretching once more as he carefully considered his words. His brow furrowed slightly, and you could almost see the gears turning in his mind, working to formulate an explanation that wouldn’t overwhelm you further.

“Chaos,” he finally began, his voice measured, “is a type of magic. Unlike the magic most sorcerers use—which draws upon other dimensions within the multiverse—chaos magic seeks to change reality itself. To rewrite it.” He paused, watching your expression for any sign of understanding before continuing. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Wanda Maximoff—the Scarlet Witch?”

The name struck a chord. Your mind flitted through images of superheroes you’d seen on TV over the years, piecing together fragmented memories of battles, headlines, and awe-inspiring powers. It took a moment, but eventually, you nodded in recognition.

“She uses chaos magic,” Stephen explained. “And so do you.”

You froze. The disbelief etched across your face couldn’t have been more apparent. Chaos magic? You ? It felt absurd. You shook your head slightly, as if to clear away the impossibility of his words.

Stephen’s tone grew more insistent, yet still gentle, as he pressed on. “Every patient of yours you’ve miraculously healed… that wasn’t luck or skill alone. That was chaos magic.”

His words struck a nerve, sending your thoughts spiraling. Your mind reeled with memories of patients you’d treated, cases where recovery seemed impossible, where the odds were stacked against them, yet somehow they pulled through.

“Have you not noticed?” Stephen asked, his voice cutting through your haze. “Even when all logic dictated otherwise, they healed as if nothing had happened. That was you. You’ve been unconsciously using chaos magic to manipulate reality, bending it to ensure their survival.”

The disbelief clinging to you like a second skin refused to fade. You shook your head again, though the memories were starting to click into place, forming a picture you weren’t ready to see. Stephen sighed, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger, clearly grappling with your resistance.

“There aren’t many users of chaos magic,” he said, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place…concern, perhaps, or maybe caution. “At least, not ones proficient enough to harness its power. But you… you show promise. And that’s exactly why the Darkholders—the cult that attacked tonight—want you. They believe they can use you to bring back their god, Chthon.”

The weight of his words settled heavily on your chest, suffocating. Darkholders? Chthon? Cults and gods? You couldn’t begin to process it all, yet the sense of danger was undeniable. Stephen had been watching you, warning you, because of this .

But it wasn’t enough. None of it answered the gnawing question in your mind.

“Why me?” you blurted, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Stephen hesitated, the pause unbearable. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out.

“Why me?” you repeated, louder this time, your voice trembling with anger and desperation. You didn’t care if it made you sound demanding. You needed answers.

And once again, silence was your only reply.

“I have no idea,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. For a moment, Stephen’s piercing silver eyes shift away from yours, as though the weight of his confession is too much to bear. His usually confident demeanor falters, leaving behind a glimpse of vulnerability that catches you off guard.

“But you can’t go back,” he continues, his tone firm but tinged with regret. “They know where you live, and it’s no longer safe for you here in New York. I must take you to Kamar-Taj.”

The words hit you like a slap in the face, and you’re immediately shaking your head, your protest swift and vehement. “No! My life is here! My friends, my job, my house, my patients ! I’m not leaving New York unless it’s in a coffin!”

Your voice rises with every word, the raw emotion of the moment spilling over. Maybe you’re being dramatic, but you don’t care. After everything that’s happened today, the chaos, the fear, the utter absurdity of Stephen’s explanations, you feel entitled to it. Nothing about this situation makes sense, and now he’s asking you to uproot your entire existence?

Stephen’s frown deepens, the lines on his face growing more pronounced as he listens to your outburst. He opens his mouth, his expression suggesting he’s ready to counter your argument, but you cut him off before he can get a word out.

“No,” you say firmly, raising a hand to silence him. “I’ve lived here for over a decade! This city is my home. If I can’t go back to my apartment, at least let me stay in my city.”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end, the desperation seeping through despite your attempts to remain resolute. You know it’s probably futile. Stephen seems immovable when it comes to decisions like this, but you refuse to give up without a fight.

For a moment, he stares at you, the gears in his mind visibly turning. His lips press into a thin line, and you brace yourself for another argument. But then something shifts. He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly as the tension eases from his posture.

“...Fine,” he says at last, the word reluctant but sincere. “But that means you cannot leave the Sanctum Sanctorum. Under no circumstances.”

His voice is laced with warning, each syllable deliberate and heavy with meaning. You open your mouth to respond, but his steely gaze stops you. He’s serious, deadly serious, and it’s clear there’s no room for negotiation.

Even so, a flicker of relief courses through you. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but at least you won’t have to abandon everything you know. For now, that will have to be enough.

The relief is quick to fade, replaced by a crushing sense of dread as the full weight of your situation settles in. The life you once knew, full of normalcy and routine, now seemed to exist only in the distant past, reserved for memories that would inevitably grow hazy with time. The stark reality of being confined to the Sanctum Sanctorum hit you like a punch to the gut, and the thought of being stuck here indefinitely, with only Stephen and the occasional sorcerer passing through, felt suffocating.

"The building will be safe enough to keep them out," Stephen says, his voice more thoughtful than reassuring. "Not as safe as Kamar-Taj, but it will suffice until we resolve the issue. I can cast additional spells to bolster its defenses. Only sorcerers would be able to enter—yes, that should work."

He continued muttering, his words blending into the background noise of your thoughts. The Sanctum’s imposing walls suddenly felt stifling, and the reality of being confined here indefinitely gnawed at you. The world outside seemed further away than ever, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever truly get it back.

Your chest tightens, the walls of the Sanctum seeming to close in as your breathing grows heavy and shallow. A lump forms in your throat, thick and unyielding, making it nearly impossible to swallow. The edges of your vision blur, and the quiet hum of the room feels like it’s pressing against your ears, amplifying the suffocating silence between Stephen’s words.

And then it happens. The emotions you’ve been desperately trying to suppress the fear, the anger, the sheer helplessness. They all come rushing to the surface all at once. It’s like a dam breaking, the flood of feelings overwhelming and uncontrollable.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the first sob escapes your lips, raw and gut-wrenching. The sound cuts through the air, startling Stephen mid-ramble. He looks up sharply, his words faltering as he takes in your trembling form.

Stephen Strange was never much of an empathetic person. He can’t confidently say he ever genuinely cared for his patients more than he cared about his reputation. Every life he saved was another accolade, another feather in his cap, a reminder of his own brilliance. And he can’t say he ever felt remorse for all those times he humiliated his colleagues over mistakes he deemed beneath him. To him, perfection wasn’t just expected; it was the bare minimum.

It wasn’t that Stephen didn’t care about others. He did, in his own way. He became a doctor because, beneath his ego and arrogance, there was a sliver of compassion, a desire to heal. He took an oath to do no harm, even if his motivations often blurred the lines between altruism and pride. But everything shifted when he embraced a new calling. As the Sorcerer Supreme, Stephen found a purpose far greater than himself: to protect Earth and its inhabitants from the incomprehensible threats of the multiverse. Alien, supernatural, or otherwise, he had made it his mission to shield this realm from powers most could never begin to fathom.

Still, even with all his newfound wisdom, Stephen had never been good with emotions. So as he watched your trembling form collapse to the floor, your breath hitching in gasps, your body wracked with heaving sobs, he found himself frozen. He didn’t know what to say or do.

You had been strong up until now, holding it together through chaos, terror, and sheer disbelief. But now, the weight of it all, the broken window, the shadowy figures, the realization that your life as you knew it was gone, crashed down on you like a tidal wave. You sank to your knees on the polished floor of the Sanctum Sanctorum, your arms wrapped around yourself as though trying to keep from unraveling entirely.

Dry, guttural sobs escaped your lips, raw and unfiltered. It wasn’t a quiet, composed grief. It was the kind of heartbreak that poured out of you in waves, messy and uncontrolled. Tears streamed down your face, and you didn’t care who saw. Stephen could have been watching with cold detachment, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Hell, all of New York could have been peering in through the windows of the Sanctum, and you still wouldn’t have cared.

This wasn’t just fear or shock, it was mourning. Mourning a life ripped away from you for reasons you couldn’t even begin to understand.

Stephen remained silent, his usual air of confidence and authority replaced by something far less familiar: uncertainty. He had faced cosmic horrors, battled ancient evils, and even broken the laws of reality, but this, a human moment of raw vulnerability, felt utterly alien to him.

He shifted his weight awkwardly, glancing away for a moment as though trying to give you privacy in your grief, even if there was nowhere for you to hide. His fingers twitched, the faint glow of magic threatening to spark before he stopped himself. There was no spell for this, no incantation to mend a broken heart or ease the crushing weight of despair.

“Take your time,” he finally said, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it, almost hesitant.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could offer. And for someone like Stephen Strange, that was already far more than anyone could have expected.

That night you had slept on Stephen’s bed, too exhausted to do anything but cry. 

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The morning had been disorienting, to say the least.

Waking up in a strange bed, ironically, Strange’s bed, in a strange mansion filled with even stranger artifacts felt utterly surreal. The events of the previous day still clung to you like a suffocating weight, making it difficult to process your new reality.

You sat in silence, staring blankly at Stephen with deep bags under your eyes, remnants of the tears you had shed the night before. He placed a plate of food in front of you, the scent of warm pancakes rising into the air, but your stomach twisted in discomfort. You weren’t even remotely hungry. And you were a little surprised that Stephen knew how to cook.

“I know this is… strange,” he said, his voice measured yet hesitant.

You were starting to get tired of that word. Strange this, Strange that. It felt like a cruel joke. A small sigh escaped your lips, halting Stephen for just a second. But he continued.

"It’s less than preferable," he admitted. "If it were my choice, you’d be at Kamar-Taj, where you'd be safer. However, you’ve already been uprooted enough. So, for now, the Sanctum Sanctorum shall be your refuge."

Your eyes flickered to the plate of pancakes before you. The fleeting urge to grab it and hurl it at Stephen crossed your mind, a completely irrational impulse, but still one that burned for a moment before you shoved it away. Instead, you focused on his words.

"That being said, I must admit, the Sanctum isn’t as secure as Kamar-Taj," he continued, his tone serious. "So, under no circumstances are you to leave. If you need anything, notify me immediately."

His silver eyes observed you carefully, and though he didn’t comment on your refusal to eat, the slight downturn of his lips spoke volumes.

“I may be gone for long periods of time,” he added, his voice softer now, almost cautious. “When that happens, there will be visitors who will check on you. Wong, most notably.”

His words continued, explanations spilling into the air, but your mind drifted elsewhere. Everything he said blurred together as you focused on the reality pressing down on you.

The life you once knew was practically gone, slipping further away with each passing second.

Stephen’s voice cut through the weight of that realization.

“I will clear up space for your own room, but for now, you may sleep in mine.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was something in his expression, something that almost resembled concern. Without another word, he gently pushed the plate of pancakes closer to you, a silent insistence that you eat.

“Hopefully, we will come to an agreeable standard of living,” he added, his voice measured but firm.

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, an unspoken tension lingered between you. Neither of you moved, the silence stretching uncomfortably long before he finally broke it.

“I’ll leave you be. I’ll be in the library if you need me.”

With that, he turned, his cloak shifting with each step as he sauntered off, disappearing deeper into the Sanctum. You watched him go, then slowly turned your attention back to the plate in front of you. The warm, fluffy pancakes stared back at you, steam still rising from their golden surface. Hesitantly, you reached for the fork, twirling it between your fingers before finally giving in and taking a bite.

Then, a thought crossed your mind, and your chewing slowed.

You didn’t even know where the library was.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

Within a week, you had managed to settle into the Sanctum Sanctorum, or at least as much as one could in a place so steeped in mystery and magic. Most of the vast, labyrinthine building was filled with ancient artifacts, mystical books, and relics of the occult, their purposes often unclear and their presence always unnerving. Stephen, albeit reluctantly, had allowed you to temporarily stay in his room while he cleared out a space for you. His irritation was thinly veiled, but there was also an unspoken sense of duty in his actions.

