[ All of them have been adjusting, slowly. Dusting off the remains of their lives, picking up the loose threads and stitching them back together. Strange had been settling back into the Sanctum Sanctorum and, aggrieved, he'd realised that Wong had redecorated his room, and so that had been a whole-day project of rearranging everything back to his liking.
At the end of the day, the thing which sits heaviest is the fact that it had been his call. Handing over the Time Stone, the decision he'd made on behalf of the entire universe — pursuing one clear bright line with dogged tenacity, believing so wholeheartedly in his own idea, purposefully letting the consequences play out, even dreadful as they were — and the thing was, it had worked. And Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff and Vision had died for it; people Strange didn't even know but who he was now indebted to. Had technically fought alongside.
Losing the Sorcerer Supreme position was one thing. Worse was realising that the woman he loved, the on-again off-again that he'd always assumed would be on-again sometime, had not only started dating again but was five years into a serious, committed relationship with her now-fiancé. And then: the nightmares, the sharp little twist in his chest whenever he saw or heard the Blip mentioned. The realisation of how few people even missed him. (Go work on the garden, Wong had told him when he'd found Stephen sulking in one of the libraries. I was missing half of my novices. The plants have fallen into disrepair.)
But. There are silver linings. For one, at least he's not a teenager having to carry all that weight. Such as—
A tall figure looms over the red-uniformed vigilante sprawled on the rooftop, blocking out the daytime light and standing in sharp silhouette. And then as the kid squints up and his vision clears, he's treated to the extremely curious sight of Stephen Strange in chic gardening attire, with more muted colours than his usual and wearing an oversized floppy straw hat (in fact, the very same one the Ancient One had placed on the Hulk a few years ago). Without the red cloak, it's hard to even recognise him as Doctor Strange, but the moment he speaks up, it becomes clearer. ]
Peter? [ he asks, sounding a little baffled at finding Spider-man lying spreadeagled like he's been swatted out of the sky. Maybe he has. The sorcerer cranes his head, shades his eyes with a hand — the other one is holding, implausibly, a trowel — and glances up into the clouds. Paranoia, or perhaps a very healthy and realistic sense of caution, has him asking: ]
Are you in a fight? On a scale of 1-10, are we talking neighbourhood threat or galactic threat?
[ Peter knows he must get back up to his feet, grab his things before this unsuspecting citizen investigates further, and leave. The idea of webbing across the street feels nigh impossible right now, the way his heart beats heavy in his chest and in his ears. At least the suit responds on its own, thanks to - oh god.
Even now, Mr. Stark looms over him, taking care where Peter had no idea he'd need it. FRIDAY scans his vitals, says something like breathe, Peter, you need to breathe in that lilting Irish accent of hers and somehow it feels like even the suit is too small for him.
A shadow falls over him and his head snaps up at the use of his name - the voice immediately familiar and Peter begins to scramble up to his feet. He makes it upright, sure, but then squats back down with his elbows on his knees. The man looks so different in normal clothing. Sure, he'd seen him at the funeral, but no one had been in anything but black and that day feels like it's a million lightyears away. ]
Mister Strange, sir I'm— whoa wait, sorry... s-sorry, Doctor Strange. Made up names.
[ He clears his throat, tries not to stammer over himself but he finds it's hard to focus. The mask dissolves and he sucks in a deep breath. ]
No fight, no. Just— I'm fine, I'm— webbing really, uh, really takes it out of you and—jeez. I can't breathe.
[ He runs his hands back through his curls, damp with sweat as he lets out a long breath and tries to slowly suck another one in, to no avail. Freckled cheeks glistening with streaks of spilled tears, he scrubs at his eyes and tries again to take in a shaky breath, that sounds more akin to a wheeze than anything else. ]
I'm good, I swear, I'm fine. School soon and... and this crazy calculus test and... [ His mouth runs away from him, per usual, before he simply hangs his head in his hands, crouched and bouncing on the balls of his feet. ]
[ The boy is a nervous talker, a roiling wave of stammering words just spluttering out before Strange can decide what to do with them. He's still just standing there with the trowel, contemplatively watching the kid have what looks pretty clearly like a meltdown. He opens his mouth, about to correct Peter on the title Doctor Strange, because after what they went through on Titan and then in the Battle for Earth, the teenager's certainly earned the right to use Stephen's first name—
But the doctor in him kicks in, instead. His bedside manner was always terrible at the hospital, Christine never let him hear the end of it, but— he's gotten a little better lately. He sets the trowel to floating in midair and then hunkers down on his own heels (with an undignified little grunt, god, he's getting older and less flexible). It brings him down to Peter's level so he doesn't have to crane his head back to look at the older man. ]
Head between your knees, [ he says crisply, like a GP prescribing a cure. Which is exactly what he's doing, in this moment. ] Increases the bloodflow to your brain. Helps with a panic attack.
