Chapter Text
He fell.
Stephen jerked to catch himself, only to realize he wasn’t falling at all. That he’d never been falling. His book stared up at him from the table where he’d been reading in the library.
No.
Grief swallowed him, the depth of the wave so entirely unfathomable that it took all his strength to pull himself up and out of it.
He clutched at the edge of the table, trying to center himself. Trying to breathe.
“Stephen,” came Wong’s voice as Wong entered the library. Stephen didn’t turn to look at him, but could picture him perfectly. His arm would be in the sling, because he’d dislocated his shoulder… oh, how long had it been? Just yesterday? By the Vishanti, it had been so long since then.
I need you to go to the Avengers’ meeting today.
“I need you to go to the Avengers’ meeting today,” Wong said.
The first time Stephen had complained. Had pointed out that an arm in a sling by no means meant that Wong was incapable of sitting in a meeting.
“All right,” he said. His voice came out toneless. He winced, knowing it would cause concern, but he didn’t have the energy for anything more.
He heard Wong pause, the way he always did when Stephen went this route.
Stephen closed his eyes.
You’re not moping about about Master Jiro, still, are you?
“You’re not moping about Master—“
“No, Wong.” Stephen should stick to the script. But what did the script matter? “I’m not moping about Jiro. Just because it’s foolish to the extreme to allow an untrained Master to take the lead—.” He cut himself off.
It was a mild nuisance, in truth, by now. Though the first time it had been a nightmare. The protections failing at just the wrong moment… The two novices who had died that first time when the protections had come down and the Shrytax had crashed through, swiping tentacles wrapping around their necks, flinging them back before Stephen and Wong had had the chance to react.
But that… that wasn’t for another three days. And the Shrytax was a threat Stephen had long ago grown past.
“Stephen, every Master is untrained at one point. You were as well, if you remember. And we had to deal with lights that flickered for two weeks while you worked on your casting to perfection.”
Lights flickering. Stephen scoffed. There was a terrible difference between the two failures.
He didn’t want to talk about Master Jiro. It had turned into an argument a few—197—times. Stephen just… he didn’t want to argue.
He didn’t want to do a lot of things.
Choices, however, were as unlimited as the sky and as constraining as the shackles that he could picture perfectly, phantom around his wrists.
“I’ll go,” he said. “To the Avengers meeting.”
It’d been a few timelines since he’d gone. Fifteen, now? But they had been a short fifteen. Lasting no more than two months.
It was not a way of breaking the monotony, not when Stephen had already been 1091 times.
Might as well make it a solid three years of this meeting.
Something caught in his throat. How long had it been, now? If he’d gone to these meetings 1091 times. Time, something he had once considered a friend, was now nothing but the chains his captor used to constrain him.
Stephen had once been a cruel man, but he’d never been hateful. But hatred was the only emotion he could carry in his heart for his captor. Phillip Castor. Such a common name for such a monster.
In the first yesterday of this time loop he and Wong had ‘defeated’ Castor—resulting in Wong’s dislocated shoulder—and thought their job done.
It wasn’t.
Castor’s escape wouldn’t be discovered for another hour—it was already too late to stop him, the act was done, now it was just for the others to discover—but his greatest trick had already been performed.
Stephen still didn’t know how Castor had cast the spell that had trapped them both in the time loop, nor did he know what the spell was.
All he knew was that he was stuck in a never-ending cycle of time. It had taken some time for him to determine the rules. His death restarted the loop. As did Castor’s. But then… there were times when neither of them died and Stephen still found himself sitting here at this desk, staring down at his book, the loop once again at its beginning.
Stephen suspected that it was just plain cruelty. Castor’s attempt to break him with the taunt that Castor could restart the loop whenever he wanted. That Stephen’s entire existence fell under Castor’s control.
Stephen hated that, more and more, he thought he was breaking.
“Stephen?” Wong’s voice interrupted his thoughts and Stephen jumped a little; it’d grown easier and easier to get lost in his thoughts. He turned to face Wong whose brow was furrowed in worry.
