Chapter Text

Tony

Strange’s house—or rather the house Strange seemed to be squatting in—was on the corner of Bleecker Street. It was big for this part of the city with an ornate exterior that made it stand out among the surrounding buildings. Stone tracings, extra masonry, and a strange—pun intended—round window on the top floor that Tony could see from a block away. Not Tony’s style, sure, but definitely not the home of someone who had liquidated his assets and had kept them liquidated.

Tony eyed the row of brownstones lining the street. “Who’d you say this place was listed under?”

“The Kan Family Trust,” said Natasha.

“Kan…?” Tony trailed, waiting for Natasha to supply more information.

“Some old Nepalese family. There are a few notable members: doctors, lawyers, politicians, some successful businessmen, but nothing exceptional. They’re all connected to a small religious sect there, an esoteric blending of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Taoism. Most of the Kans seem to become monks or scholars.”

“Okay. That’s good, right?” said Tony, pausing on the sidewalk.

Natasha paused too, scanned the street, then turned to look at him.

“It’s the missing piece to the puzzle. Makes it all a little less likely to be anything, you know, scrupulous. Strange was desperate after his accident. He went to Nepal looking to, I don’t know, find himself or some new age shit, and he joined a cult—”

“It’s not a cult,” Natasha cut in.

Tony held up his hands in truce. “Right.”

His own disdain for religion, and his general judgment of anyone who put too much stock in the idea that anything had some kind of ‘higher meaning’, aside, this at least explained what Strange was doing at this house in Greenwich. Sure, there was still a question of how he’d gotten there, but, yeah, Tony was feeling better about this. A little.

“Come on, let’s go meet Gurdjieff.”

Tony started walking again.

Natasha followed, giving him a sideways look—the kind that said, I’m choosing to ignore you, but only because I have more important things to think about.

Tony tried not to read too much into that. He preferred her focused, sure, but he really didn't think some retired doctor (even one with sketchy papers) warranted her A-game.

They reached the house and Tony rapped on the door with the kind of knock that usually got foreign dignitaries scrambling.

Nothing.

He knocked again. Harder. Then Natasha reached around him and pressed a doorbell next to the door. Tony heard a faint gong from inside.

Still nothing.

Natasha crossed her arms. “Maybe he’s out.”

“Nope.” Tony tapped his earpiece. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. is the device we traced still in there?”

“Yes, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied over a joint channel so Natasha could hear too. “The device contacted by Christine Palmer yesterday is powered on and located inside the residence.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “So, what’s our play?”

“Warrant? Subpoena? Hell, I’m not above having Vision phase through the door and drag him out.”

“Sounds a bit extreme,” Natasha warned.

“Yeah. Well. I’m desperate. He reentered the country illegally, or some bureaucrat fucked up his paperwork. Sucks to be him. His lawyers can sort it out while he talks to us. And since we’re on the topic, I am abso-fucking-lutely willing to inconvenience an early retiree for this.”

Tony turned back to the door, ready to pound on it again, when it opened.

A smooth, creaking swing, like someone had pulled it from inside. Only no one was there.

“Guess he heard you,” said Natasha, nodding her chin at a camera Tony hadn’t noticed above the door. Not the kind of place you’d peg for a smart house, but it wasn’t like the installs were that intrusive these days.

Tony entered with Natasha close behind.

The entryway was surprisingly sparse—if you didn’t count the giant staircase that ate up half the room. A few tufted chairs and couches that seemed more left in random places than arranged in any kind of design. A desk tucked away on one side of the staircase. An empty fireplace. It was dark and cavernous.

Not where Tony would choose to spend his retirement. He was thinking Malibu. Although, their cat 5 in September was making him second guess that. Fucking global warming.

A voice cut through the air behind him, echoing in the empty space.

“Can I help you?”

Tony spun, startled. Natasha also whirled around. Okay, so, either they were both running on fumes—which, okay, they were—or this guy had just snuck up on Natasha could-sneak-into-a-black-tie-event-in-a-pink-bunny-costume-and-you-wouldn’t-know-it-if-she-didn’t-want-you-to Romanoff.

Stephen Strange stood between the obscene staircase and unlit fireplace, looking nothing like his picture on file. The photos Nat had pulled showed a young, clean-shaven, gangly, smirking surgeon. A guy who was at the peak of his career and the top of the world.

Those photos were only a couple of years old, but Strange looked like he’d aged a decade since they’d been taken. His face was lined and his skin visibly worn.

His shoulders had broadened out, and Tony could see the shape of functional muscle beneath his dark blue t-shirt. His hair was streaked at the temples with grey and he was sporting a clean goatee. Tony’s eyes immediately locked onto a cut above his eyebrow and a split lower lip. He logged the injuries. Not fresh, but not fully healed, either.

Strange didn’t introduce himself. His eyes—sharp, cutting—took in Tony and Natasha with practiced detachment.

Tony forced a grin. “Stephen Strange? Tony Stark. This is my associate, Natasha Romanoff. We knocked.”

Still nothing. A power move if ever Tony saw one. Stupid really. Trying to out power move Mr. Power Move.

“We’re interested in your work under your Rand Fellowship. The neural regeneration work you did with Christine Palmer. She might have told you? I’m looking for a consultation,” he said. “I would have just called Danny—Danny Rand— but I figured, why bother the kid when I could go straight to the horse’s mouth?”

Strange crossed his arms. A small, barely perceptible flinch, then he dropped his arms again. Injury. Probably the ribs. Tony logged that away too.

“Dr. Strange,” said Strange, then “you would be better off reaching out to Rand. I don’t own any of the research, results, or lack thereof. Even if I did, there’s nothing to share.”