[ Strange had gone through decades without needing to put this knowledge to personal use himself. Even as a sorcerer now, nothing really rattled his cage even when it was gigantic slavering monsters. But those long weeks and months after the accident— feeling trapped and helpless in his hospital bed, unable to move or go anywhere, the futility of his broken hands, the despair of knowing his recognisable life was over— he had panicked, then. An animal yammering fear in the back of the throat, the hyperventilation lodged in the chest. He recognises the symptoms.
So he sits there and he just waits, and he adds in an unintentional echo of FRIDAY: ]
[ Stephen Strange could tell him to jump off the building and he's sure he'd blindly follow instructions. Mr. Stark had that ability, too - to speak and every instinct would react first. (Well, most of the time). The need to please met with the authoritative voice of an elder, well. Peter was raised by May Parker, who takes no prisoners and suffers no fools. ]
Right... r-right. Breathing. Breathing's good.
[ Panic attack? The word glances off of him even as he bends to put his head between his knees, elbows braced on his thighs and hands linked against the back of his head as he tries to suck in deep lungfuls of air. He almost wants to sit back up and say that this, hands down, is not a panic attack. Not that he really knows what those are like, but he's just winded! He's had a long day. He just watched someone defile everything they went through to save the world.
It takes a good two minutes before his heart rate finally begins to slow, but the embarrassment of it all leaves him bowed a little longer, so as not to look the other man in the face just yet. ]
I'm okay, I swear. Just - ah. I didn't know this was your roof. Garden. Just needed a place to stop and kind of wound up here.
[ He nearly sounds apologetic, as if he's not supposed to have webbed his way over every building in New York, but here he is. Finally, he raises his head and wipes furiously at his cheeks, as if threatening his eyes to stop burning. And true to form, he's going to try and gloss over the fact that Dr. Strange is indeed face level with him, waiting for the panic attack to pass. His eyes raise to meet the older man's. ]
Needed a breather. Y'know, on the way to calculus. [ A beat, then: ] But it's good to see you, Dr. Strange. I mean, anyone, really. Who isn't normal, I guess. You know what I mean.
[ A beat, a blink at the accidental near-insult, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. ]
You're pretty abnormal yourself, kid.
[ Now that he's hunkered down here, Strange's loath to climb back up to his feet, and so they let the moment sit in companionable silence for a second; a bird twitters in the far-off distance. And then he offers an olive branch; accepting Peter's paltry excuse and running with it for now, because he knows well what it's like to scrape together the shreds of your dignity and try to wave off your weaknesses and pretend they're not there. So his next words are amiable, half-joking: ]
I don't blame you for webbing your way to calculus. I over-use the Cloak and teleportation more than I should, probably, but once you get used to traveling above the ground, it's hard to go back to it. I might never get on a subway again.
[ A second beat. Another olive branch: ]
Y'know, I figure we can probably drop the made-up names by now, too. Saving-the-world-together privilege.
[ Peter rubs at one elbow, then a forearm, his hands in a flurry of constant motion. And while he can fly above New York with no qualms, fight off aliens and angry soldiers, somehow coming face to face with Stephen Strange on a day where everything seems to be working against him? Is more nerve wracking. ]
I had to take a bus for a school trip the other day and it still feels weird sometimes. The subway's gotta be way worse.
[ A little huff and he's worrying his fingers together again. At the very least, he's glad they're not talking about the panic attack, about everything that led to it. His face burns under the scrutiny, however, his senses dialed up. He can almost feel the building sway on its foundation beneath him. ]
Oh, right. Made-up names. Yeah. Stephen, right? I'm Peter. I mean you knew that, but I don't know, it feels kind of weird when we met. Uh, in space. [ A beat, then: ] Sorry. For just dropping in here. I was all distracted so I bet FRIDAY landed me here as a joke.
Or perhaps, the universe was taking you exactly where you needed to be.
[ For a second there, he'd cultivated a Wise and Portentous Voice™ more befitting of the Ancient One... and so Stephen winces right afterwards, self-conscious. Oh no, he didn't like that one bit. He'd meant it and he still does, but... ]
Sorry, I've been staring into the cosmos a lot lately, it leaves me a little— I don't think I can deliver those lines with the same gravitas as my predecessor did. Do you want to help with the gardening? Maybe FRIDAY sent me an assistant gardener.