When you finally transitioned to your own private space, the room was… underwhelming, to put it lightly. It was small, barely more than a glorified storage closet, with little space for personal belongings. There wasn’t much to make it feel like home. But then again, neither of you expected this arrangement to last forever. The modest room offered a strange comfort, the cramped space a silent reminder that this was temporary, or so you desperately hoped.

It was on the third night in your new quarters that Stephen sat you down to explain everything in further detail.

The Darkholders, he told you, were a fanatical cult composed of sorcerers, witches, and all manner of beings who derived their power from Chaos magic. Their loyalty lay with Chthon, the god of Chaos, a malevolent deity seeking to return to the earthly plane. As unsettling as this revelation was, the real blow came when Stephen explained why the Darkholders were after you.

You. Of all people.

It didn’t make sense. Why you? Why not someone more powerful, someone more experienced, someone like Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch herself? She was practically the embodiment of Chaos magic. You were a healer, a doctor, someone with no prior knowledge of magic or supernatural forces. Before all of this, you barely believed magic existed, let alone thought you could wield it. And yet, here you were, the Darkholders’ prime target.

Stephen offered no satisfying answers, only confirming that, for reasons unknown, you were the focus of their attention, not Wanda.

That left you trapped. For all intents and purposes, the Sanctum Sanctorum was now your home, and leaving its protective walls was out of the question.

Adjusting to this new reality proved harder than you’d imagined. Sorting out the remnants of your old life while confined to the Sanctum was both exhausting and heartbreaking. Stephen was little help in these matters; he spent most of his days tending to the duties of the Sorcerer Supreme, leaving you alone to grapple with the aftermath of your upended life.

You worked your way through your to-do list, trying to tie up loose ends. You contacted a cleaning service to handle the shattered window and the mess left in your condo, ensuring everything would be safe and in order. You canceled subscriptions and utilities you no longer needed, each call a small reminder of the life you were being forced to leave behind. The thought of your condo, your sanctuary, sitting empty while you were stuck here filled you with a deep, aching sadness.

Stephen had been kind enough to retrieve some essentials for you, clothes, electronics, and other necessities, but they were meager comforts in the face of everything you’d lost. The few personal items he brought back served as a bittersweet reminder of the life you were no longer living.

Socially, the transition was even worse. You had few friends, thanks to years of self-imposed isolation, and no family to turn to for support. Stephen, while present, was more of a detached caretaker than a companion, leaving you feeling utterly and completely alone.

The Sanctum’s imposing walls, grand yet cold, only deepened your sense of isolation. The silence of its halls was deafening, and though Stephen’s presence was a constant, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were more alone here than you’d ever been in your condo. Nights were the hardest, when the quiet seemed to stretch endlessly, and all you could do was long for the familiar comfort of your own bed.

By the second week, Stephen decided you’d had enough time to adjust to your surroundings. Without fail, he began summoning you for lessons each evening, insisting you needed to learn to harness your newfound abilities.

You hated it.

“I don’t see the purpose of this,” you groaned, slumping forward in frustration as Stephen instructed you, yet again, to manipulate the apple sitting on the table before you.

The apple remained stubbornly unchanged, perfectly red and round, as if mocking your efforts. Meanwhile, your frustration grew with each passing moment.

“Why do I have to learn this?” you demanded, shooting an exasperated look at Stephen. “If I’m stuck here, then I’m safe, right? Isn’t that enough? Why should I bother?”

Stephen folded his arms, his expression shifting to one of patient exasperation. “Because,” he began, his tone calm yet firm, “the Darkholders won’t stop. And if they find a way to breach the Sanctum, or worse, draw you out, you need to be ready to defend yourself. This isn’t about convenience; it’s about survival.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. But that didn’t make the lessons any less aggravating.

Reluctantly, you turned your attention back to the apple, your mind wrestling with the impossibility of what Stephen was asking you to do.

“Focus,” Stephen’s soft yet commanding voice whispered, cutting through the growing tension in the room. His tone was calm but carried an edge that urged you to push past your frustration. You huffed, rolling your shoulders as you held out your hands once more, mimicking the intricate movements you’d seen on TV, movements that, despite your best efforts, seemed utterly useless. The apple before you remained unchanged, mocking your every attempt.

With a groan of frustration, you threw your head back, eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling, and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “This is useless,” you whined, dropping your arms to your sides in defeat, the fight draining out of you for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

Stephen, standing a few steps away, furrowed his brows as he glanced between you and the stubborn apple. His piercing gaze seemed to dissect every nuance of your failure, making you shift uncomfortably. His expression was unreadable, but there was a sternness in his eyes, a quiet determination that refused to waver even in the face of your growing despair.

“You’re not trying,” he stated bluntly, his voice calm but firm, as though the problem was simple and the solution entirely within your grasp.

You scoffed, gesturing to the untouched apple as irritation flared in your chest. “Not trying? I’ve been sitting here for hours doing exactly what you’ve asked! How am I not trying?”

Stephen’s frown deepened, and he folded his arms across his chest, his expression unyielding. “You’re not focusing,” he said, his voice steady but pointed. “You’re too distracted by your frustration, by your doubt. Magic requires discipline and intent. You’re letting your emotions control you instead of channeling them.”

His words hit a nerve, and for a moment, you simply stared at him, a mix of indignation and defeat swirling within you. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to succeed, it was that every failed attempt chipped away at your confidence, making the entire endeavor feel impossible.

“You make it sound so easy,” you muttered under your breath, your tone laced with bitterness.

“It’s not easy,” Stephen replied, his voice softening just slightly. “But it’s possible. If you want to learn, you have to believe that.”

You looked back at the apple, its polished surface gleaming under the warm light of the Sanctum. Taking a deep breath, you raised your hands again, this time trying to drown out the doubts swirling in your mind. Stephen’s presence loomed beside you, a quiet reminder that you weren’t entirely alone in this struggle.

“Focus,” he repeated, his tone gentler now, though still laced with authority. “Clear your mind. Feel the energy, and direct it. Stop forcing it—let it flow.”

You clenched your jaw and nodded, inhaling deeply as you steadied yourself. One more try, you thought. Just one more.

A deep, low breath. You steady yourself, letting the world fade around you until only the apple remains. The vibrant red of its skin dominates your vision, almost mocking you with its perfection. Every curve, every gleam of light on its surface feels like a taunt, daring you to make a change, to prove yourself. You narrow your focus, your senses zeroing in as you try to imagine the apple transformed, shrivelled, rotten, or dry. You picture it decaying before your eyes, breaking apart under the weight of your intent.

With the flick of your hand and every ounce of concentration you can muster, you push your will outward, demanding something, anything, to happen. But the apple remains pristine, stubbornly unchanged. Its defiance feels personal, and your stomach sinks with the familiar weight of disappointment.

“This is pointless,” you mutter under your breath, dropping your hands in frustration. The words taste bitter on your tongue, as if admitting defeat only adds to the gnawing resentment in your chest. A heaviness rises within you, clawing at your resolve.

You don’t want to be here. Not in this room, not in this building, not in this situation. Every part of you longs for the normalcy you once had, for the comfort of your condo, where you could sprawl on your couch, mindlessly watching TV (something the Sanctum Sanctorum severely lacks) while munching on your favorite snacks. The ache for familiarity cuts deep, a yearning for the mundane that feels impossibly out of reach now.

You glance at the apple again, its unyielding perfection mocking you. Its smooth, vibrant surface seems to sneer at your failures, a symbol of how impossibly far removed you are from the life you once knew. A bitter scoff escapes your lips, and your gaze shifts to Stephen, who is still talking, his voice calm and assured as he rambles about how you’ll learn to harness your so-called powers.

“You keep going on about how I have powers,” you cut him off, your voice cold and sharp, your frustration bubbling over. “Yet, there’s nothing to show for it!”

Stephen stops mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he looks at you, but you barrel on, the dam of your emotions finally breaking.

“Sure, my patients are miraculously healed,” you snap, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “but how do we even know it’s because of me? Maybe it’s just coincidence or some external force I can’t control. You can’t even begin to explain why I supposedly have powers! You don’t even know why they’re targeting me, Stephen! None of this makes any sense!”

Your voice rises with every word, each syllable laced with anger and desperation. “I had a normal life!” you exclaim, the memory of your condo, your routine, your sense of security flashing painfully in your mind. “I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t want any of this! Why am I even being targeted? What makes me so special? I just…” Your voice falters, cracking under the weight of your emotions.

“I just want to go home,” you finish, the last word trembling in the air.

The room falls into a heavy silence, your words echoing faintly in the stillness. Stephen watches you, his face a mask of conflicted emotions, sympathy, regret, and something else you can’t quite place. But he doesn’t speak, and that silence only deepens the pit of frustration and helplessness inside you.

The apple remains unchanged on the table, its quiet defiance mocking you still.

“You can’t,” Stephen answers softly, his voice steady but laced with an undertone of regret. His hand reaches out, resting on your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you, though the gesture feels almost foreign. You tightly close your eyes, fighting back the sting of tears threatening to fall. A shaky breath escapes your lips as you shrug off his touch, your movements hurried and defensive. Without another word, you retreat toward the small, pathetic closet that serves as your room, the only sanctuary you have in this place. All you want right now is to be alone.

Stephen remains where he stands, his gaze fixed on your retreating form. His expression is pensive, the furrow in his brow deepening as if the weight of your emotions has planted a seed of doubt in his mind. He exhales softly, the sound barely audible in the stillness of the room, before his attention drifts to the apple on the desk.

Reaching out, he grabs the apple, his fingers sinking into its smooth skin. However, as he adjusts his grip, he recoils slightly at the unexpected mushiness beneath his fingertips. The once-pristine apple’s backside has turned soft, its skin collapsing and breaking under the pressure. He nearly drops it, the surprising texture throwing him off for a moment. Turning the apple around, Stephen examines it closely, his sharp eyes catching the telltale signs of rot consuming half of its once-perfect surface.

A grimace crosses his face, the sight unpleasant and unanticipated, but it quickly fades. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his lips curl into a smirk. Doubts may have crossed his mind earlier, but this discovery cements what he already suspected.

The Sorcerer Supreme is rarely wrong.

You do possess magic, even if it is raw and untamed. Even if you are just a novice.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

Stephen was gone.

Not dead, of course. At least, you hoped he wasn’t dead. But you couldn’t find him.

In fact, you hadn’t been able to find him for the past 24 hours.

At first, you didn’t even realize. It was normal to go hours without seeing Stephen, considering the distorting and confusing halls of the Sanctum Sanctorum. Sometimes, he disappeared into his work, buried in ancient tomes or practicing spells you didn’t particularly care to understand. But when dinner came and went, and you found yourself eating alone, again, you began to take note. That wasn’t unusual either, but it was the first time in a while he hadn’t at least acknowledged your existence throughout the day.

The real concern set in when he didn’t beckon you for your regular lessons.

That was when you truly realized Stephen wasn’t here.

You searched the entirety of the building. The brooding shelves of the library, the ever-shifting rooms that sometimes weren’t in the same place twice (at least in your opinion, you could be exaggerating), even his bedroom. But there was no sign of him. Not a note, not a trace.

You, however, did not dare to go into the dungeon. If something had happened down there, you figured you’d have heard it by now. Considering the occasional noises that did emanate from below, you’d rather not set foot there unless absolutely necessary.

At first, it was almost nice not having him around. No rigid lessons, no tedious lectures about magic, Chaos, and the mystic world . No condescending remarks about how you should embrace your abilities when all you wanted was to be a doctor. You could go at your own pace, free from the expectation of mastering something you never asked for in the first place.

Despite your Chaos magic improving, you couldn’t say you liked it. It felt unstable, unpredictable, like playing with something you had no business touching. It was wrong to mess with reality. And while you acknowledged that you’d used it to save lives, it wasn’t as if you’d done it knowingly .