About the answer he’d expected. It tracked with Palmer's. But unlike Palmer, Tony wasn't going to let this one slide. Because unlike Palmer, Strange wasn't fighting the good fight in a trauma OR, he was attending yoga retreats or some shit. He had time to talk. Tony was going to make him take it.

“See. I don’t believe you. And I don’t think you believe you. This isn’t theoretical for me. I got a patient who needs help. I think you can help him,” said Tony. “So, why don’t you do us both a favor and humor me.”

“How is humoring you, doing me a favor?” said Strange flatly.

Tony shrugged. “Saves you the trouble of having to explain to Homeland Security—or whoever handles that shit now—I don’t know, I have TSA global status—how you reentered the country illegally.”

Strange’s eyes narrowed. Good. Got his attention.

“Yeah. See. There’s no record of you coming back from Nepal,” Tony continued. “No passport. No customs entry. No visa. No tax filings. No utilities in your name. And you sure as hell don’t own this house.”

Natasha cleared her throat. A warning. Reel it in.

But Tony kept going. Because fuck it. Strange didn’t look scared yet, but he did look angry. Tony didn’t know what to do with the quiet, controlled schtick Strange had started with, but anger? Tony could work with anger.

“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” he said. “You’re either a squatter—”

Strange scoffed, offended. Good.

“—or a drug mule.”

That earned a sharp, cold bark of laughter. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Tony said automatically. “You know I don't even have to try? Just comes naturally.”

Strange stepped forward, anger simmering under the surface. “You can threaten me all you want. It won't change the fact that the research is useless. It won’t help you. And I’m not practicing anymore.”

Yeah. Maybe. But since they were here? Why not see what Strange did know? Time to stick the landing… go for the jugular… bring the chickens home to roost… whatever. Time to really get under the bastard’s skin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony waved him off. “We know. Christine told me. Great doc. Total ten. You two still talk?”

Strange came closer. His blue eyes narrowed on Tony. He was taller and he looked down at Tony with a look that wasn’t quite a threat, but also wasn’t quite not a threat. His voice was cold. “I can’t help you.”

Fuck, there was something about someone saying I can’t help you that just screamed, I’m your guy.

Tony closed the distance between them. He thrust his tablet into Strange’s face. “Just a consultation. Humor me.”

Strange glared—but he took it. His hands shook as he held it, and Tony caught a glimpse of scars. Deep, brutal, surgical, and jagged. A map of years of failed procedures.

Strange’s jaw tightened as the tablet powered on, projecting a 3D rendering of a brain—holographic, high-resolution, every damaged contour visible. He looked at the floating rendering, and Tony thought he saw a flash of awe. That’s right, these pads weren’t exactly available at your local BestBuy. Even most employees inside Stark Industries hadn’t even seen one or the underlying technology.

But Strange adapted quickly. He tilted the image. Zoomed. Spun it with a flick of his swollen, arthritic fingers. His mind had clearly moved past the canvas and on to the image it held.

Good. That was good. Meant Strange knew his craft well enough not to be distracted by the flashy stuff. Yeah. Maybe Strange wasn’t deflecting and his old research really was shit. Didn’t matter. Tony knew an unmatched expert when he saw one.

After a long, weighted silence, Strange said: “Your patient… is Thor.”

Not a question. A realization. A confident one. The words hit Tony like a punch.

Tony glanced at Natasha. Her eyes narrowed. Suspicion. Renewed wariness. “How do you know that?”

Strange didn’t look up. “Unless Stark Industries has begun diagnosing patients with previously undocumented anatomical anomalies…” He gestured to the projection. “This is not a human brain.” Then Strange did look up. “The differences are subtle, but there.” He sounded unapologetic. Like he knew he’d caught them off guard and he didn’t care.

Tony swallowed.

“The Lichtenberg figures running through the neural tissue are also a clue.” Strange continued, tilting the rendering with a practiced swipe.

Tony’s pulse roared in his ears.

“Unless you have another non-human friend who channels cosmic lightning, I’m assuming it’s Thor.”

Tony’s voice cracked with anger and fear. “Yes. It’s Thor.”

Strange handed the pad back. His face was unreadable again. “Then I can say with absolute certainty: I can’t help you. I’m not qualified. Asgardian biology is outside my field.”

“You understand it. You recognize it,” Tony insisted. His voice sounded raw even to his own ear.

“I recognize that this is beyond my experience and that even a consultation would be medically negligible,” said Strange.

“Medically neg—“ Tony stopped.

He wanted to scream.

Because Strange was the first—the only one—to recognize Thor’s brain for what it was. The quickest to see the lightning scars. The first to understand what he was looking at.

Tony couldn’t walk away from that.

He wouldn’t.

He took a step forward, ready to fight. Ready to threaten. He had the legal means to force Strange into helping. Global security. There were laws now. He wouldn’t even have to blackmail Strange over his questionable reentry.

But he stopped himself.

Because bringing Strange into this against his will…

Too dangerous.

Too stupid.

Too much like locking someone up for disagreeing with him. For disagreeing with him on what the right thing to do was.

Even if part of him thought this guy was a selfish bastard. Thought Strange was brushing them off because he was feeling sorry for himself, didn't appreciate having his retirement interrupted, or just didn’t fucking care that one of Earth's protectors was lying in the equivalent of a neurological hurricane, Tony had learned the hard way that you couldn’t force real cooperation. If Strange was going to be of value to Thor, he needed to be all-in.

So instead, Tony reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and let it drop to the floor between them. Strange had been at the top of his field once. You don’t get to the top without some addiction to chasing the high of a challenge. You don’t get to the top by turning shit like this away. It just needed to be on his terms. Fine. It could be. Let him stew until his FOMO kicked in. Tony would be ready.

“Call me when you change your mind,” he said, voice low and raw.

“I won’t,” Strange said.

“Yeah, well. Stranger things have happened.”

He turned, walked out of the house, Natasha following wordlessly behind him.