Stephen had told Wong the truth 4112 times. 1209 times it had resulted in Wong’s death. 1009 times the loop had restarted immediately. 1987 times it had ended in Castor’s death, sometimes with Wong, sometimes alone. 907 times it had ended in Stephen’s, with or without the others hardly a factor.
“Sorry,” Stephen said, because he couldn’t think about Wong dying right now. “Just tired. The fight with Castor took more out of me than I thought.”
It had taken his energy, his hope, his determination, his faith.
It stole more and more from him every loop.
Stephen was hanging by a thread, a thread that grew weaker and weaker with every moment.
He knew how to end the loop. Castor had told him after the 113th loop. All he had to do was swear himself to Castor’s cause.
Stephen had refused.
He still refused.
Castor had tauntingly told him that while Stephen had lasted longer than he’d thought he would—so much longer—that eventually Stephen would break.
Despite the spell that Castor had used to bind them both to this loop, Stephen was still stronger, still the better sorcerer, still the more creative of them.
It would be conceited to assume that he was the linchpin that would allow Castor to destroy first Kamar-Taj, before moving on to the witch covens, and then on to the rogue magic users, each time sucking their magic up for his own use.
But Castor made Stephen more powerful with every loop, as Stephen learned more and more, created more and more, all in an attempt to free himself.
Castor dreamt of invincibility. Dreamt of a world at his fingertips.
He wanted Stephen to shatter apart, shatter apart so that he would in turn shatter the world and offer it up to Castor on a silver platter in return for his freedom.
Though Stephen suspected that Castor planned to give him his freedom in death.
Stephen had long ago accepted that death was a freedom. One he would more than gladly accept. If it were not for the destruction between now and his death, he would have broken long ago.
But he couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t harm innocents to save himself. He held on to the thought, to one of the only truths he had left.
“Stephen,” Wong’s voice cut through his thoughts. He’d moved closer. The furrow of worry in his brow was more distinct. “I can send someone else to the—“
“It’s fine, Wong,” Stephen said. “I’m just tired. I told you.”
“Then you can sleep.”
Stephen scoffed, but a part of him couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take Castor to reset the time loop of Stephen just… slept. If he went to bed and refused to leave it.
It was tempting.
So very, very tempting.
Maybe next time.
Instead he stood, shutting his book. “I’m just going to grab a bite to eat and then I’ll portal to the compound.”
He left before Wong could say anything else. He appreciated Wong’s worry. He did. It reminded him that, no matter how he felt, that there were people who cared about him.
He knew, knew that Wong would help him. He just… also knew it didn’t matter.
The kitchen was empty when he got to it and he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the stir fry automatically. He pulled out the chicken as well, but this he threw in the trash. He’d learned very early on that the chicken pesto had gone bad at some point and he didn’t need to let anyone get sick because he was thoughtless.
The stir fry was like dust in his mouth, but he needed the food. If only because pretending he cared about his own self care was the closest he could get to actually caring.
And because people started getting worried about him when he stopped eating.
He just didn’t want… not this time. This time people’s well meant worry was too much for him to deal with.
He closed his eyes, felt his emotions twist and turn as he tried not to break down. To curl in on himself and let the emotions escape in broken sobs or desperate screams for release.
But he couldn’t. Some part of him feared that if he let himself start he would never be able to stop.
There was a whoosh of movement and Stephen opened his eyes in time to see the cloak flutter into the room to fall onto his shoulders, lapels rubbing over his cheek in quiet greeting. Stephen reached up and ran his fingers over the soft fabric of the cloak. It was the only solace he had. He was not truly alone in this unending loop. Whatever Castor had done had caught the cloak as well.
Stephen didn’t know what he would do if he’d been truly alone. It was something he tried desperately not to think about.
The cloak nudged at Stephen’s bowl of stir fry and Stephen obediently took another mechanical bite. The food disappeared quickly to that steady, mechanical movement. He washed his dish slowly, the hot water painful against his fingers.
The Avengers meeting wasn’t for another thirty minutes and Stephen helplessly tried to figure out what to do in the time between. There was no point researching in the library. He’d attempted it before, what books he did manage to read had no help and the books he knew might help were out of his reach. Every time he’d attempted to get to them the time loop had restarted before he could. Eventually Castor had gotten tired of him trying and had set fire to the library with several novices trapped within the walls.