For the most part, you continued on as usual. Bed-rotting, sleeping, scrolling on your phone, flipping through books, wandering the Sanctum in hopes of finding something, anything , to rid yourself of the creeping boredom.

You almost felt like a teenager left alone in a house full of things you weren’t supposed to touch. Stephen wasn’t here to tell you what you could and couldn’t do.

Not that you did much. You may have poked a few artifacts with a hesitant finger before quickly pulling away when nothing happened. And, okay, you might have intruded into Stephen’s room just to see if there was anything interesting.

There wasn’t.

Just magic, magic, and more magic. Books filled with incantations, artifacts humming with barely contained energy, old notes scrawled in his meticulous handwriting. Nothing useful .

Dare you say, you missed when Stephen was an arrogant doctor instead of an arrogant sorcerer.

By the second day, you started to get worried.

You doubted anything truly awful had happened. After all, he was the Sorcerer Supreme. He could handle himself. But it was still… odd.

You almost started to miss his presence—almost. Despite how frustrating he could be, he always had some book recommendation that wasn’t entirely boring, and he was attentive to your needs in a way that was hard to admit.

With a sigh, you found yourself back in his room, rifling through his drawers with slightly less restraint than before. Maybe there was something here, something that could tell you where he–

“Are you going to read me the Daily Bugle?”

A voice startled you, cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

You gasped, stumbling back, heart hammering as your eyes darted around for the source. After a moment of frantic searching, they landed on the figure sitting at your feet.

A dog.

…A ghost dog?

“What the fuck?” you muttered, hand clutching your chest in a futile attempt to calm your racing heart.

The spectral basset hound wagged his tail, his shimmering form flickering slightly in the dim light.

“Doc reads me the Daily Bugle,” the dog continued, his thick New York accent dripping from every word. His tail thumped against the floor in a steady rhythm. “But Doc ain’t here. So, are you gonna read it to me or what?”

You took a step back. Then another. The ghost dog trotted forward, tail wagging even harder, ears flopping slightly as he moved.

This shouldn’t be possible.

Then again, you were forcibly stuck in the Sanctum Sanctorum, dealing with magic you didn’t even want, so maybe anything was possible now.

“I—I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Your hip banged into Stephen’s desk as you scrambled for distance, nearly knocking something (some magical artifact you honestly couldn’t bother about the details) over. With panicked hands, you caught it just in time, carefully setting it back in place as if nothing had happened.

The ghost dog just blinked up at you.

“So that’s a no on the Bugle?”

Your shaky fingers managed to fix the object, making it imperceptible to change. You let out a quiet huff of relief before turning to the cute, yet undeniably bothersome ghost dog.

"Why should I read you the Bugle… Ghost Dog?"

The hound let out a sharp bark of laughter, throwing his head back with such force that his droopy face flapped with the movement.

"Call me Bats! I’m Doc’s dog! And you should read me the Bugle because, otherwise, I’ll tell Doc you were snooping in his room!"

A low grumble escaped your throat at the not-so-idle threat. As much as you hated to admit it, the ghost dog had a point. You weren’t exactly afraid of Stephen, but if he found out you had been poking around his room in his absence… Well, it wasn’t a conversation you particularly wanted to have.

"...Fine," you muttered, almost indignantly, pushing yourself off the desk. Your hand shot out, snatching the rolled-up newspaper resting on Stephen’s desk. Bats hummed happily, his glowing paws tapping eagerly against the wooden floor as he trotted after you, his tail wagging in triumph.

You strode toward the doorway with purpose, only to realize, midway through, that you had no purpose. Your steps slowed, then halted entirely.

Frowning, you glanced down at the ghostly blue hound sitting at your feet.

"...Where does he usually read this to you?"

Bats didn’t answer right away. Instead, the ghostly hound took the lead, floating just above the ground as he silently guided you through the Sanctum. You followed without question, your footsteps barely making a sound against the wooden floors.

He led you to a seating area beneath the grand, ornate window of the Sanctum. Moonlight poured through the intricate glass, casting soft, shifting shadows along the floor. You had never seen Stephen, or anyone, for that matter, occupy this space before, but Bats hopped onto one of the seats as if it were a familiar routine.

His glowing blue tail wagged steadily, his expectant eyes fixed on you as he waited for you to sit.

With a quiet sigh, you sank into the chair beside him, unfolding the newspaper and skimming the bold headline.

“Does… Stephen read to you a lot?”

Bats' tail slowed slightly as he considered your question, his floppy ears twitching. Then, his excitement returned, and his tail wagged with even more enthusiasm.

"Mostly when Spider-Man is mentioned."

Your eyes flicked to the front page, and sure enough, there was a photo of Spider-Man next to the main article. A small, humorless chuckle escaped you.

"…I take it you like him?"

Bats’ tail wagged so rapidly that the tip began phasing through the couch.

"Of course!" he said, his voice practically bursting with energy. "He helps Doc all the time! And I've even met him! He's a good kid! The Bugle has it all wrong!"

His excitement dimmed for a moment as his expression shifted into a comically exaggerated scowl.

"Oh—if I ever meet that Jameson."

He let out a tiny growl, his ghostly fur bristling.

You couldn't help it– you laughed. The sight of an irate, spectral basset hound glaring into the void over a tabloid was just too much.

Bats, clearly pleased by your reaction, perked up even more, his tail wagging furiously.

"Alright, alright," you said, shaking your head in amusement. "Let’s see what New York’s Most Trusted News Source has to say about your favorite hero today."

The front page droned on once again about the so-called menace to society that was Spider-Man. This time, the article detailed the aftermath of his latest battle with the Rhino, painting a grim picture of destruction in the Lower East Side. Collapsed structures, shattered windows, people injured—some nearly killed. The Bugle never failed to make him sound like the villain.

By the time you finished reading, Bats was drifting off to sleep—or at least, it looked like he was. Could ghosts even sleep? You weren’t sure. He certainly acted like a regular dog, his body rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, his tail twitching slightly in what might have been the ghostly version of a dream. Then again, you were basing this entirely on what you knew about living dogs rather than any real understanding of ghosts.

A comfortable silence settled between you as you watched him, your eyes tracing the details of his spectral form. Despite being translucent and glowing, his fur still had texture, individual strands catching the light, and the wrinkles in his droopy face remained just as expressive as any living basset hound’s.

Your mind wandered, jumping from thought to thought, before settling on one in particular.

How did Stephen even end up with a ghost dog?

“Do you know where Stephen is?” you asked, keeping your voice quiet, almost hesitant. If Bats was asleep, you didn’t want to wake him.

The dog stirred slightly, his glowing eyes cracking open as he regarded you.

“Doc always disappears randomly,” he said with a small huff. “He is Sorcerer Supreme. He’ll be back eventually.”

He let his head rest again, his gaze still fixed on you.

You nodded absentmindedly, about to let the conversation fade into silence once more when another question pushed its way out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“Is Stephen…” You paused, searching for the right word. “Nice to you?”

As soon as the words left your lips, you regretted them. It was a stupid question. Of course, he was nice to Bats. It wasn’t like Stephen was an outright asshole … he just… felt like it sometimes.

Bats lets out a small huff before laughing at the stupidity of the question. You could feel your face burning. It’s one thing to be talking to a ghost dog and asking him questions, it’s another when he’s openly laughing at you. 

“Stephen hasn’t been so welcoming to you?”

Hesitantly, you nodded, and Bats let out a little chuckle at your reaction.

“Stephen told me about you,” Bats continued, shifting slightly in his spot on the chair. Your ears perked at his words, and before you even realized it, you found yourself unconsciously leaning in, hanging onto every syllable.

“How he worked with you back when he was a doctor. I’m sure you’re familiar with how arrogant he can be.” Bats let out another amused huff before continuing, his tail wagging lazily. “But he’s not trying to be rude. He’s just… never been good with civilians since becoming, well, Doc as I know him. And you? You’re one of the only connections to his former life.”

That… made sense.

It wasn’t like Stephen had planned on keeping you around. From the very beginning, he had insisted on taking you to Kamar-Taj, even now offering you the option. It was you who refused to leave. You who insisted on staying. You who, in a way, were intruding on his life.

He isn’t a teacher, that much is obvious.

You distinctly remember the time he tried to convince you to change your mind, how he had mentioned that at Kamar-Taj, they could teach you how to control Chaos magic properly. Stephen himself didn’t have much patience, something you had witnessed firsthand back in med school. Sure, he took care of you, was attentive to your needs, ensured you had food, clothing, and a place to sleep, but emotionally? Stephen wasn’t there for you. Not in the way you might have wanted.

But maybe… he was never supposed to be.

His obligation had been to save you. And he did. You were the one who thrust the burden of watching over you onto him.

The realization stung.

It was almost comparable to a child with an emotionally unavailable parent, someone who provides the necessities but is otherwise distant, unable to offer true companionship.

As your mind worked to process the weight of this revelation, Bats, oblivious to the existential crisis he had just sparked, casually dropped another bomb on you.

“He thinks it’s awkward because he knew of your crush on him.”

Your breath hitched.

The words didn’t register at first. But when they did , heat exploded across your face, your entire body going rigid.

You snapped your gaze to Bats, gaping at him like he had just sprouted a second head. “ Excuse me? ”

Bats simply wagged his tail, as if he hadn’t just sent your entire nervous system into a state of shock.

The casual way he said it only made it worse.

He knew you had feelings for him?

You barely had time to wrap your head around that before your mind spiraled further. Because it wasn’t like you hadn’t had feelings for him at one point. No, you had , back in med school, long before magic, long before the Sanctum, long before he became Sorcerer Supreme.

But that was years ago. Years ago.

Right?

You swallowed thickly, your heart pounding as you tried, and failed, to push the thought from your mind. You could not dwell on this.

And you definitely would not be acknowledging it.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

In fact, you’d rather take this little revelation to the grave .

For now, you just hoped Stephen would be gone a little longer. At least until you could pretend to have processed this by the time he came back.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It wasn’t until the fourth day that Stephen finally returned.

At first, you didn’t even realize he was back. After all, you hadn’t seen him for the majority of the day, and you had long since settled into the routine you had created in his absence.

Wake up. Stretch. Eat breakfast. Rot in bed. Read. Wander. Eat lunch. Wander some more. Talk to Bats (if he appeared). Take a nap. Eat dinner. Rot some more. Scroll mindlessly on your phone. Sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

You had gotten used to the silence of the Sanctum without him, to the stillness of the halls that once carried his voice. It wasn’t ideal, but you had adapted.

And then, in the middle of your post-lunch wandering, he disrupted your carefully crafted schedule.

You nearly ran straight into him.

One moment, you were aimlessly wandering the halls, your mind lost in the haze of monotony, and the next, you were halting abruptly, your nose inches from the firm, broad chest of a very familiar figure.

Stephen.

Your breath caught in your throat as you took a step back, blinking up at him in disbelief. He looked… exhausted. His usually sharp, piercing eyes were dulled by something you couldn’t quite place…fatigue, irritation, something heavier than just a lack of sleep. His cloak hung off his shoulders slightly askew, and the faintest shadow of stubble dusted his jaw.

"You’re back," you said dumbly, as if stating the obvious would somehow make sense of everything.

Stephen let out a low sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Observant as always."

You frowned at the sarcasm but chose not to comment on it. Instead, you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to push away the strange relief you felt at seeing him standing there. "Where the hell have you been?"

He arched a brow at your accusatory tone, his gaze flickering over you as if assessing whether this was a conversation he wanted to have right now. "Handling things."

"Handling what ?" You pressed, shifting your weight impatiently.

Stephen exhaled sharply, his shoulders tensing before finally relenting. "The Darkholders have been moving faster than I anticipated. I needed to investigate."

Your stomach twisted at the mention of them, but you refused to let your concern show. "And you didn’t think to tell me?"