As the door shut behind them, Tony felt the weight settle like a new suit of armor. He didn’t know what he was going to do next. But he knew one thing: he was not done with Stephen Strange.

Not fucking close.

Stephen

Stephen stood in the foyer long after the door shut behind Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff. He stared at the empty space where they’d stood, breathing deeply, replaying the exchange in his mind.

Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, was back on Earth, and he hadn’t known.

Guilt slid down his spine like ice water.

Not because he’d refused to help—he was right about that. He wasn’t qualified. Not for this. Not for Asgardian neurology, not for divine lightning trauma, not for whatever cosmic damage had shredded Thor’s brain matter.

No, the guilt came from his obvious failure. Even with the London Sanctum damaged, even with the wards in shambles, even with the latticework of Earth’s defenses barely holding together—he should have sensed a god returning to the mortal realm.

What did it mean that he hadn’t? What else had he missed?

It felt like proof of what he already feared — that since the Ancient One’s death, they’d been losing ground everywhere. Sometimes it felt as if every evil spirit, warlord, and demon in the multiverse had just been waiting for her to be out of the picture. Like they’d known that without her, Earth didn’t stand a chance. He hated that they were right.

Stephen pressed his fingers to his left temple. There was a throb behind his eye that kept threatening to spread. His right side ached from the bone-deep bruises on his ribs left from three nights ago… was it, three? The nights ran together.

He was tired.

He needed to sit down.

He didn’t.

Instead, he walked towards the staircase and stopped halfway when he saw Stark’s business card on the floor. He picked it up. His fingers trembled around the expensive cardstock.

He read the number on the card before vanishing it with a flick of his wrist—ignoring the jolt of pain the motion sent through his fingers. Even if he’d planned to call Stark, which he didn’t, he didn’t need the card. The number was already seared into his memory as was the conversation he’d just had with the self-proclaimed hero.

“Christine told me. Great doc. Total ten. You two still talk?”

Another wave of guilt. Christine. Part of him considered calling Stark just to get him off her back, but something told him he didn’t need to. Stark had gone through a lot of trouble to track him down—clearly, he’d moved on from Christine.

At least one of them had.

No time for that now, he reminded himself. Regret was self-indulgent. He didn’t have time for self-indulgence. He had work to do.

He turned away from the front door and headed up the Sanctum’s staircase. His civilian clothes melted away to reveal his sorcerer’s robes and the Cloak of Levitation as he ascended. It felt like shedding a lie for truth. The Cloak fluttered expectantly at his back.

He reached the Rotunda of Gateways. He needed to tell Kamar-Taj about Thor, and after what he’d overheard when Stark and Romanoff were on his doorstep, he didn’t trust his phone. He transposed it from his pocket to a drawer in his study. The only one who had his number, the only person who cared if he was alive or dead, outside of the Order, was Christine. Christine wouldn’t call until she was back from her trip.

Stephen approached a door on the rotunda, fixed his destination, Kamar-Taj, in his mind’s eye, then opened the door to a clear night sky and a courtyard lit with torches.

Kamar-Taj

The air in the council chamber hummed with the energy of rituals older than nations. The room’s ceiling was cathedral high. Its floor was layered in colorful, worn rugs. Artifacts of power were placed strategically around the room, some of them eye-catching, others inconspicuous or even banal. Those were often the most powerful. Only a mind open to magic would see the difference. The room was lit with the fire of candles. Incense burned.

Stephen inhaled the scent, letting it ground him.

It’d only taken an hour for the Council to gather. Stephen had spent it first briefing the ranking masters before the rest of the Council arrived, and then checking in on some of the senior disciples.

The Council, which, in addition to Stephen, consisted of the Guardians of the Hong Kong and London Sanctums and the other masters who’d survived Mordo’s betrayal, sat on low cushions in a circle on the ground, watching him with intense focus as he recounted his encounter with Stark.

“You’re certain it’s Thor?” the ranking master asked.

Stephen nodded. “Stark confirmed it. I don’t know where they have him or how long he’s been here.”

A few masters shifted, unsettled. Probably thinking the same thing he had. How could they not have known? Stephen shot a glance at Wong. Kamar-Taj’s librarian met his eyes, his face as unreadable as ever.

The ranking master spoke. “We believe Thor and a number of Asgardians arrived on Earth six months ago.”

A ripple of unease moved through the room. Stephen’s head jerked in the direction of the ranking master. His pulse thundered in his ears. She stared back at him unblinking, as if she were waiting to see how he would respond. Stephen scanned the room. The other sanctum guardians were watching him too.

Stephen felt the slow bloom of anger under his ribs. They already knew. The Guardians of the London and Hong Kong Sanctums knew the Asgardians were here and they hadn't told him.

“Six months ago…” he whispered. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but his anger still rang in his words.

“Leave us,” the ranking master ordered. Everyone but the Sanctum Guardians and Wong rose to their feet and filed out of the council room.

Stephen remained rooted to his seat, legs crossed, body tired, hands aching.

The ranking master considered him. Stephen concentrated all his mental energy on erecting a wall around his astral form. It didn’t matter. He knew what she was seeing.

“How are you sleeping, Stephen?” she asked in a tone that was not unkind but still commanded an answer.

“Don’t.” Stephen warned. He didn’t want this to be about him. It wasn’t about him.

Stephen saw tension pull at the master’s jaw. He may be a master, but she still outranked him in experience. And with the Ancient One’s passing, Kamar-Taj had decided that experience was what counted.

“We did not detect their arrival. The damage done to the London Sanctum—the damage we cannot seem to fully repair—disrupted the wards. Many signatures were lost.”

“But you did find out eventually,” said Stephen. He looked at Wong, not bothering to hide the accusation in his glare. Wong looked untroubled.