They’d saved the novices—though several were injured extensively and permanently—but even with his own and the sanctum’s magic, something about the fire Castor had set made it impossible to extinguish before it had destroyed everything within.
Stephen had learned his lesson.
It was not the only time he knew he’d gotten close.
The Time stone had been his first attempt. The Book of Vishanti nearly found 528 separate times. The Darkhold and Agatha Harkness willing to help him another 491. Each time he got too close, Stephen found himself back in that damnable library, any progress he’d made taken from him.
The cloak tapped at his sling ring on his belt and Stephen took that to mean that the cloak felt it best to leave the sanctum.
Stephen sighed, rubbing at his face.
There was, technically, an infinite number of places he could go.
He’d grown fond of a particular haven in Iceland he’d found some 1400 loops ago. The cloak tapped against Stephen’s chest twice in suggestion.
Stephen debated the choice. That particular move had become a signature for Tony. It had been 24 loops since Stephen had sought Tony out, 15 since he’d seen him at the last Avengers’ meeting he’d gone to. Tony was a double-edged sword. Tony was safe, Tony was good.
Tony died. Tony died, over and over.
It had taken Castor 700 loops to realize Tony was important to him—though, even now, Stephen doubted Castor truly understood what Tony was to him, if he did… But Stephen couldn’t even consider that. In the thousands of loops since Castor had gotten his first glimpse at understanding, Tony had died so many times, in so many ways. Not always, because Stephen did everything he could to keep Tony alive, but enough.
Stephen had told Tony the truth 6432 times, often at the same time he told Wong. 4451 times it had ended in Tony’s death—the chances worse than when Stephen told anyone else. 4492 times it ended in Castor’s death—either brought down by Tony in the moments before he died or by Stephen losing control in the aftermath of Tony’s death, though occasionally Castor died alone, restarting the loop before anyone else could die. 2007 times it had ended in Stephen’s death, sometimes with Tony, sometimes with Castor, sometimes alone. 821 times the loop had restarted immediately, though that had happened more and more often the longer they’d gone.
Castor, Stephen suspected, was getting tired of having to deal with Tony.
At this point, Stephen rarely told Tony in hopes of fixing anything. Mostly he told Tony because for those spare minutes, Stephen wasn’t alone.
By the Vishanti, he felt so alone.
The cloak tapped against Stephen’s chest again. Stephen sighed. “All right,” he said quietly. “I suppose we can go see Tony.”
He slid the sling ring onto his fingers, opening a portal to Tony’s lab. Shoot to Thrill was playing over the speakers, though the volume dropped immediately as Stephen entered.
Tony looked up at him, smile on his face that immediately disappeared for concern. “You look awful,” Tony said. “You okay?”
“Just tired,” Stephen said.
Tony’s lips pursed and it was clear that Tony didn’t believe him in the slightest. He moved away from the 3d printer he was using to create a model of a new water filtration device he was working on and towards Stephen.
Stephen didn’t move as Tony stepped into his space, hand coming up to check Stephen’s forehead. Stephen closed his eyes at Tony’s touch, soft and gentle. He felt the prickle of his own magic against his skin, old protective spells Tony had let Stephen weave over him… it had been almost a week ago for Tony, but so much longer for Stephen. Stephen would renew them again, soon—he never let them go past a week, even in this nightmare—but for now Tony was… well, never safe, but at least protected. “I don’t have a fever.”
Tony’s hand slid off Stephen’s forehead, fingers trailing down Stephen’s cheek and jaw. “Just checking,” he said. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine,” Stephen said, the lie slipping so easily from his tongue. He opened his eyes again, met Tony’s and seeing the concern and love in those warm brown eyes.
It never faded, that love. Even when Tony was dying because of Stephen, Stephen had seen that love in Tony’s eyes. It should break him, seeing it now, but it sometimes felt like the only anchor he had left.
Stephen leaned forward to kiss Tony. Needing, just for a moment, the connection it brought him.