"I didn’t think you needed to know."

The words struck you like a slap, and for a moment, you just stared at him. Didn’t think you needed to know? You had spent four days wondering where he was, wondering if he was alive, if something had gone wrong, and he just didn’t think you needed to know ?

Anger flared in your chest. "Right. Because it’s not like my life is the one being turned upside down or anything."

Stephen sighed again, this time heavier, more exasperated. "I didn’t have time to check in. I had to move quickly."

"And you don’t think disappearing for four days without a word would’ve freaked me out just a little?"

He finally looked at you, really looked at you, and something in his expression shifted. Maybe it was the genuine frustration in your voice, or maybe he finally realized just how much his absence had affected you. Either way, the sharpness in his features softened, even if just slightly.

"I didn’t mean to worry you," he admitted, voice quieter now.

You scoffed, shaking your head as you turned away. "Well, you did."

Silence hung between you, thick and unspoken.

Stephen didn’t move, didn’t offer another excuse or justification. He simply stood there, watching you, as if waiting for you to say something else.

But you didn’t.

You weren’t sure what else there was to say.

“I just… would’ve appreciated something. I didn’t know where you had gone, or for how long you’d be gone. You could’ve told me– or a note, or even just sent one of your sorcerer friends– just something!” 

You didn’t realize how emotional you had become over the matter until your voice kept rising, each word edged with frustration you hadn’t meant to reveal. A small, indignant huff left your lips as you crossed your arms, forcing yourself to look away from him. You didn’t want to see his reaction, to see whether he looked annoyed, indifferent, or worst of all, guilty.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Not an awkward one, but a thick, weighty pause filled with all the things neither of you wanted to say. Despite keeping your gaze averted, you could sense Stephen’s hesitation, and could almost picture the way his brow furrowed as he carefully weighed his response.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he spoke.

"I will," he murmured, his voice quiet but firm, just loud enough for you to hear.

Something about those two words made you pause. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you turned your gaze back toward him.

Your heart gave an uncomfortable thud at the sight of his expression, something subtle yet uncharacteristically regretful in the way he held himself. His exhaustion was evident in the dark circles beneath his eyes, in the slight droop of his shoulders, but beyond that… he looked real. Stripped of his usual sharpness, of the carefully constructed arrogance that acted as a shield.

And God help you, he looked good.

There was something about that fleeting moment of vulnerability that made your stomach twist, your pulse stutter, and heat bloom across your face before you could stop it.

You quickly cleared your throat, trying to play it off, forcing yourself to refocus. "I was—" You cut yourself off, swallowing as you searched for the right words. "I am lonely. Even when you're here."

Stephen's eyes flickered slightly at that. Though he was already looking at you, it was different now. His gaze sharpened, scanning your face, searching—not just for the words you were saying, but for the weight behind them.

"I know," he murmured, the words slow and deliberate.

And you realized, he did know.

He’s always known.

But knowing and doing something about it were two very different things. And Stephen, ever the master of avoidance, had always chosen the latter, keeping you at arm’s length, ensuring that whatever this strange dynamic between you both was, it never veered too close to something he couldn’t control.

But he could leave. You couldn’t.

And that made all the difference.

"I'm lonely," you repeated, softer this time, but no less insistent. You needed him to hear you, needed him to do something about it, not just acknowledge it with empty words.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering away for just a second, brief but telling.

Then, he sighed. A slow, measured exhale.

"I'm sorry."

And for once, Stephen Strange sounded like he truly meant it.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

Stephen seemed to be making a more active effort to be present.

Rarely had you encountered him outside of your lessons. Now? He was becoming more prominent. You’d walk down a hall and he’d actually be there. And from time to time, he’d even be in the same room as you.

It felt weird, to say the least.

Like now, as you sat comfortably beneath the large window on the third floor of the Sanctum, trying to read a book. A book about what, you may ask? Magic. As every damn book in this building was about magic.

Your phone had died and was currently charging in your room, and there wasn’t a TV in this godforsaken building despite your numerous pleas to Stephen.

Each time you begged, he answered simply with the same damn words: “ Read a book .”

So now, reading had become your hobby, as it was back in middle school and high school. And you didn’t hate reading. But the mass consumption of books informing you about magic had become repetitive and dull. With little material on Chaos magic itself, you struggled to understand your powers beyond what Stephen had told you—which, admittedly, wasn’t much to begin with.

You’d learned of the powers of the Vishanti, the mystic arts, the Sorcerer Supreme. And while that would’ve been interesting if you could actually use those powers, or if it were fiction, you couldn’t. Stephen had tried teaching you his magic, but Chaos magic was the only kind of mystic energy you could access. And in most cases, your attempts to use it intentionally had failed.

Enough of the eternal monologue. Now, as you read yet another book on magic, Stephen made his presence known. Upon seeing you, his brow lifted—just slightly—a silent acknowledgment of your existence. You chose not to pay it any mind as he wandered toward whatever it was he needed.

In this case, it was one of the many artifacts encased in glass. You watched him from the corner of your eye, careful not to make it obvious unless he was intently watching you.

With a wave of his hand, the glass vanished as if it had never existed. He effortlessly grabbed the small object, quietly slipping it into his pocket.

Humming to yourself, you turned back to your book, shifting to tuck your feet beneath you.

Stephen’s presence didn’t leave. Instead, it lingered in your periphery. You could feel his gaze, direct and unmoving, as you tried to focus on the words in front of you. Biting your bottom lip, you ignored his rather blatant stare, turning the page like nothing was happening.

But a minute passed. Then another. He was still staring.

You tried to reason with yourself. Maybe he was worried. Maybe there was something on your face and he was working up the nerve to say something.

By the third minute, you looked up.

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you went still, thick with silence and something else entirely. Something unnamed. Something you didn’t dare breathe life into.

Stephen didn’t look away.

Not even when your lips parted slightly in surprise, or when your gaze faltered, just for a second. His expression wasn’t unreadable, it was soft . Thoughtful. Like he was memorizing something.

Your heart beat painfully against your ribs.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally glanced away. But not before the faintest smile pulled at the corner of his lips. Subtle. Real.

He turned and left without a word.

And you were left behind, staring at the space where he had stood, your face flushed, the book forgotten entirely in your lap.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

Stephen felt more present since his sudden disappearance, and your quiet admission of loneliness. Instead of rarely encountering him between your infrequent lessons, you found yourself running into him at least once a day, whether that be in the kitchen, the library, or somewhere else in the Sanctum.

You suspected it was his way of trying to be there for you, rather than shunning you away. And albeit his approach to the issue was rather awkward, it worked, to an extent. Even though whenever you did run into him, the two of you barely exchanged words, just lingering near each other in an almost comfortable silence.

And so, today was no different. Stephen sat comfortably in his lounge chair among the artifacts in the upper areas of the Sanctum Sanctorum, while you wandered around the shelves, looking for a new book to read (you had already searched the main library and found nothing to your interest, as most were in languages you couldn’t understand).

You could feel his gaze watching you, not in a predatory way, just observant. You paid it no mind as your fingers trailed along the edges of the wooden shelf, quietly mumbling the titles under your breath.

Your hand paused on a book bound in purple: Codex Arcanum: Magic and Marvel of the Realms. Mindlessly, you ran your index finger over the title, debating whether or not you should grab it to read over the next few days.

“That’s a good one.”

Stephen’s voice startled you from behind. You jumped, colliding into his chest. His hands quickly steadied you, gently gripping your shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly, his silver eyes gazing into yours with concern as he towered over you. His hands lingered for only a moment before pulling away. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You just seemed interested.”

You weakly nodded, trying to control the blush of embarrassment threatening to coat your cheeks. Stephen smiled, gently, and it felt… strange. You hadn’t seen Stephen smile in years, and this Stephen was still vastly different from the one you once knew. The deep thrumming of your heart pounded in your ears, and you tried to ignore the wild rhythm in your chest.

“I– I’m just trying to find a good book for the night,” you mumbled almost shyly, cursing yourself for acting like this. You knew Stephen, and yet you were acting like one of the shy nurses you used to watch him flirt with. You wanted to scream at yourself, but decided you’d save that for later, in your room, where he couldn’t watch you crumble under your own ridiculousness.

He hummed, gaze drifting toward the shelf in front of you, fingers mindlessly stroking his beard. Your eyes couldn’t help but settle on his scarred hands, reminders of months of repeated surgeries, attempts to restore what was lost. You quickly looked away, hoping he hadn’t noticed your staring.

He reached above you, grabbing a book you’d never have reached on your own. Silently, he dropped it into your hands. You fumbled, nearly dropping it in your flustered and clumsy state. Stephen paid it no mind as he wandered farther down the aisle, retrieving another book and gently tossing it toward you. You barely managed to catch it, letting out a soft huff from the weight.

Another book. Then another. Your arms strained, your back beginning to ache under the growing burden. Stephen reached for yet another tome, but before he could add to your stack, you finally snapped.

“No more!” you huffed out loudly, causing him to pause.

He looked at you quickly, now clearly noticing your struggling form. In an instant, his hand reached out, relieving you of the stack. He carried them with ease as you struggled to catch your breath. Your heart was still pounding, though it was debatable if that was from Stephen’s presence, or the fact you’d just carried five ten-pound books in the span of minutes.

You hunched slightly, breathless, cheeks flushed, unsure if it was due to the man before you or exertion, when in truth it was probably due to both. 

Stephen looks down at you, holding the weighted books effortlessly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“You could’ve said something sooner,” he teases gently, his voice low and warm, and an old and nearly unfamiliar hint of playfulness behind his words. 

“I didn’t want to seem weak,” you muttered, nearly wheezing out your words as you refused to meet his eyes, your gaze instead focused on the arcane symbols embossed on the tomes in his arms. 

“You’re not weak,” he quickly states, his tone more serious. “You carry more than most people will.”

Your eyes flicker to his, and for a brief moment, the space between you felt soft. Electric, intimate– almost. The kind of silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, but instead leans in, waits.  

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he interrupts the tender silence between the two of you. His voice is quieter, hesitant even. His silver eyes searches your face, as if he’s trying to read you, trying to decide how close he can get. “I… haven’t been the best at knowing how to approach this. You.”

You shifted your weight between your legs, trying to ignore the butterflies that buzzed around in your stomach (or were you hungry? You wanted to believe it was the latter). The air around you now felt heavy, but not unpleasant. 

“I’ve noticed,” you say softly, not unkindly. “But knowing you… I figured you are trying.”

“I am,” he quickly admits, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. For a second, you thought it was your mind and pounding heart playing tricks on you, but after a few more blinks, you realized he was actually closer. “Just not always successfully.” 

“But you try,” you blurt out, your gaze meeting him for only a second before your eyes decide to settle on something else.  

Stephen sets the books gently on a nearby table, his eyes flickering back to you with something unreadable. Concern, maybe even regret. 

“You should’ve told me earlier,” his voice is quiet, his hands brushing together to rid them of dust. “About the loneliness.” 

You look away, unsure of how to answer, let alone respond. The shelves suddenly felt too tall, the silence between you too now too sharp. “It… didn’t feel like something I was allowed to say.”

The words made him flinch, or at least, come as close to a flinch as you’ll see with Stephen. It was slight, but you managed to notice despite how quick it was. 

“You are,” he said. “You always have been.” 

You only manage to give him a half hearted shrug, not knowing how to properly respond. “You’re busy. Sorcerer Supreme. I didn’t want to bother you by being another thing you had to manage.” 

His jaw tightens at your words, and he steps forward. Close, but not too close, just enough that you can feel the weight of his presence. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you. If anything, it felt like he was trying to ground himself– a stark contrast to the Stephen you once knew. 

“You are not a task or a problem to manage,” he states, his voice more firm now. “I didn’t realize how isolated you were. That’s on me.”

Finally, you managed to meet his gaze, the silver of his irises boring into yours. “You were here, but it never felt like it.”