The guardian of the London Sanctum spoke, “You’re already bearing tremendous burdens. We didn’t want to add more.”

“Don’t,” Stephen warned again, and then because even that threatened to push him over the edge, he breathed, willing his mind to steady itself.

The attacks had started a year ago. Intermittently, at first. One night a month at most. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Then more frequently. Longer. Harder to break free from. Steadily ramping up until they were happening several nights a week, leaving his astral form so battered some nights he could barely hold it together.

That’s how Wong had found him. Collapsed on the Sanctum’s floor. Physically on the verge of heart failure from exhaustion and spiritually in pieces.

He hadn’t told the masters about the attacks. It was the job. The Dream Dimension was just one more front. One more place he was expected to hold the line, night after night, while everything else frayed. He thought he could handle it.

It was a mistake. One he was paying for now. The masters didn’t trust him. Didn’t think he could handle it.

“The protection spells have helped,” he said because he had to say something.

“We will find him,” she promised.

Stephen nodded numbly. He knew they’d keep trying. So would he. For now, that would have to be enough.

“Not to change the subject,” Wong broke in, “but Stephen’s news does complicate things.”

“How so?” asked Stephen, grateful to return to the task at hand.

“We knew Thor was on Earth. We did not know about his condition,” said the ranking master.

“And why is that our problem?” It wasn’t that Stephen didn’t care that Thor was suffering, it was just that… lots of people suffer. He’d learned a long time ago you couldn’t save them all. He’d learned you could go crazy trying.

“Because we were counting on him to keep his brother in line. We are not in a position to go up against the god of mischief, should he choose to make trouble. And we are not convinced the Avengers are either—fractured as they are.”

“Loki…” said Stephen slowly, images of old newscasts flashing in his mind. Beings from another world invading. Manhattan burning. And a horned god at the helm. “Loki’s here too.”

The master nodded.

“Despite our best efforts, we haven’t been able to determine why the Asgardians are here. We don’t even know where on Earth Loki is, let alone his intentions,” said the Guardian of the London Sanctum.

A heavy silence fell. All eyes were turned on Stephen. He felt the shape of their intent before they spoke it aloud. His hands trembled. He shoved them between his crossed legs.

The Avengers’ public fracturing felt like a middle school breakup compared to the self-dismemberment that had befallen the Masters of the Mystic Arts. First Kaecilius’s betrayal. Then Mordo’s purge. Their numbers had thinned to a fraction. And now, leaderless, their enemies were at the gate, some slipping through and turning their dreams, their very minds, into battlegrounds.

Stephen knew they didn’t want to ask him to do this. They didn’t trust him to do this. Didn’t trust his judgment. Didn’t trust his ego. But there was no one else.

Still, he wanted to hear them say it.

It was Wong who broke first. “Stephen, you have to call Stark.”

Stephen exhaled slowly then ran his hand through his hair. He knew they’d see the tremors, but it didn’t matter. “How do I play this?” he asked.

“Stark came to you for help. You have decided to help, but you need to personally examine Thor before you are willing to offer any professional judgment on his prognosis,” said the master.

“So, Stark would have to take me to where Thor is,” said Stephen. “And you think Loki is there?”

“We don’t know,” said Wong. “But it’s a start.”

Stephen closed his eyes briefly. Images flashed in his mind’s eye. Damaged tissue. Lacerations. Evidence of internal bleeding. Ferning patterns that meant the damage kept coming. The neon rendering of a god’s brain.

“If I do this,” he began slowly, opening his eyes as he spoke, “I can’t take Thor as a patient and not try to save him.”

He didn’t elaborate. He knew he didn’t need to, but the implications sat in the open for them to consider. He would do his duty, but even if he learned everything there was to learn about the Asgardians’ presence on Earth—even if he learned nothing—once he was Thor’s doctor, he wouldn’t abandon him. Before all else, he was a healer—his Hippocratic Oath as sacred as any ancient ritual.

“Admirable,” said the ranking master. “We will not hold you to it, but should you choose to hold yourself, we will forgo considering it an abandonment of your post.”

“Right,” said Stephen, hearing a dismissal and rising to his feet. He turned to leave.

“Sleep here tonight, Stephen,” said the ranking master, halting him in his tracks.

Stephen turned, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not even lunch time for me.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Wong.

“We have a lot to go over before you call Stark,” said Wong.

Stephen exhaled deeply. It was going to be a long day.

Wong closed the chamber door behind them, and Stephen took a seat at one of the tables laden with ancient tomes and half furled scrolls. He spotted more conventional texts—the Oneirocritica, the Zohar, the works of Ovid—mixed with the Order’s text on Maya, Mare, and Epiales, among others.

“You’ve been busy,” he said with a sardonic smile.

Most people would have fumbled for some excuse or deflection. Wong didn’t even have the self-consciousness to look uncomfortable. That’s why they were friends. Wong never humored him and he’d definitely never coddle him.

“I’ll stop looking when we have a solution.”

Despite his best efforts, Stephen’s laugh was rueful. “You mean besides the obvious one?”

“If you’re considering the obvious one, come talk to me first,” said Wong, tone even.

Stephen let out a long exhale then nodded. Too tired for this line of conversation.

Wong raised an eyebrow in response; the look he gave Stephen part suspicion and part threat.

“I will,” Stephen promised, refusing to hide his irritation, and unable to hide his exhaustion.

With Mordo gone, Wong had stepped into the role of Stephen’s guide to Kamar-Taj’s complex history and politics. Wong’s family, the Kan family, had been part of the Order before the borders of Nepal were drawn, and Wong was Kamar-Taj’s librarian, a post harder earned and more honored than a sanctum’s guardian. Wong hadn’t needed to take Stephen under his wing. No one had asked him to, but he had, and somewhere along the way they’d become friends.

“You can’t use magic at the Avengers’ compound,” said Wong.