Tony kissed him back, gentle and careful. Stephen was never sure if he loved it or hated it. Because he needed Tony to make the thoughts in his head disappear, at the same time he needed Tony’s careful consideration motivated wholly by the love and care Tony had for him.
Stephen felt heat behind his eyes, pain and loneliness and desperation pushing him on.
He pressed a hand to Tony’s back to pull him closer, nipped at Tony’s lip, begged silently for Tony to give him something more.
Tony hesitated for a moment, but then did just that.
Stephen pressed everything into the kiss, tried to disappear into it. For a long moment, he did.
Tony pulled back. “Hey,” he whispered. His hand came up and cupped Stephen’s cheek. “What’s wrong?” His thumb brushed against the skin beneath Stephen’s eye and Stephen felt something wet and warm against his skin.
Somehow, despite Stephen’s best efforts, he was crying.
He pulled back, tried to turn away, but Tony’s hand on his hip stopped him. “Hey, no, you don’t need to hide this, whatever… whatever this is. What’s wrong?”
How could Stephen answer that? There was no good answer, at least not one Stephen was in any hurry to give, right now. “I’m… I’m just so tired,” Stephen said. It was a lame excuse, except it wasn’t an excuse, not really. Stephen was exhausted, down to his bones, down to his soul.
Tony’s brow furrowed, and Stephen wondered what he saw in Stephen’s eyes. “FRIDAY,” Tony said. “Tell Steve that something came up and that Stephen and I aren’t going to make it to the meeting today.”
“Tony, no. It’s not impor—”
“Done, boss,” FRIDAY said cutting Stephen off.
“Thanks FRI,” Tony said. He met Stephen’s gaze. “Now, can you open a portal back to the sanctum so we can get some sleep or do you want me to have FRIDAY call Wong and get him to open us something.”
“Tony, this isn’t necessary.”
Tony leaned up and kissed him, soft and gentle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said when he pulled back. He let out an exaggerated yawn. “This isn’t for you; this is for me. You know how much I love avoiding Avengers’ meetings and sleeping in your bed. This is absolutely for me.”
Stephen closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to Tony’s. “Tony, this isn’t…” It wasn’t that sort of tired. Sleep did nothing, not really; it was just a short reprieve when he didn’t have to be, but then he woke up again and had to face a loop he couldn’t escape.
“I know,” Tony said, his breath was soft against Stephen’s lips. “I know this doesn’t fix it. But I just… let me hold you, okay?”
Stephen swallowed hard. “Okay,” he whispered.
Tony pulled back. “Come on, portal. I’m not joking about pestering Wong into opening us one.”
Stephen nodded, because Tony would absolutely do it—when his mind was made up, very little stopped him—and forced himself to open a portal up to his bedroom and let Tony pull him gently through.
Tony’s hands were gentle as he guided him to bed, crawling in after him.
Stephen buried his face into Tony’s shoulder, tried to breathe through the pain as Tony wrapped his arms around him. Vishanti, he wished this could last, wished that Tony could save him.
Tony started humming, soft and low,
Tears trickled from Stephen’s eyes and he knew he was soaking through Tony’s shirt. 10,983 loops. That was how many it had been. Decades. Centuries in this loop. Stephen… He couldn’t do this.
Could anyone? Was Stephen simply weak?
This was nothing like Dormammu, this was nothing like those 15 million futures. Because then, Stephen might have been trapped by his need to go until he found a way to win, but it had been his choice. He’d had hope that someday it would end.
This wasn’t that. This was a prison of someone else’s making. This was a torture he had no control over.
This was something he couldn’t end, couldn’t escape, couldn’t control.
He shook as his tears turned to sobs. He’d survived so much worse than this, had survived the destruction of half the universe over 15 million times. What was a mere 11,000 loops compared to that?
But then, there had been times when he’d broken down, then, too. There had been times when it’d been too much.
He’d gotten back up, though. Every time, he’d gotten back to his feet, clung to his conviction, and gone on.
Perhaps he needed to break down. Perhaps, if he just let himself break down this time, he’d be strong enough to get up again.