Stephen looks away, towards the large window that displays the outside of New York City. The light filtered through, fading into soft evening blues. His expression darkened, not with anger, but with self reproach. 

“I though giving you space was the right thing,” he admits softly. “You’ve been through enough already. I didn’t want to crowd you.”

“I didn’t need space,” you were quick to say, “I needed someone to stay.”

The words hung between you, heavier than the books were. He nodded, slowly, as if he was absorbing the blow. The words were unspoken, but Stephen knew you wanted him to stay, for him to be there for you.

“I’m sorry,” his deep voice was unnaturally gentle, soft. In such a way that sends heat blooming across not only your face but also your chest. “I didn’t mean to make you feel alone in this place.”

You could see how tired he looked. The slouch to his shoulders, the bag under his eyes, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly to the side. A part of you blames yourself, aware that he had been exerting himself in order to guarantee your safety. He was more worn than you thought, and maybe guilt weighed on him, even if he rarely showed it. 

“I know you’re trying,” you say after a pause. “This… us… is complicated. 

A faint smile bordering a smirk ghosted his lips, weary but genuine. “That’s one word for it.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, more to self soothe than anything. “You don’t have to fix everything. But just… don’t disappear like that again.”

Stephen nodded once, slowly. “I won’t.”

He reached out to the books he had placed to the side earlier, carefully grabbing one. Not the thickest of the bunch, and definitely not the heaviest. The same purple bound one he had startled you when you were looking at it earlier. 

“You’ll like this one,” he said, a quiet warmth to his voice. “It won’t overwhelm you.” 

You look down at the book, your fingers running over the edge before looking back at him.

“Thanks.”

He gave you a small nod in acknowledgment, then turned to leave, but not before casting one last look over his shoulder. 

“I’ll be in the library tonight,” he said. “In case you… want to talk. Or not talk.”

You blinked slowly, surprise clear on your face. You try to play off the obvious blush on your cheeks from his invitation, only managing to muster up the strength to say one word without your voice cracking or sounding strained, “Okay.”

Then, he was stone. His footsteps fade softly into the distance, leaving you with the book, and the smallest flicker of something you can’t quite name. Comfort, maybe. Or the hope that next time, when you need someone, he might actually stay.

You can’t help but smile as you glance down at the book in your hands, no longer being able to ignore your pounding heart and butterflies blooming in your stomach. 

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It was during the late nights where you found yourself at the peak of boredom. You supposed you could indulge yourself in meeting Stephen like he had invited. However, you failed to realize that unlike you he had a reasonable sleep schedule. As like clockwork, he would always disappear behind the door to his bedroom, tending to his duties as Sorcerer Supreme, and, unlike you, going to bed at a reasonable time.

The towering bookshelves of the Sanctum Sanctorum's vast library loomed over you, their sheer height making you feel small as you wandered through the dimly lit aisles. The air smelled of aged parchment and ancient ink, a scent both comforting and intimidating. Your fingertips danced lightly along the spines of the books, their covers rich with history and mystery, each one holding knowledge far beyond your comprehension.

Most were in languages you couldn’t read, some, you were convinced, belonged to civilizations long since lost to time. The symbols and scripts twisted before your eyes, unfamiliar and enigmatic.

Then, your fingers stilled on a particular book.

Bound in dark red leather, its spine was adorned with elaborate gold etchings, the title completely indecipherable. Yet, despite not understanding a single word, you felt something, an invisible thread pulling you toward it, a strange magnetic force humming beneath your skin. It was as if the book itself was calling to you.

Curiosity overpowered hesitation. Carefully, you pried the heavy tome from its place, the weight of it solid in your hands. Without wasting another moment, you flipped it open, scanning the pages with growing frustration.

To no one's surprise… you couldn’t understand a single word.

A sigh of exasperation left your lips as you stared at the pages, willing the foreign text to make sense. After several long moments of fruitless contemplation, a thought surfaced.

"Chaos magic manipulates… changes reality."

Stephen’s words echoed in your mind as your eyes honed on the book, the tips of your fingers dancing along the spine. For a moment, a reckless idea entered your mind. 

You could try… changing the book. Maybe, somehow, manipulate the reality of the language sprawled across its ancient pages. Make it something legible, something you could actually understand . But the book was older than you. Older than Stephen. Possibly even older than some of the artifacts scattered throughout this very building. You decided against it.

“Why must you limit yourself?”

The deep, unfamiliar voice shattered the silence, startling you. You flinched and glanced around quickly, your heart skipping as you tried to locate the source of the sound, hoping it was Stephen, or even some trick of your mind. But as your eyes scanned the room, they finally landed on the portrait.

A painting you’d stared at before. One you’d often passed by and wondered about its identity, never something you bothered to ask Stephen.

But today… It looked wrong .

The eyes, once obviously painted, now shimmered like they belonged to something alive . The skin, once dry brushstrokes and aged pigment, looked almost real . The subtle textures you remembered were now organic, even breathing.

It unsettled you. Deeply.

Then it spoke again.

“So much potential.”

The voice slithered through the air, colder this time. Goosebumps rippled along your arms as the hair on your neck rose. Your breath hitched in your throat, and you let out a quiet gasp, nearly dropping the book in your hands. In a frantic blur, you clutched it tightly, fumbling awkwardly, just barely keeping it from slipping.

And still, the portrait continued.

“Go on,” it said, its gaze flicking downward, toward the book you held. “Just change a few words. With those powers, you can change anything .”

Your instincts screamed. Fight or flight roared through your system as your senses were overwhelmed by the sheer wrongness of what was happening, a voice with no body, a presence bound to a canvas.

You shivered, taking a small step back. You wanted to run, but your legs felt disconnected, frozen in place. Trembling overtook you, your body rooted to the floor, unable to move.

“Don’t be scared,” the voice cooed, still calm, still unnerving. The portrait’s form began to shift—the face of the woman melting away into something unrecognizable, something that could no longer be called human. “I only wish to see your powers grow.”

You tried to respond, tried to say something, anything, but your voice failed you. Your lips parted, trembling, but not a sound came out.

Your hands shook violently as you stood there, caught in a storm of awe, fear, and a dangerous flicker of curiosity.

The face– now morphing into gray skin with horns smiled at you, recognizing the curiosity that bubbled in your chest. The sharp teeth did nothing to soothe you, rather, it made you panic even more as your breaths became more erratic.

The portrait’s twisted form continued to pulse as if painted onto skin instead of canvas, eyes burning like ink spilled in water, wide and patient. Watching.

“You are wasting what I gave you,” the voice echoed again—deeper this time. No longer a whisper, but a command wrapped in velvet. You blinked, and the background of the painting warped, rippling like the surface of disturbed water.

“I don’t even know who you are,” you managed to whisper at last, your voice dry, cracking at the edges of your throat.

The portrait let out a strange, seductive chuckle. It slithered down your spine and bloomed unwelcome heat across your cheeks.

“You know who I am.”

You did. Or at least… part of you did. That weird magnetic pull, the rhythmic thrum of energy coursing through your body, it all pointed back to him. Whoever this figure was, it was tied to your magic. Or more accurately… you were tied to his .

“I didn’t ask for this,” you murmured, your tongue heavy, a thick wad of saliva gathering in your throat, making it harder to breathe, let alone speak.

“And yet you took it.”

You froze.

You didn’t take it. Not willingly. How could you have? You hadn’t even known you could control Chaos Magic until Stephen told you. And even now, you’d only wielded it by accident, by instinct. You feared your magic. Hated the weight it carried. The potential . You didn’t want to master it, but now, you're being forced to understand the horrifying and beautiful things it could become.

“Stephen cannot teach you. Not truly ,” the portrait crooned, his voice coiling into your ears like smoke. Deep maroon tendrils began to seep from the edges of the frame. “ He fears Chaos. He fears you .”

You stiffened even more.

Was there truth in his words? Or was this just another trick? A manipulation dressed as honesty? Still… Stephen had always been wary. The way his tone sharpened when your emotions got too loud. How quick he was to stop you mid-casting. Did he… fear you?

You parted your lips to speak, to oppose the portrait’s claim, but the book in your hands gave a low, vibrating hum, stopping you cold. The pages rustled unnaturally in the still air, and a crimson light bled from the edges, each pulse syncing perfectly with your heartbeat.

“I can help you. I will help you.”

The portrait leaned forward, or at least, it felt like it did, though the frame never truly moved.

“Your potential is infinite. Chaos is creation. Destruction. Evolution. ”

Darkness began to creep inward from the corners of the room, blurring the space around you. Shadows grew longer, heavier, as if the walls themselves were shifting. The book’s script twisted before your eyes, the once-impossible runes reshaping themselves into legible language. The more you looked, the more it made sense . The letters whispered in tongues you never learned, revealing names and meanings. They tugged at something ancient buried deep within you—something true .

“I’m—I’m not like you,” you whispered, clutching the book tighter. Your eyes refused to look away from the words. You were caught in a war: to read, to not read.

“You are exactly like me ,” he said, voice dropping to something almost tender. “ Why else would my magic choose you ?”

You swallowed hard, the thick lump still caught in your throat. The weight of it all, his voice, the book, the pull, your fear, the deep ache to understand, to control , crushed down on your chest.

And yet…

Stephen’s face flickered in your mind like a dying flame. That rare moment when he looked at you, not as a threat, but as something he wanted to protect. He tried. No matter how flawed his methods, he tried.

“I don’t trust you,” you said. Louder this time. Your gaze finally tore from the book and found the portrait. Your voice shook, but it stood firm, defiant.

The voice laughed. Low and heavy, reverberating like stones cracking deep beneath the earth.

“You will.”

The portrait’s eyes glowed crimson one last time… before fading. The figure fell still, the frame once again just brushstrokes and varnish, nothing more than ancient paint.

But the book in your hands, humming with untapped power, the words still made perfect, terrifying sense.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

“You don’t seem to be paying attention.”

Stephen’s voice startled you out of your thoughts as you stared blankly at him, having nearly fallen asleep during one of his lessons. Since that evening talking to that portrait, you’ve struggled to have a proper night of sleep. And even during those short hours in which you would sleep, his face would plague your dreams, always in the corner of your eye, but never in your frontal view.

“Sorry,” you murmur automatically, rubbing at your tired eyes, stifling the yawn bubbling in your throat. Stephen sighs in what you assume is disapproval, slightly shaking his head. 

“What is wrong?”

His voice is so gentle, so concerned. Your heart nearly skips a beat, but you quickly shake the thought away, instead, rubbing at your face as you try to play off your tiredness.

“Just not enough sleep,” you mumble, avoiding his piercing gaze, knowing that if you met his eyes the truth of what happened that night would tumble out of your mouth helplessly.

Silence settles around you. And unlike the last time you were with Stephen, this wasn’t one of the soft, comfortable silence that doesn’t beg for more. Instead, this was tense, bordering awkward. One that if you just admitted the truth, would probably be better, but you feared what could happen.

His gaze doesn’t relent, and you can see him from the corner of your eye as you purposefully try to stare at the book in front of you. It was observing, but in a way that was stripping you of your layers, trying to get in your mind. You knew Stephen was no telepath, but with his perceptive silver eyes, it felt like he could read every thought running through your mind.

A sigh escapes your lips. You can’t help but relent. Whilst you refuse to tell the truth, you could at least broach the subject in a way that Stephen won’t be mad that you didn't immediately tell him. 

“There’s this figure… that's been appearing in my dreams.”

He immediately shifts closer to you, nearly startling you from how invested he already seems. His thick eyebrows furrowed, his jaw tightening as he undeniably clenched his teeth. His silence urged you to continue, and so, you did.

“He– He has gray skin, and has horns, and almost has a red aura about him. He never does anything, but he’s always just there, and watching. I… haven’t been able to get a full night's rest because of it.”