“I figured that much,” said Stephen, slumping deeper in his chair.

“No,” Wong said sternly. “You don’t understand. You can’t use any magic. Not even subtle magic. Not even the kind no one else would detect.”

Stephen frowned. “Because of Loki.”

“Because we don’t know what Loki can sense,” Wong corrected. “His abilities are not mundane, not magical in the human sense, and not fully understood even by Asgardians. We can’t risk him noticing anything.”

“Assuming that's where I'm going and assuming he’s there,” said Stephen.

“Yeah,” said Wong. “Assuming.”

Stephen folded his arms, then winced at the strain in his ribs. “Anything else?”

“I suggest,” Wong said carefully, “that you go in as a doctor. Not a sorcerer.”

“You may regret that suggestion. I have a feeling the council will.”

“Fuck the council.”

Stephen grinned. “I love it when you talk mutiny."

Wong rolled his eyes. “We shouldn’t have asked you to do this at all,” he said with a finality that suggested he’d been a lone dissenting vote among the masters.

“Because I can’t handle it?” Stephen didn’t bother hiding the bitterness in his voice. “Because I’m one night away from a breakdown? Because I’m—”

Wong hummed deep in his throat—it bordered on a growl. Stephen stopped talking. “Because you cannot serve two masters. Your oath as a doctor and your duty to the Order, can at times be… in conflict.” Wong took the seat at the table across from him then considered him closely. “You know this better than anyone.”

Stephen let out a laugh with no humor in it. “They don’t coexist well, no.”

“Magic takes from the body,” Wong said. “And medicine tries to preserve it. You can’t serve both at the same time without consequence.”

Stephen looked down at his hands. Shaking. Barely steady enough to hold surgical instruments, let alone wield them to anyone’s benefit. “I’ve noticed.”

“There is always a cost,” Wong said simply.

Stephen didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The hollowness behind his eyes. The tremors. The fear. The isolation. The nights he didn’t sleep because sleeping meant dying again and again. The nightmares. God, the nightmares.

He knew the cost.

He’d been paying it for over a year now.

Wong pressed on. “You can take a sling ring. You’ll need it if the Avengers or Asgardians find out you’ve been lying to them. But keep it hidden. It only channels magic. It has no power when it’s not in use, so it shouldn’t alert anyone to your abilities.”

Stephen nodded.

“You can’t take the Cloak,” said Wong.

Stephen looked at his shoulder, at the red cloak that lay draped over it. Currently still. Inanimate. Like any other piece of clothing. That would change the second it realized he was trying to leave it behind. “I’ll let you break the news to it.”

“I’d rather not,” said Wong, fear flashing across his face.

Stephen grinned.

Then the weight of his situation hit him again. He would be walking into the Avengers’ territory with no ready access to his sling ring, no sentient protection, no artifacts, tomes, or other tools of his Order.

Just a broken body, a medical degree he hadn’t used in years, and a mind that had been turned into his own personal hell.

He didn’t even bother bringing up the eye. That’d been a dead end for weeks. The Council had unburdened him of the Order’s most powerful relic after Wong found him half dead. Stephen hadn’t argued at the time. There’d been theories that the reason he was being targeted was because someone was after the Eye of Agamotto. So, he’d given up the eye to test the theory. The attacks had only gotten worse, but no one on the Council, not even Wong, had entertained returning the relic to him.

“You will still carry the protection spells,” said Wong.

Stephen stiffened. “I don’t—”

“They stay,” Wong said firmly. “The Council agreed. Removing them would leave you exposed. More exposed than you already are.”

Stephen hated the way Wong’s eyes shadowed when he said it. Hated the reminder of the night Wong had found him collapsed on the floor of the New York Sanctum.

“They’re designed for protection of the astral form,” Wong continued. “There is no record of Loki having ready access to the astral plane or the Dream Dimension. Even if he did, he would have to be there to detect them.”

Stephen rubbed his scarred fingers against the fabric of his sleeve. They trembled despite his efforts.

Wong changed the subject. “What do you know about Loki Odinson?”

Stephen exhaled. “Only what’s been recorded. The public broadcasts. The invasion. Some Norse mythology. Enough to know he’s volatile. Intelligent. Dangerous. And unpredictable.”

Wong nodded. “Legends depict him as a trickster. A shapeshifter. A being who doesn’t follow conventional magical rules. He doesn’t derive power like our sorcerers. His abilities are closer to… innate reality manipulation. Instinctive, not learned.”

Stephen frowned. “Instinctive is harder to track.”

“Yes,” Wong agreed. “And harder to hide from.”

Stephen digested that. He’d learned magic in much the way he’d learned medicine, through study and practice. There were rules as predictable and natural as those that govern the body. Some of his fellow sorcerers in the Order thought him a prodigy, but nothing he did was wholly new—all of it was built on the work of sorcerers past.

What could be learned could be deconstructed, examined, and reverse-engineered. The rules could be learned and thus actions predicted. Its boundaries could be understood. But innate magic? Magic that was might channeled through a gifted mind? Magic that was limited only by the caster’s imagination. The rules were nonbinding. Its boundaries were pervious at best.

Wong continued, “We don’t know if Loki is a threat. But we do know that Asgardians rarely leave their realm in such numbers—not unless they are marching to war. Something drove them here. Something catastrophic. Maybe apocalyptic.”

“Ragnarök,” said Stephen. “You think it’s happened.”

Wong shrugged. “That’s what you’re going to find out.” Then, as if suddenly remembering why he’d been against Stephen going in the first place, Wong added. “Call me, if it gets bad again. Don’t wait this time.”

Stephen shook his head. “Pretty sure I’ll be under 24 hour surveillance."

“Call me anyway.” This wasn’t just a friend’s concern, it was an order by a Master of the Mystic Arts, who, though less skilled, still outranked him in decades of practice and sensibility.