Tony was murmuring quiet promises that he was there, that Stephen wasn’t alone. Stephen clung to Tony and those whispered promises and tried desperately not to drown.
“I’ve got you,” Tony whispered. “I’ve got you.”
It wasn’t true, because Tony simply couldn’t have Stephen, not when Stephen could be ripped away at any moment. He let himself believe it anyways. Let himself believe that if anyone could save him, that Tony could. Even if he had 10,983 loops worth of proof that no one could.
But for now, for now, he let himself fall asleep in Tony’s arms, let Tony’s love wrap around him and give Stephen the barest illusion that someday he could be safe.
Stephen woke up sharply, the feel of his wards on Tony going off. The sensation of someone watching him hit him, a prickle on the back of his neck. He knew immediately it wasn’t Tony; no, there was too much malevolence, a thick blanket covering the room, threatening to suffocate Stephen.
He pushed himself up, glancing at Tony who appeared to be deeply asleep. Castor had obviously done something to him, and Stephen felt a familiar fear. Stephen might be more powerful than Castor, but the loop had proved that power wasn’t the only thing that mattered. If it did, Stephen would already be free. He was tempted to remove whatever the spell on Tony was, but… but Tony might be safer asleep than awake, when Castor was here.
And Stephen knew he was.
Stephen looked around. He clenched his jaw when he saw Castor sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the bed, watching him and Tony. “You are incredibly stubborn,” Castor commented when he realized he had Stephen’s attention. “I really thought you’d have broken, by now.”
Castor stood from the chair, moving closer. Stephen tensed as he reached out, ran a hand over Tony’s cheek. Tony didn’t so much as stir.
“Don’t touch him,” Stephen said, voice low and infused with as much threat as he could manage. Even with everything Castor could do—and had done—to Stephen over the time loops, Stephen knew that some part of Castor still feared Stephen.
A small comfort, but Stephen took what he could get.
Castor snorted, a flicker of unease the only sign that he recognized the threat for what it was. “I’ve done far more than touch him in these loops,” he pointed out. “How many times has he died because of me?”
Too many.
Far too many.
“Don’t. Touch. Him,” Stephen repeated.
Castor rolled his eyes but moved back a little, hand falling away from where it caressed Tony’s skin.
Stephen wanted to reach out and wipe away Castor’s touch from Tony’s skin. He didn’t though, not yet. “What are you doing here?” Stephen asked.
Castor sighed. “I’m really just trying to figure out what it will take to make you break,” he said, tone honest. “You are, perhaps, the most powerful sorcerer that’s been seen in quite some time. I wonder, now, if you could make the Ancient One tremble.” His eyes, a pale, haunting green, glittered with malice. “You could break this world, Stephen Strange. You could bend it to your will.”
“I won’t,” Stephen said. How many times had he said this? How many times had he denied Castor what he wanted?
“You will,” Castor contradicted, just as he always did. “You’ll hand me this world.” His gaze drifted to Tony. “What would you do, I wonder, if I trapped him. Day after day, over and over, nothing but pain and fear.” He leaned closer. “I could do it, you know. Perhaps I should free you, trap him instead, let him come to you, day after day, slowly breaking down as I kill everyone and everything he loves only to do it all over again. How desperate do you think he’d need to be for you to do whatever it took to free him? What would you do, when he broke down in your arms? What would you do, when he begged you to save him?”
Fear curdled in Stephen’s chest. “Leave him alone.”
Castor smiled, a sharp-edged thing—it cut into Stephen, cut him deep and raw. For a moment, Stephen wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off of Castor’s face. Except Tony lay next to him, asleep and vulnerable and Stephen couldn’t risk Tony, even if the nature of the loops meant that any damage Tony took would disappear as though it had never been.
It didn’t matter that nothing lasted, because Stephen refused to hurt Tony at all.
Castor scoffed. “Your love for him makes you weak.” He brought his hand up, a flicker of magic around his fingers, spinning and shifting into different shapes.
Stephen met his gaze. “Yet I’m still strong enough to resist you. 10,983 loops and you still haven’t broken me.”