Your small but adept description was enough for Stephen, as he immediately stiffens upon hearing the revelation. His back straightens, his eyes widening imperceptibly for a moment. He murmurs lowly to himself, and you weren’t aware enough to catch what he says. Without a word, he steps closer to you, causing your back to straighten as he threatens to enter your personal space.

“Has this figure talked to you?”

You gulp, hoping that it only comes off as you being nervous “Maybe…”

The low sigh and the pinch of the bridge of his nose is enough to tell you that this wasn’t good. And seeing as the first meeting that you had with said figure was terrifying to say the least, you assumed that the danger that felt so far away was now coming closer. 

“Chthon has established a way of communicating. I may need to cast some additional spells.”

Stephen began to pace about the room, leaving you watching him from your seat. He murmurs and murmurs to himself, his fingers rubbing at his beard. You have started to notice how whenever he thinks, he tends to rub his beard. 

“Is that who the figure is, Chthon?” You ask curiously, stopping Stephen in his tracks. He stills his movements, looking at you and confirming your question with a nod.

“Yes. Chthon is the source for all Chaos magic users powers.” 

Your ears perk, now recalling one of the first conversations you had with Stephen when arriving at the Sanctum Sanctorum that Chthon was who the dark holders wanted to sacrifice you to.

Upon realizing the expression of dread on your face must have been blatant with how quick Stephen was trying to assure you.

“There’s no need for concern. The Darkholders remain contained—for now. What you’re experiencing only indicates your connection to Chaos magic is growing stronger, which is expected as we continue developing it. I’ll reinforce the wards and cast a few additional spells to try and sever his influence.”

Stephen places a comforting hand on your shoulder, a small smile tugging at lips in an attempt to console you. Instead, your heart skips a little beat at the sight, pink tingeing your cheeks. 

“Please let me know if he talks to you again.” He murmurs, his hand trailing up to your neck, his fingers moving to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The small blush on your cheeks blooms widely, now glaringly obvious, but Stephen seems to pay it no mind. You desperately wanted to justify that this was just his inappropriate way of comforting you, but as thoughts raced rapidly through your mind, you found less and less excuses to provide as his hand lingered on your cheek.

However, the moment is quickly gone as Stephen removes his hand, clearing his throat and turning away from you. Looking away, you attempted to calm your ever racing heart, rubbing your face and awkwardly clearing your throat. 

“Lesson is over.” He states, and if you listen carefully, you could hear that he's a little flustered himself (obviously you didn’t notice that until replaying the moment in your head). “I must go take care of this.”

Words died in your throat as Stephen hurriedly walked away, not allowing you the chance to say anything. Letting out a weak cough as you tried to clear your throat once more, the burning blush on your cheeks and pounding heart made you feel so embarrassed by the situation. 

Tonight, you will crawl into your bed and hope the awkwardness between the two of you will be gone by the morning. 

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

Small moments between you and Stephen were starting to feel more frequent now. Unlike before, when your encounters were few and far between, it was beginning to feel like you ran into him more often. Like now.

He was about to pass you in one of the many winding hallways of the Sanctum, and, like usual, not a single word seemed poised to pass between you. However, unlike usual, his gaze was fixed on the open book in his hand, his attention too deeply absorbed in its contents. So, when the two of you crossed paths, he didn’t see you in time—his shoulder brushed into yours, catching you off guard.

You stumbled, losing your balance. Not enough to fall, but just enough to make your heart lurch. He was quick, his free hand moving with practiced ease, catching you by the small of your back to steady you.

You felt the warmth of his touch before your brain could register anything else.

You ignored the small hitch in your breathing as you quickly composed yourself, trying desperately not to focus on how his hand lingered, firm and grounding, on the curve of your spine. The contact sent heat skittering up your neck.

He offered a small, apologetic smile, still balancing his book with practiced ease, but his gaze had shifted entirely to you.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said lowly, his voice edged with concern. His silver-blue eyes searched your face, making sure you were truly okay.

You dismissed it with a quick wave of your hand, eager to smooth over the moment, even if your pulse was still pounding in your ears. “No, it’s fine. I should’ve been more careful.”

But your mind was no longer cooperating.

It could only focus on one thing: his hand still resting against your back.

Your breath caught again, so quiet you hoped he didn’t notice. A blush threatened to rise, blooming beneath your skin, creeping from your chest toward your cheeks. You prayed it didn’t show.

He smirked—not with arrogance, but with a softness that made your heart ache. The pads of his fingers gently tapped against your back, as if acknowledging the effect he had on you, before he finally let go.

“I’ll be more careful next time,” he murmured, something unreadable glinting in his eyes.

And then, like always, he was gone.

Leaving you breathless, flustered, your heart beating far too fast, and your thoughts spiraling into a thousand impossible possibilities.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

Stephen was gone again.

However, unlike before, you were quick to notice his absence. His presence had become more prominent lately, more familiar, more expected. So the quiet weighed heavier.

You continued as usual: wandering the halls, snacking, scrolling endlessly through your phone, reading in odd corners of the Sanctum, occasionally rotting away in bed. A day passed. Then another. On the third day, Bats appeared to keep you company, curling up beside you like he sensed the silence closing in. By the fourth, there was still no sign of Stephen.

By the fifth day, you had started to miss him. You were irritated, of course, angry at the fact that he had once again disappeared without so much as a note. But you supposed this was part of the package that came with being the Sorcerer Supreme. Endless duties. Constant emergencies. Worlds to save. Still, your frustration did little to soothe the gnawing sense of absence growing inside you.

That night, loneliness finally sank its claws into you. You gave in, slipping into Stephen’s bed, hoping the familiar scent of him woven into the sheets would offer some semblance of comfort. The mattress was far more forgiving than your own, and the pull of sleep came quickly.

On the sixth morning, you awoke to a voice that didn’t belong to Stephen.

“Hello.”

The unfamiliar tone jolted you from sleep. Groggy and disoriented, you sat up quickly, your eyes scanning the room for the source of the voice. A man stood at the foot of the bed, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable.

You blinked hard, rubbing your eyes to make sure he wasn’t some hallucination conjured from isolation and restless dreams.

The man, broad and solid in frame, raised a hand in greeting. He looked to be in his forties, maybe older, his face set in a neutral expression that bordered on polite disinterest. His deep red robes mirrored Stephen’s in cut and style, though less embellished. Details in the trim and the sigils stitched along the sleeves confirmed what you already suspected: he was a sorcerer too.

You shrank back slightly, clutching the blanket closer around you as if that might undo the awkwardness of being found in someone else’s bed. You returned his wave with a feeble one of your own, unsure how else to respond.

“Stephen sent me,” he said simply, already moving around the room like he owned the place. He picked up artifacts without hesitation, careful but confident, clearly familiar with the space. “He wanted you to know he’ll be gone for a few more days. Nothing to worry about. He’ll explain when he returns.”

You watched in growing confusion as he maneuvered through the room, opening drawers, shifting objects, placing some in his robes as if on a grocery run. He didn’t even glance at you as he worked.

Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to speak.

“Who are you?”

He paused mid-step, finally realizing he had skipped introductions. A small, dry chuckle escaped him as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Wong,” he said. “I’m Stephen’s… comrade. Librarian of Kamar-Taj. I’m here to collect a few things and pass along his message.”

His gaze flickered toward you, and he offered something close to a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, and you weren’t sure if he was trying to be kind or just fulfilling a social obligation.

“I have to go,” he added, turning toward the door, his arms now full of seemingly insignificant objects—trinkets to you, likely enchanted relics to him. But before he left, he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.

“I won’t tell Stephen you slept in his bed.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway before you could respond.

You let out a long breath, collapsing back into the pillows, hiding your face in the scent of Stephen that still lingered there. Of all the people to catch you like this, it had to be someone who knew him well.

Hopefully Wong would keep that little detail to himself. Better yet, maybe you’d never see him again, and you could pretend this never happened.

Wishful thinking, probably.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

On the ninth day, Stephen finally returned.

Unlike his last arrival, this one was much more theatrical.

You were lounging on the couch by the grand staircase of the Sanctum, a habit you’d picked up in his absence, one that mirrored his own. A book sat open in your hands, pages illuminated by the flicker of the nearby fireplace. The cold from the New York streets crept in through the walls, the historic structure offering little insulation. Beside you, Bats lay curled up, breathing slow and steady in his sleep.

Then came the sharp hiss of a portal sparking open behind you.

You turned your head, eyes drawn to the growing swirl of golden light forming in the air. The soft glow expanded, the sound of crackling magic intensifying as the portal widened—and there, stepping through it, was Stephen. Hunched, with his silhouette distorted by the glimmering sparks.

You were on your feet before he fully crossed the threshold, the book tumbling to the floor unnoticed. He was clutching his side, his hand soaked in deep red.

“What happened?”

His breathing was labored, his brow furrowed. Though his hand obscured the wound, the spreading stain told you enough. Without thinking, your hands reached for his, pressing firmly over the injury to slow the bleeding. Stephen tensed beneath your touch, hissing sharply as he stumbled toward the couch.

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth, brushing your hands away as he maneuvered himself to sit. He exhaled slowly, jaw tight with discomfort.

“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding,” you shot back, gesturing toward the growing stain and the blood now smeared across your palms. He met your gaze with a dry, pointed look.

“I’ll be fine. I’m a doctor,” he muttered, easing back into the cushions and peeling his hand away to inspect the wound.

His cloak slipped from his shoulders and sprang into action, sweeping across the room with a will of its own. You watched, still impressed despite the circumstances, as it gathered items: a basin, cloth, tinctures, and deposited them with purpose on the side table next to the couch.

“I’m a doctor too,” you quipped, kneeling in front of him and snatching the supplies before he could reach them. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in resistance. He didn’t like being fussed over.

“I don’t need coddling.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting his hand as he reached for the wound again. “I’m not coddling. I’m helping.”

Stephen leaned back slightly, allowing it, though the irritation in his posture lingered.

“I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”

Your hands worked quickly, fingers gently tugging at the fabric of his robes to expose the injury. The moment the wound came into view, you sucked in a breath through your teeth, your expression tightening at the sight.

“Last I checked,” you murmured, “I was the most recently practicing doctor. So, unless your magical qualifications include recertification, I’m probably the more qualified one here.”

He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. And if you weren’t so focused on the fact that he was actively bleeding, you might’ve allowed yourself to be flustered by it. Because even now, sweaty, pale, slouched and bleeding on the couch, Stephen Strange was, infuriatingly, still attractive.

Wasn’t it a little messed up how good he looked like this?

“I still have my license,” he mutters, catching your brief stare.

You hum, finally dropping your hands to your side after finishing your initial assessment. “Having your license and actually practicing are two different things.”

You reach to tug gently at the cloth of his upper robe, eyes flicking up to meet his silver ones. “I need you to take this off.”

He obliges without argument, though the slow motion of his hands and the soft groans escaping his throat suggest every movement is pained.

And now you’re really trying not to look.

But of course you do. Even if only for a second. His chest and torso are lean, muscular, dusted with scars that tell a hundred stories you haven’t heard. You avert your eyes quickly, cheeks burning, and busy your hands with the nearby basin. As you soak a towel in cool water, Stephen watches you from above with a tired, unreadable expression.

“I still help people,” he says, quieter now. “Just not in hospitals.”

A low hiss slips from him as you press the damp towel against his side, gently wiping away the blood. “I imagine you help more with magic these days than you do with actual medicine.”

That draws a real laugh, low and genuine. “You’d be surprised how often it comes in handy,” he replies, though his jaw tightens again as the ache resurfaces.

You hum in response, still focused. Your eyes scan the table for something stronger, something to disinfect. Finding a small bottle of alcohol, you pour it over your hands before dousing the towel.

“This is going to hurt,” you warn instinctively, your voice soft. Not teasing, just muscle memory from treating too many young, nervous patients. Stephen shoots you a sharp look, as if suspecting mockery, but you meet it with a sheepish smile.