“Okay,” Stephen promised.

“Good,” Wong said quietly, looking, if not convinced, at least placated. “Then we’ll prepare your approach.”

Stephen nodded. This was the job. The one thing he could do—even when heroes were at war, even when his dreams turned against him, even when gods were dying—was his job.

***

Stephen felt the drop.
The sickening sideways pull.
Gravity turning inside out as he was torn loose from his body and dragged through memories reaped for the fear they invoked. His sense of self sheared away in strips—name, shape, breath, purpose—peeled off like skin. He never arrived in Dormammu’s realm intact. The place always took something during the fall.

Blinding orange light snapped across his vision followed by swirling darkness and the color of bruises: purples, blues, pallid greens, sickening yellows. Heat cracked the ground beneath him like molten glass flexing under strain. The air tasted of ash, copper, and something chemical that burned the back of his throat.

Dormammu’s realm.

He barely had time to register the shape of it before the first blow struck.

A blade of energy whipped through his chest—a white-hot lash that tore through his ribs and severed his spinal cord, slicing through organs and dislodging vertebrae as it bisected him. The heat cauterized his tissue. Tendrils of steam escaped from the seam that ran the circumference of his upper chest. He could smell meat burning.

He saw his body in pieces before he felt it—vision firing faster than nerves could report. His lower half twitched once, reflexive, like it was still trying to follow him.

Then he split apart.

His legs and guts—everything below his heart—collapsed beneath him. His chest and head hit the ground hard.

He grabbed at the ground trying to pull himself up. Trying to see. Trying to think. Fine splitters of slate slipped under his fingernails as he clawed at the rocks around him, their sting less than a tickle in the cacophony of pain radiating from where he’d been cut in half.

He could see the bottom half of his body laying a few feet away. The lower lobes of his lungs sat like empty pockets, wetly expanding and contracting with his rapid breaths. His diaphragm cracked as it contracted. Charred organs secreted juices that sizzled when they surfaced. The stench was nauseating, causing his lower esophagus to pump out bile that bubbled on the ground.

The pain was so great that even if his lungs weren’t sliced in half, Stephen wouldn’t have been able to scream. There was no sound for this kind of pain. Pain that never would have gone on this long because his body would have given out already. If this was his body. If this were the physical realm.

His form collapsed, unmade in an explosion of violet dust.

The pain didn’t vanish with his body. It clung—memory pain, nerve-deep, carried into the next form like a stain.

Death one.

He re-formed. Tripped. Exhaled once—

Another blow.

Death two.

Then again—

Death three.

The deaths came in rapid succession, too fast for fear to keep up, too fast to catch a breath. A loop he hadn’t chosen. A loop he couldn’t escape.

The ground reformed. His ribs re-knitted, nerves screaming back to life. Dormammu’s roar felt like a tuning fork pressed to his skull.

Stephen died again.

Burned. Crushed. Dismembered in ways his mind couldn’t catalogue — pain without language, sensation without sequence.

Death forty-three.

Death eighty.

Somewhere around death one hundred, Stephen stopped remembering which version of himself he was. Somewhere around death one sixty, he stopped remembering why he was fighting. By death two hundred, he wasn’t sure he’d ever had a body that didn’t hurt. He wasn’t sure he’d ever lived outside of the loop. He wasn’t sure there was anything outside of the loop.

Between the deaths—between the disintegrations and the rebuilds—there was just enough time for dread to crawl back in.

Not dread of Dormammu. Dormammu was almost… predictable. Mechanical. Brutal, but impersonal. Stephen had lived this loop. Why dread an echo of it?

What terrified him was what came next. What came once Dormammu had broken him down… once Dormammu had broken him in. Once he was exhausted enough, cracked enough, soft enough for the real nightmare to get through.

Dormammu was just the opening act. The word foreplay had been whispered more than once in his ear over the last year. The real nightmare waited in the breach.

Stephen’s astral form re-formed after the 217th death. He was shaking, exhausted, and so overwhelmed by the memory of pain that his mind had no room for anything else. His defenses. His training. The tools of his Order, so dependent on intention and focus, were out of reach. He could barely retrieve his own name from the stores of his memory, let alone anything that could help him.

He braced for the next death.

…the ground pulsed beneath him. The air thickened—like pressure building before a scream.

Stephen froze.

His pulse slammed against the inside of his throat.

The shadows beyond the horizon rippled like fabric touched by unseen hands. The ground trembled, rhythmic, intentional, like footsteps approaching through the dark.

Stephen turned slowly—every muscle trembling, breath shallow, vision narrowing at the edges.

There was a distortion. A warped patch of reality bending around a presence.

A cold drag traced the length of his spine, as if fingers—long, patient, familiar—were assessing him. Reclaiming him.

The dreamscape dimmed. Dormammu’s roar dissolved into a muffled vibration, swallowed by a deeper darkness.

A whisper.

Stephen… I’ve missed you.

The words weren’t spoken to him. They were spoken in him.

His knees buckled.

His lungs seized.

He waited—for the taunts, for the touches, for the pain that broke him in ways Dormammu never could. He waited for the real nightmare to clamp its hands around him and drag him under.

He would fight. He always did. Every time. He lost every time. But he would fight.

Light detonated behind him.

A shockwave of gold sigils tore through the darkness, forcing it back like an animal recoiling from fire. The presence retreated—but slowly, as if reluctant to give up its prey.

Stephen collapsed onto the pulsing ground, his astral form flickering wildly.

“Stephen!”

Wong’s astral projection stepped through the warped terrain, four senior disciples flanking him. They glowed with sigils that made the Dream Dimension recoil visibly, the sky distorting away from them.

Wong reached him in two strides.

“Hold him back,” Wong barked to the disciples. “Do not let him return.”