“Yet,” Castor countered, sounding disgusted. “Every time you resist, you get just the slightest bit stronger, more capable. When you do break—and you will—the rest of magic will fall to its knees before you.” Castor’s gaze lit with unholy glee. “And when it does, Stephen Strange, you will hand it over to me and you will finally know peace.”
“You’ll kill me,” Stephen said.
“Yes,” Castor agreed. No need for lies, Stephen thought bitterly, when they both knew how this would end. Or at least how Castor wanted it to end. Everyone broke eventually, everyone cracked at some point; Stephen was more stubborn than most, but his greatest fear was that he wasn’t the exception. “But only after I’ve gotten everything I want from you.” How much longer could Stephen last? Maybe Castor saw the thoughts on his face, or maybe the smug certainty in Castor’s voice came from that over-inflated ego of his. “It’s a matter of time, Stephen. And the two of us have all the time in the world.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Stephen snapped.
Castor just smiled. The magic of his fingers turned long and sharp, a knife made of pure magic. “You know, I was almost going to let him live, this time.”
The magic sliced through the air, faster than Stephen’s eyes could follow it.
In bed beside him, Tony’s body jerked with the impact of knife to the chest.
“No!” Stephen threw his own magic out, sending Castor flying back and into the wall, even as he desperately scrambled to his knees beside Tony. The magic had disappeared, meaning the blood was flowing freely from Tony’s chest, straight from the heart. Stephen tried to stem it, bringing magic to his fingers to create a heavy cloth, pressing it into the wound.
No, no, no, no, no. Why was every time as terrible as the first? Because as powerful as he’d become, magic didn’t heal. Not in the traditional sense.
A gasping, choking sound cut through Stephen’s panic and Stephen’s gaze came up to find Tony fully awake, gasping desperately for air even as blood was no doubt filling his lungs.
“Tony,” Stephen whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Tony’s gaze flickered around the room, confusion and panic in his eyes, before his gaze locked with Stephen’s.
Tony’s hand flopped for a moment, as Tony tried to move it, before he managed to bring it up to rest on Stephen’s hands where he pressed against Tony’s wound.
“’S okay,” Tony somehow managed. “’s okay.”
Stephen choked on a sob. “Tony,” he whispered.
Tony tried to smile at him, blood bubbling at his lips, as though it might somehow offer Stephen comfort. The next words were harder to understand, but Stephen knew them intimately. Tony had died on him thousands of times, and each time the situation allowed it, Tony always gave him the same last words.
This time would be no exception.
“Love you.”
The love in Tony’s eyes somehow broke through Tony’s pain and fear, an attempt to offer Stephen some final comfort.
The next sob wracked Stephen through. How many times could he watch Tony die on him? How many times was he supposed to survive this? A part of him wanted to look away, but this was Tony’s only death, at least in Tony’s eyes. Stephen couldn’t leave him alone through it.
A gurgling noise escaped Tony, an ugly death rattle.
“Tony,” Stephen whispered. “I love you, too.”
He felt the moment Tony left him.
Rage consumed him, magic bristling to be released. He turned.
Castor had collapsed slumped against the wall, barely conscious from where Stephen had thrown him. Castor laughed, pain in the tone revealing Stephen had hurt him. Some part of Stephen quailed at the damage he’d done; he was breaking apart at the seams.
“Vishanti, you are pathetic, Stephen Strange.”
Stephen slid from the bed, blood dripping from his hands, to dot the floor. “I told you not to touch him.”
Fear flickered in Castor’s eyes, fear of what Stephen could do to him. Sure, it might not be permanent, but that didn’t mean Stephen couldn’t make it hurt before it ended.
Pain twisted in his chest. What was this loop making him?
The world flickered a familiar gray around him, and then Stephen was falling.
He jerked to catch himself, an instinct that hadn’t faded in all this time. His book stared up at him from the table where he’d been reading in the library.
Stephen’s hands rested on the pages, just about to turn a page. They were clean and pristine, Tony’s blood gone. Except it never would be, because Stephen could still feel it on his skin.
Devastation wracked him.
He couldn’t keep doing this.
A sob broke free; he buried his face in his hands—unstained by Tony’s blood—and for the second time in as many loops, he broke down.