Then, without waiting, you press the towel to the wound.

A loud groan erupts from his chest as his head tips back, jaw clenched hard. His fists curl against the cushions, and for a moment, his entire body tenses. Then slowly, with the worst of the sting fading, he exhales and settles. His hands relax. The tension begins to ease.

When you finally pull the towel away, you’re left with the wound in its full, awful clarity.

It was unlike anything you’d seen before.

More than just torn flesh, this wound pulsed . The skin surrounding it was bruised, sickly, mottled with dark greens and purples like a living infection. The edges weren’t clean; they were ragged and scorched, as if something had detonated beneath his skin. You could feel the heat radiating from it, not warmth from fever, but something arcane, something alive.

Residual magic. That’s what it had to be.

Whatever spell had done this, it wasn’t made to kill him. It was meant to burn. To linger. To hurt.

Your breath caught audibly in your throat.

Stephen’s eyes drift down, noticing your reaction, and then he shifts to get a better look himself. His brow furrows. Your eyes meet, briefly.

“It’s…” he begins, his voice gravelly as he tilts his head, examining the damage. His fingers ghost along the bruised edges, careful not to touch the raw center. “Not that bad.”

You blink at him.

He says it like that’s meant to reassure you. Like it's any less terrifying than what it is.

“What do you mean ‘not that bad’?!” You asked in a panicked and breathy voice. In all of your years of being a doctor, and knowing doctors, this had to be the most strange and panic worthy wounds that you have either seen or heard of.

“I have no idea how to handle this! I— I thought it’d be a simple cut! Maybe needing stitches depending on how deep it is! You could’ve prefaced this by— I don't know—telling me it was caused by magic!”

He has the audacity to chuckle at your worried and panicked state, his chest rumbling as it threatens to develop into laughter. You send him a measly glare, fighting the urge to press the alcohol soaked towel back on the wound.

“I’ve dealt with this,” he reassures, his voice weirdly calm despite how serious the wound looks. “Just, do exactly as I say.” 

You deadpan at him, your hands frozen in place, one still lingering near the wound. His words echo in your ears— “ Just, do exactly as I say .” 

“I am doing exactly as you say,” you murmur, quieter this time, your frustration beginning to melt into something softer. “I’m just not used to patching up someone when they look like this — especially someone I care about. 

Stephen’s brows lift, just a slight amount. The look he gives you, one of half surprise, half knowing, makes your heart stutter within your chest.

You clear your throat roughly, focusing back on his side, reaching for the gauze on the side table. “Alright, talk me through it. What exactly do I need to do?” 

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, a beat of silence, then his voice drops low, sincere. “It’s going to sound strange, but the magic needs to be neutralized—not just cleaned. There's a residue, a sort of curse woven into the spell. If left alone, it festers.” 

You glance up at him, lips parted in a quiet breath. “And how do I neutralize it?”

Stephen’s eyes meet yours. They’re tired. Glinting. Still sharp beneath the pain he’s experiencing. “With magic,” he says simply in a breathy voice. “But I’ll guide you. You’re capable of more than you think.

A quiet laugh cant help but escape you, not out of amusement, but disbelief. SO far, your attempts at magic have been chaotic and futile, with little to no success despite Stephen’s teachings. Even when you have done magic, it has always been unintentionally and random. “Stephen, I’m not a sorcerer.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Magic responds to intent. Let me channel it through you. Just follow my lead.” 

He shifts forward slightly, closer to you, and without warning, reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm despite the cool sweat along his temple. He brings your palm just above the wound, hovering directly over it, and places his own hand over yours.

Your breath catches.

The moment his hand rests atop of yours, a gentle hum of energy builds in the space between your skin and his. It’s faint, like the quiet buzz of electricity before a storm. The glow is subtle, barely there, but you feel it. An invisible thread tying the two of you together. 

You look up, and he’s already watching you. 

“You trust me?” he asks, voice barely a whisper, slightly strained. 

You nod immediately. “Do you?”

His lips twitch at your words— something between a smile and a grimace. “More than I should.”

For a moment, nothing exists but the way your hand fits into his, the pulse of magic and energy between your palms, the flickering firelight and the way his silver eyes soften when they look at you. The air between you tightens, intimate, unbearably fragile.

Your faces are close now. Too close.

Your gaze drops to his lips just as his eyes fall to yours.

And you both lean in, just a breath, just a moment—

But it stops there.

You pause. He does too. 

There’s something unspoken in the silence, an acknowledgment you could say, a line neither of you are quite ready to cross. 

You pull back first, just slightly. Your hand is still in his. Your voice just above a whisper, “That… helped. I think the magic’s fading.”

Stephen doesn’t let go right away. His fingers linger, and you try to justify it as him just ensuring that it worked. “Good,” he says, voice hoarse. “You did good.”

Another beat.

And then, as if nothing happened, he leans back into the cushions with a low grunt.

You follow his lead. Sort of.

But the weight of the moment hangs in the air between you, delicate as smoke, warm as the firelight dancing along the walls around you. 

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

Stephen had healed miraculously fast despite the severity of his wound. By day two of recovering, he was pretty much back to normal. In truth, the two of you knew why he was healing so fast, but neither of you dared to speak it.

You were in your bed reading a book—one that Stephen had bought for you during his absence. And while it was stained with a little bit of his blood, you were glad to finally read a book that wasn’t about magic for the first time in a while when Stephen appeared in the doorway of your room.

“Come with me.”

And mindlessly, you followed him.

For the most part, he seemed fine. He was no longer clutching his side whenever he moved, and there were no grunts, groans, or hisses coming from his lips anymore. The doctor in you could only observe and try to see if there was anything still wrong with him as he led you to a particular part of the Sanctorum.

But there wasn’t. He didn’t seem upset that you had unconsciously used Chaos magic to speed up the healing process, but deep down you couldn’t help but feel guilty for doing so, even if you hadn’t intended to.

He stopped before a door, unlocking it with a wave of his hand. Silently, he held the door for you, gently ushering you in, his hand momentarily touching the small of your back.

The room was filled with—portals. All to varying places around the world. At first you looked in awe, seeing places you had only ever seen through televisions or photographs. But soon, that awe shifted into confusion. Why was Stephen showing you this?

He caught your furrowed brow and spoke before you had the chance to question him.

“These are portals,” he said, motioning between each one. “Key places for the mystic arts. Connections between other Sanctorums and the Kamar Taj.”

You nodded in understanding, unsure of what to say. Among the portals, you noticed locations such as London, Hong Kong, Tibet (which was Kamar Taj), and other places you couldn’t name.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re showing me this.”

You looked at Stephen, meeting his gaze. He wasn’t paying attention to the portals anymore—only you.

“I was getting to that,” he said, lips pressed into a flat line.

“You shouldn’t pause then.”

That drew a small chuckle from him that he tried to play off, returning to his monologue.

“The dark holders are getting stronger.”

His words made you stiffen, a small shiver crawling down your spine. He noticed, and his hand was quick to land on your shoulder in reassurance.

“The Sanctorum isn’t designed for powerful magic users like them. While they still don’t know you’re here, I need to make sure that if they ever do, you have somewhere to go.”

His grip on your shoulder tightened slightly as he leaned closer, his presence warm, grounding in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“If they ever do, you need to go to Kamar Taj,” he said in a low voice, his lips close to your ear. He pointed directly to the Tibet portal, an isolated community among the Himalayas, swirling with visible magic.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Stephen was quick to interrupt you. “Promise me.”

You whipped your head toward him, lips parted and forehead creased. He wanted you to promise him? As a doctor, the one thing the two of you had learned was to never make promises, and yet, here he was, asking you to make one.

His look was pointed, but there was a softness there too. A sincerity that broke through whatever wall you had tried to put up. Sighing, you relented, nodding your head.

“I promise,” you whispered, avoiding his gaze. Looking at him only made it harder.

He exhaled in relief, his hand dropping from your shoulder as he leaned away. Silence settled between you, tense and full of words neither of you dared to say.

“Do make yourself familiar with this room,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear before turning and leaving, the sound of his footsteps fading down the corridor.

You stayed behind, alone, his words still clinging to the air, unspoken thoughts still resting on the tip of your tongue.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

“You’re doing it wrong.” 

Stephen’s voice felt more grating than usual. 

You huff and turn toward Stephen, arms dropping to your sides as the magic fizzles out between your fingers again, sparking at the tips. The spell, the one he insisted you could do, was starting to feel more like a cruel joke than a lesson. He insisted it was easy. One that any beginner, regardless of their preference in magic. He said you can do it, even with your horrible attempts at any spell that have almost resulted in little to no success. 

“I’m doing exactly what you told me,” you bite back, frustration bleeding into your tone as you clench your jaw. “Hold the energy. Shape it. Project it. Ringing any bells?”

Stephen raises a brow, crossing the space between you with maddening calm. “You're shaping it with tension. You’re supposed to guide it—not wrestle it into submission.”

“Oh, well, excuse me for not mastering the impossible on my fourth try.”

A flicker of a smile ghosts across his lips, more amused than condescending. “Let me show you.”

Before you can protest, his hand reaches out, fingers brushing under your elbow, guiding your arm up with a surprising gentleness. The contact is brief, but enough to send a spark up your spine. You stiffen at the contact, trying to hide your obvious surprise. 

“You need to ground yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. This is close. Too close for your racing mind. “Your body needs to feel where the magic moves, not just your mind.”

His hand slides to your wrist, thumb pressed lightly over your pulse. Your breath catches audibly this time. “Stephen…”

“Is this okay?” he asks, softer now his voice beside your ear, and something in the way he says it knocks the wind from your lungs. Oh, you’ve got it bad .

You nod.

He moves behind you, slow, calculated, and deliberate. One of his hands lifts yours again, adjusting your fingers, the other settles lightly at your hip, not holding, not pressing, just there. Anchoring. Grounding you in place, in this moment.

“Close your eyes.”

You do. 

“Breathe in. Feel where the current is strongest… and let it guide your hand. Don’t think. Just follow it.”

His voice, low and even, speaks just at the shell of your ear. You try to do as he says, but it’s hard to concentrate when every part of you is suddenly hyper aware of him, his breath, his hand, the subtle scent of incense and something distinctly him. It’s overwhelming and difficult to think of anything, let alone focus on the magical energy pulsing through you.

You let out a shaky breath, the magic gathering in your palm again, this time steadier. It glows dimly but stable, humming in sync with your pulse. The energy pools in your hand, finally physically manifesting. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re not fighting it now.”

The flames, or whatever it is, dancing about in your hands. It’s no longer a feeling, but something tangible, something you can see and touch. Your first successful spell. One that doesn’t happen unconsciously or flared by any emotions. A spell you finally controlled. You can feel relief and happiness spark in your chest, and you can't help but let out a happy giggle at the sight. But it’s short lived as the spell holds for a moment longer before it flickers and fades. Your face falls and you sigh, disappointed, but Stephen doesn’t step away yet.

He stays behind you, gaze flicking between your hand and your profile.

When you turn slightly to face him, you find he’s already watching you.

The moment hangs, quiet, thick, charged.

You should say something.

He should step away.

Neither of you do.

Your faces are close—too close. Your breath stirs the space between you. And for one dizzy second, you think he might lean in, that you might lean in.

But then, almost as if in agreement, you both shift back.

Just an inch.

Just enough to breathe.

Stephen clears his throat, his voice returning to that familiar, composed register. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

You nod, eyes flicking anywhere but him. “Yeah. Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, hands still tingling with magic, and something else you don’t have the words for.

Not yet.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The tension between you and Stephen had stopped being subtle weeks ago. Now? It felt like the air around him shifted whenever he entered a room, thick with unspoken thoughts, unsaid feelings, things neither of you dared name aloud.

And in all honesty? It was driving you insane.