They spread out, casting interlocking wards. The nightmare retreated, snarling.

Wong knelt beside Stephen.

“Rest,” he commanded.

Stephen tried to answer, but his voice was gone. His throat scraped raw from his screams and the nightmare’s caustic air.

Wong touched his shoulder, steady and grounding. The warmth of the contact bled through Stephen like balm. A protection sphere formed around him, shimmering gold. The dreamscape recoiled further, shrinking back into itself like a wounded animal retreating.

“Rest,” Wong repeated, softer.

He felt himself pulled downward, consciousness sinking into velvety black. The dreamscape dissolved around him.

Stephen welcomed the slide into unconsciousness.

 ***

Stephen woke the way a drowning man wakes: abruptly, lungs aching, throat tight, skin cold.

He blinked into the daylight at Kamar-Taj. Every muscle felt bruised. His ribs throbbed. His head ached. His hands trembled.

He exhaled a long, shaky breath. It hurt.

He was sleeping on a mat in one of Kamar-Taj’s many rooms for visiting disciples and masters. The room was small and sparse. The very picture of aestheticism.

Wong sat nearby, perched on a low stool with a tea tray beside him and a book closed in his lap. He was watching Stephen with that steady, unreadable concern Stephen had learned never to dismiss.

“You’re awake,” Wong said, tone soft but firm. “Good.”

Stephen pressed a hand over his eyes. “How long?”

“Fourteen hours.”

“Fourteen?” Stephen let his hand fall away. “You let me sleep for fourteen hours?”

Wong’s mouth twitched. “It took you six to stop thrashing. I wasn’t going to wake you unless the building caught fire.”

Stephen pushed himself up slowly. His body trembled—aftershocks from the nightmare—but he steadied himself.

Wong watched him.

“Let’s hear it,” said Stephen, irritated.

“I won’t be able to find you,” said Wong. “Not like last night. The Dream Dimension is vast. I was able to trace your astral form through the tether to your body. Without that trail, finding you in the Dream Dimension will be nearly impossible.”

Stephen nodded. He knew that. Knew that Wong and other members of his Order had tried to know when Stephen was dragged into the Dream Dimension and where he was dragged to. But it was impossible to predict. Stephen didn’t dream every time he slept. When he did, he never ended up in the same place. His spiritual abduction was random.

“I should get back,” he said. “I have a call to make.”

“Yes,” Wong agreed. And then, “If it gets like before. Don't wait.”

“I will,” Stephen promised.

Tony

Tony stood outside the glass wall of the medical bay, watching Thor seize.

The nurse adjusting the sedatives wasn’t fast enough to hide the panic in his eyes. The overhead lights flickered when static crawled along Thor’s arms. The monitors shuddered. The air tasted faintly ionized.

Tony’s chest felt tight.

He’d seen friends die. He’d watched his parents assassinated on repeat. He’d lost teams. He’d lost battles. But watching a god fade away in a hospital bed was a different flavor of helplessness altogether—slow, quiet, somehow worse than falling to earth after ramming a nuke up a tear in space.

Loki stood beside him, tense as a coiled spring, eyes hollow. Natasha leaned on the opposite wall, silently keeping watch. The hallway smelled like antiseptic and ozone.

Perfect mix for a slow emotional breakdown.

Loki broke the quiet first.

“Your doctor still has not called?” he asked, not looking at Tony.

“Not yet.”

Tony hadn't missed the edge of desperate hope in Loki’s voice. He’d briefed him on Natasha’s and his encounter with Strange. On how the guy had looked at Thor’s brain and known. No written reports. No readouts or schematics. No tools or instruments. Just a high-resolution rendering and his own eyes. Tony hadn’t mentioned how hard Strange had pushed back.

Maybe Tony had gotten carried away. Maybe his own certainty that this was a turning point had worked its way into the conversation with Loki… okay it had. And Loki had latched on to it like a lifeline.

“What if he does not?” said Loki.

“He will.”

Loki turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

“Do you want my optimism or my honesty?” said Tony. “Because I’m running low on both, but I can fake the first one pretty well.”

Loki gave him a sharp, brittle smile. “I thought sarcasm was your only language.”

“It’s a dialect,” Tony muttered. “Hope is an accent.”

Natasha snorted under her breath.

Loki stared through the glass again, shoulders slumping. “Can you not do something?”

“People don’t always do what I want on my preferred timeline,” said Tony. “It’s rude, honestly.”

He hated this. Hated that he’d promised Loki that Stephen Strange would help, and now he wasn’t sure the guy would even call.

I shouldn’t have promised so much. I shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. I shouldn’t—

“Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimed from above.

Tony jerked upright. “Yeah?”

“Incoming call from the unidentified number associated with Dr. Stephen Strange.”

Tony grinned. “Put him through,” he said with a wink at Loki.

A soft click.

Tony cleared his throat. “What’s up, doc?”

Natasha glared at him. Tony shrugged as if to say what did you expect?

“Tony Stark.”

Strange’s voice was leveled and composed.

“Yeah, doc, it’s me. You did get this number from my card.”

Strange didn’t rise to the bait. “Do you still want a second opinion on your patient?”

Cryptic. Strange didn’t even mention Thor by name. Maybe it was just years of doctor-patient confidentiality training drilled into him, or maybe Strange was less of a civilian than his file indicated. Either way, Tony didn't need Nat to tell him that the guy had instincts.

Tony forced nonchalance. “I’m still shopping around, yeah. What’s your rate?”

“I don’t want your money, Stark,” said Strange. “Nor do I need it.”

Tony huffed out a laugh.

Silence.

“Yeah, okay, you're just a good Samaritan,” said Tony. “So, what do you want?”

Strange didn’t miss a beat. “To help. But, as I told you yesterday, I’m not convinced I can.”