Your dreams, which had always been a little bizarre thanks to your Chaos magic, had taken a sharp left turn into utterly humiliating territory. Romantic territory. Stephen territory. The kind of over-the-top fantasy nonsense your old college roommate used to binge-watch on weekends, sappy rom-coms with big confessions and slow dances in the rain. You used to mock them. You used to hate them.

Now? You woke up flushed and agitated, heart racing and annoyed at yourself for dreaming about him.

What made it worse was that he wasn’t just a passing face anymore, some elusive figure you only saw in training sessions. He was present. All the time. He ate meals with you now. He actually asked about your day. Sometimes, he'd even find reasons to linger near you after lessons. And when he wasn’t talking to you, he was watching you. Quietly. Thoughtfully.

Even Bats had picked up on it. The ghost dog—notoriously unbothered by most things—had made a snide comment one afternoon about how thick the air got when you and Stephen were in the same room. You had responded by throwing a pillow at him.

You hated this. You hated him.

…Right?

Stockholm syndrome, maybe? That would make more sense. After all, Stephen had technically whisked you away from your normal life, locked you into the Sanctum, and kept you under watch like some beautifully groomed magical warden. You hadn’t seen the outside world in weeks. He and Bats were the only people you spoke to. It wasn’t love. It was just a sick, magically-influenced blend of emotional dependency and proximity.

That’s what you told yourself.

Over and over.

Until— FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM?!

The thought slammed into your chest like a blow, making your breath catch mid-step. You froze in the corridor, heart hammering. Did you really just admit that to yourself? Out loud, no less?

You were falling in love with Stephen Strange?

Stephen Strange—the same man you knew in medical school? The same man who used to hide his grief behind layers of work and faceless women and overpriced whiskey? The one you once crushed on, sure, but only for like… five minutes in med school.

You groaned and rubbed your face with both hands, embarrassed even alone in the dim hallway. No. This wasn’t happening. You weren’t that girl. You weren’t going to fall into some twisted magical fairy tale just because your heart got a little lonely.

This wasn’t about affection. It was just attention. That’s all. You craved interaction because you were human, and humans needed connection. That didn’t mean you were catching feelings.

...Right?

You clung to that reasoning like a life raft as you made your way toward the library, barefoot and sleepless for the third night in a row. The insomnia had been getting worse lately. Your dreams weren’t helping, and neither was the subtle shift in how Stephen looked at you.

You told yourself this was just a quick visit. Return a few overdue books. Maybe grab another just to pretend you weren’t unraveling.

The library was dark, save for the golden glow of the enchanted sconces. You moved quietly through the maze of shelves, books stacked in your arms, spine still tense with everything you were trying not to think about.

As you reached one of the higher shelves, you carefully slid the last book back into place, probably not in the exact right spot, but who was keeping track anyway?

“Why are you up so late?”

His voice startled you so badly you gasped, spinning around to face him.

Only, you hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten.

Stephen was standing right behind you.

You twisted too fast, your bare feet catching on one another, and you could already feel yourself tipping backwards. But before the fall could even begin, his hand was at your waist—strong, steady, catching you effortlessly. His fingers splayed across your side, anchoring you with a firm, almost possessive hold.

Your breath hitched.

You looked up.

His face was so close. Eyes like the sky just before a storm. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze is intense, locked on yours.

Neither of you moved.

You were suddenly, stupidly aware of everything, the heat of his palm against your skin, the way your chest rose and fell just inches from his. The way his breath ghosted across your cheek. The hum of the magic that always lingered in the air around him… and now felt like it was dancing across your skin.

Your lips parted, a reflex more than a decision, and you saw his gaze flicker down, just for a second.

“I... was returning books,” you said finally, voice quieter than you meant. Your voice is breathy, almost trembling, as if the sound alone carries the weight of the moment. His fingers curl around the curve of your waist, firm yet gentle, their touch igniting a fire beneath your skin. The world around you blurs into insignificance, shrinking until only he remains. His presence, his scent, the heat radiating from him.

His face is so close now that you can feel his breath, warm and steady, ghosting over your skin. Instinct tells you to step back, to create some distance, but your attempt is thwarted by your own clumsiness. Your feet tangle beneath you, and you stumble awkwardly. Before you can even process the humiliation, his other hand moves with practiced ease, capturing the opposite side of your waist and steadying you effortlessly.

And that’s when it hits you–you’re trapped. His tall, broad frame looms over you, his hands holding you in place as though he’s tethered you to him. The proximity is suffocating, your breath hitching in your throat as if the air itself has abandoned you. A deep maroon flush blooms across your cheeks, spreading down your neck, and you’re certain he can see it.

Every nerve in your body seems to buzz as his fingertips rest against you, searing through the thin fabric of your clothes. They don’t move, yet their stillness is as potent as a caress, their presence as consuming as flame. His deep silver eyes bore into yours, dark and intense, and you feel utterly exposed, as though he can see every thought, every feeling, every secret you’ve tried to keep hidden.

The vulnerability is suffocating, and yet, it’s exhilarating. You hate how easily he dismantles your defenses, how effortlessly he renders you powerless. But at the same time, you crave it. The way his gaze roots you in place, the way his touch sparks something within you that you can’t quite name. You’re caught between two warring desires: to pull away and reclaim your composure or to lean into the chaos and let it consume you.

You hate it. You love it. And you can’t breathe.

His voice, a low, velvety whisper, carries your name like a delicate thread, weaving through the tension between you. There’s something in his tone, something you can’t quite place. Is it sternness? A quiet command, as though he’s reminding you to stay grounded? Or is it want, soft and hesitant, as if he’s on the edge of something he’s unsure of? Perhaps it's a need, an ache, a plea for something unspoken that lingers in the charged space between you. The uncertainty fuels the wild thrum of your heart, urging you to embrace the moment, to surrender to the flicker of affection that Stephen might finally be revealing.

But your rational mind fights back, a cold splash of clarity against the warmth flooding your chest. It insists that this is nothing more than an accident, a fleeting moment of connection borne out of necessity. He caught you. That’s all this is. There’s no deeper meaning, no hidden intention. He’s simply ensuring you don’t fall, that you don’t embarrass yourself further.

Yet, as you meet his gaze, the argument crumbles. His deep silver eyes, warm and infinite, hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. They seem to search for something within you, pulling you into a silent conversation that you don’t know how to end. It’s maddening, how a single look can make your heart skip erratically, how it can unravel the carefully woven threads of composure you’ve worked so hard to maintain.

The blush spreading across your cheeks is impossibly vivid now, a telltale sign of the chaos he’s stirred within you. You can only pray, though you’ve never been one to pray, that he doesn’t notice. That he doesn’t see how exposed you feel, how his nearness makes the air around you thick and heavy. That he doesn’t realize just how much this moment, insignificant as it might seem to him, is unraveling you completely.

You’re torn apart by the sheer contradiction of your feelings. One part of you wants to disappear, to crawl into a hole and bury the mortifying depth of your emotions. Another part of you yearns to close the space between you, to show him how much you’ve needed him, how much you’ve wanted him in ways you’ve never dared to admit. The intensity of it all is overwhelming, like a storm raging inside you.

You want to kiss him. You want to push him away. You want to confess everything and, at the same time, retreat into silence forever. You’re confusing, tangled up in emotions you can’t make sense of. But then again, so is he. Stephen is a puzzle you’ve never been able to solve, a man who defies clarity at every turn.

And now, caught in this impossible moment, you’re left teetering on the edge of something that could change everything, or nothing at all.

Your fingers curl around his bicep, a touch that feels both deliberate and unintentional. Perhaps it’s a quiet confession, a subtle way of conveying how much you’ve yearned for him without saying a word. Or maybe it’s just an anchor, something solid to cling to in a moment that threatens to pull you under. Your emotions are a storm, and your grip on him feels like the only thing keeping you grounded.

Your eyes dart between your hand on his arm and his deep silver eyes, searching for any sign of what he’s thinking, feeling. Is he as thrown off by this moment as you are? Stephen’s gaze follows yours, briefly landing on your hand before flicking back to meet your eyes. Then he shifts closer, his movements deliberate yet unreadable.

For a second, just a fleeting, breathless second, you’re convinced he’s closing the gap, leaning in for the kiss that’s been simmering between you. Every rom-com you’ve ever watched, every stolen glance and moment of tension between you, rushes to the forefront of your mind. It feels like the culmination of every unspoken word, every lingering touch. Your breath hitches, and instinct takes over. Your lips part ever so slightly, your eyes flutter closed as you prepare for something you’ve only dared to imagine in your quietest moments.

But the kiss never comes.

Instead, you feel his hands shift, strong and steady, as he abruptly lifts you upright. The clumsiness of your earlier stumble is corrected with an efficiency that feels almost clinical. His hands leave your waist as quickly as they’d claimed it, the warmth of his touch vanishing as if it had never been there. He steps back, clears his throat, and the air between you turns cold and awkward.

Your face burns, the weight of humiliation pressing down on you like an iron shroud. The moment you’d built up in your head, the one you’d secretly hoped for, had crumbled into something far more mortifying. The reality of it is almost unbearable, and you can’t help but wish that the enemies he’s been tirelessly protecting you from would burst in and end your suffering. Anything would be better than standing here, face flushed and heart in tatters, as he looks anywhere but at you.

You force yourself to stand tall, trying to salvage what little dignity you have left, but the vulnerability lingers, raw and unshakable. The ache of what could have been settled deep in your chest, a quiet reminder that sometimes, the moments we long for most are the ones that slip away before we can even reach for them.

"I..." His voice falters, breaking the silence with a low, strained cough as he clears his throat. "I only came here for this." His hand reaches out, brushing just above your head as he grabs a book from the shelf. The cover is embossed with an intricate design and scrawled in a language you know you’ll never understand.

You nod, too quickly, the motion more a desperate attempt to end this excruciating interaction than an actual acknowledgment. Your body feels stiff, every muscle taut with embarrassment. All you want is to escape. To retreat to the sanctuary of your bed, where you can bury your face in your pillow and pretend this never happened.

Yet, Stephen doesn’t leave.

He lingers, his presence weighing heavily on the space between you. His gaze doesn’t waver, fixed squarely on you with an intensity that only deepens your discomfort. You resist the urge to meet his eyes, knowing full well that your own would betray every bit of mortification coursing through you. Instead, you force an awkward smile, hoping it might dissolve the tension hanging in the air.

Stephen’s lips part slightly, as though he’s about to say something. For a fleeting moment, your heart dares to hope. What could he possibly want to say now? But the words never come. He closes his mouth just as quickly, his expression unreadable as he takes a step back.

Without another word, he turns and walks away, the soft echoes of his footsteps fading as he moves further down the aisle of ancient tomes. The silence that follows feels oppressive, the quiet of the Sanctum Santorum wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud.

You stand frozen, staring at the spot where he’d just been, the weight of the moment settling heavily on your chest. Your mind replays the scene in excruciating detail, each beat of the interaction twisting the knife of humiliation deeper.

Why did he linger? Why didn’t he say anything? And why, above all else, did you let yourself hope for something more?

Your face burns, the heat of embarrassment crawling up your neck and into your cheeks. You press a hand to your chest as if it might steady the erratic beating of your heart, but it’s no use. All you want is for the ground to open beneath you, to swallow you whole so you never have to face him, or this memory, again.

Your fingers trail absentmindedly over the spines of the books nearby, their cool surfaces doing little to soothe your spiraling thoughts. The Sanctum feels unbearably quiet now, its vast halls no longer a place of refuge but a prison holding you captive to your own humiliation.

You let out a shaky breath, the sound too loud in the stillness, and finally gather enough courage to move. Your steps are hurried as you flee the shelves, determined to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the spot where your dignity crumbled.

Perhaps tomorrow you’ll find a way to face him again, or perhaps you’ll never be able to look him in the eye for the rest of your life. For now, all you can think about is escaping, retreating to a place where the memory of this moment can’t haunt you quite so vividly.