Loki visibly startled at this, eyes flicking to Tony. It took everything Tony had not to flinch. To show Loki that, yeah, it kinda all rested on a guy who didn’t share his confidence in Tony’s grand plan.

“Yeah. I get it. You're not making any promises,” Tony said to Strange. “I’ll send over the case files then we can discuss—”

“No,” Strange interrupted with the authority of a man who was used to being listened to. Damn surgeons. And they say I have an ego. “If I’m going to evaluate him, it has to be as his physician. Not as an academic. Not as a consultant hiding behind data. If I’m really your best option, then I’m your last option. And the last option should be at the bedside.”

Tony went still.

He felt Natasha’s attention sharpen beside him. Loki watched them both.

“Yeah,” Tony said slowly, “about that… the patient is in a restricted location. You wouldn't be able to just pop in for a house call. If we brought you here, it’d be until the job was done.”

Stephen’s tone didn’t budge. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

Tony’s stomach twisted. He hated how Strange had been able to do in five seconds with his eyes what all the other top experts hadn’t been able to do with the full ingenuity of Stark Industries at their disposal. Hated how every instinct told him Strange was their best chance—their last chance—for helping Thor. And how every instinct in him equally screamed that there was just something off about the guy.

And he really hated that it made sense… it made sense to have Strange here. To put all their chips on the table. To go all in…

But letting a stranger, especially this stranger, anywhere near what remained of the Avengers? Anywhere near what remained of Thor?

Tony looked at Loki. Loki was looking at him with something approximating hope. And goddammit what was he supposed to do with that?

Tony exhaled. “Fine. We’ll transport you. How quickly can you be ready?”

“Now,” said Strange.

“Agent Romanoff will be there in an hour.”

“You know where I live.” There was a click.

“Call ended," said F.R.I.D.A.Y.

Silence returned.

Tony swallowed hard.

“You are not comfortable with this Stephen Strange coming here,” said Loki.

“I’m not really looking to make new friends. Kinda friended-out, you know?” said Tony.

“You brought me here,” Loki said, quieter now.

“Yeah. Well. I couldn’t just leave you in Norway. You’re way too impressionable. You’d probably be fronting a death metal band by now.”

Loki rolled his eyes, clearly not in the mood. Pity. Tony was. “You truly believe this mortal can help my brother?” Loki asked. Not a challenge—a warning. A reminder of what was at stake.

Tony hesitated. “I’m going off a feeling,” he admitted.

Loki nodded, accepting this without question. That look—like Tony was supposed to have the answer. People didn’t look at him like that. Not lately.

“Someone should tell Hulk and Vision we’re expecting company,” said Natasha.

“I will go,” said Loki. “You have things to discuss that you would rather discuss without me present—”

“What? That’s not true. You’re—”

“And I could use a change in company,” said Loki, cutting Tony off with a sharp but not malicious grin.

Loki turned to leave, and Tony watched him go with a twist of guilt. The second he was gone, Tony let the façade drop.

Natasha stepped closer.

“Okay. Hit me,” said Tony.

“Stephen Strange,” Natasha began, dry as sandpaper. “Former neurosurgeon. Brilliant. Kind of an arrogant prick. Cared more about his reputation than his patients. Avoided risky operations because they might hurt his stats. Avoided routine ones because they were beneath him.”

Tony grimaced. “Fantastic. I’m putting Thor’s life in the hands of Doctor Yelp Review.”

Natasha continued. “The house in Greenwich? Bought and maintained by the Kan Family Trust for the religious order he’s a part of. It’s essentially a quasi-embassy, hostel, and religious center. Strange is on payroll as the caretaker. Room, board, and a stipend that couldn’t pay for your matcha habits.”

Tony blinked. “On the payroll, huh? So, he fell in deep. What kind of cult are we talking here? The cut-off-your-balls-and-drink-the-kool-aid type or the take-multiple-spouses-and-practice-tantric-sex kind? I think we both know which one I’d prefer.”

“Tony,” Natasha warned.

He raised both hands. “I’m coping. Badly. Let me cope.”

“Cope silently like the rest of us.”

Tony huffed. “Fine. So, this cult have a name?”

“The religious sect calls itself something that roughly translates to Masters of the Mystic Arts. Some files referenced a similar sounding group that went by Vishanti’s Disciples. I couldn’t tell if it was a subsect or a synonym.”

“Masters of the Mystic Arts? So not Doctor Yelp Reviews, Professor Dumbledore. Great.”

Natasha scowled in warning.

“Anything else?” asked Tony.

She nodded. “I found evidence he might have returned to the US on a private jet owned by the Kan family. Still no customs entry attached to his ID, but there’s a flight manifest that tracks. So, the missing reentry record may really have been a clerical error.”

“This is good, right?” said Tony rubbing his hands together. “Means he’s a weirdo but not a criminal. I can deal with weirdos. Have you met Vision?”

“Yes,” said Natasha, “I’m feeling better about this. Not great. But better.”

And that was all Tony needed to hear, because at the end of the day, if Nat said no then the right answer was no.

“Go get him,” said Tony.

Natasha nodded once and walked away.

Tony turned back to the glass wall.

The nurses adjusted wires and sedation levels.

He hated this.

Hated that Earth—that the universe—had heroes and gods and geniuses and armies, and Thor might still die in a hospital bed from head trauma. Hated that he was reduced to putting his faith in a prick doctor just because he recognized something in Strange that he saw in himself. Unparalleled brilliance.

He may have been a shit CEO, but the one executive skill he did have was an eye for talent. Strange had unparalleled brilliance. Banner had it. The kid had it. Hell, even Loki had it—in his own Loki way. Tony had seen it enough to know it. He’d recruited it. Paid for it. Deployed it. And relied on it enough to know that when it worked, it was like magic.