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At the end of the day, the thing which sits heaviest is the fact that it had been his call. Handing over the Time Stone, the decision he'd made on behalf of the entire universe — pursuing one clear bright line with dogged tenacity, believing so wholeheartedly in his own idea, purposefully letting the consequences play out, even dreadful as they were — and the thing was, it had worked. And Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff and Vision had died for it; people Strange didn't even know but who he was now indebted to. Had technically fought alongside.
Losing the Sorcerer Supreme position was one thing. Worse was realising that the woman he loved, the on-again off-again that he'd always assumed would be on-again sometime, had not only started dating again but was five years into a serious, committed relationship with her now-fiancé. And then: the nightmares, the sharp little twist in his chest whenever he saw or heard the Blip mentioned. The realisation of how few people even missed him. (Go work on the garden, Wong had told him when he'd found Stephen sulking in one of the libraries. I was missing half of my novices. The plants have fallen into disrepair.)
But. There are silver linings. For one, at least he's not a teenager having to carry all that weight. Such as—
A tall figure looms over the red-uniformed vigilante sprawled on the rooftop, blocking out the daytime light and standing in sharp silhouette. And then as the kid squints up and his vision clears, he's treated to the extremely curious sight of Stephen Strange in chic gardening attire, with more muted colours than his usual and wearing an oversized floppy straw hat (in fact, the very same one the Ancient One had placed on the Hulk a few years ago). Without the red cloak, it's hard to even recognise him as Doctor Strange, but the moment he speaks up, it becomes clearer. ]
Peter? [ he asks, sounding a little baffled at finding Spider-man lying spreadeagled like he's been swatted out of the sky. Maybe he has. The sorcerer cranes his head, shades his eyes with a hand — the other one is holding, implausibly, a trowel — and glances up into the clouds. Paranoia, or perhaps a very healthy and realistic sense of caution, has him asking: ]
Are you in a fight? On a scale of 1-10, are we talking neighbourhood threat or galactic threat?
no subject
Even now, Mr. Stark looms over him, taking care where Peter had no idea he'd need it. FRIDAY scans his vitals, says something like breathe, Peter, you need to breathe in that lilting Irish accent of hers and somehow it feels like even the suit is too small for him.
A shadow falls over him and his head snaps up at the use of his name - the voice immediately familiar and Peter begins to scramble up to his feet. He makes it upright, sure, but then squats back down with his elbows on his knees. The man looks so different in normal clothing. Sure, he'd seen him at the funeral, but no one had been in anything but black and that day feels like it's a million lightyears away. ]
Mister Strange, sir I'm— whoa wait, sorry... s-sorry, Doctor Strange. Made up names.
[ He clears his throat, tries not to stammer over himself but he finds it's hard to focus. The mask dissolves and he sucks in a deep breath. ]
No fight, no. Just— I'm fine, I'm— webbing really, uh, really takes it out of you and—jeez. I can't breathe.
[ He runs his hands back through his curls, damp with sweat as he lets out a long breath and tries to slowly suck another one in, to no avail. Freckled cheeks glistening with streaks of spilled tears, he scrubs at his eyes and tries again to take in a shaky breath, that sounds more akin to a wheeze than anything else. ]
I'm good, I swear, I'm fine. School soon and... and this crazy calculus test and... [ His mouth runs away from him, per usual, before he simply hangs his head in his hands, crouched and bouncing on the balls of his feet. ]
no subject
But the doctor in him kicks in, instead. His bedside manner was always terrible at the hospital, Christine never let him hear the end of it, but— he's gotten a little better lately. He sets the trowel to floating in midair and then hunkers down on his own heels (with an undignified little grunt, god, he's getting older and less flexible). It brings him down to Peter's level so he doesn't have to crane his head back to look at the older man. ]
Head between your knees, [ he says crisply, like a GP prescribing a cure. Which is exactly what he's doing, in this moment. ] Increases the bloodflow to your brain. Helps with a panic attack.
[ Strange had gone through decades without needing to put this knowledge to personal use himself. Even as a sorcerer now, nothing really rattled his cage even when it was gigantic slavering monsters. But those long weeks and months after the accident— feeling trapped and helpless in his hospital bed, unable to move or go anywhere, the futility of his broken hands, the despair of knowing his recognisable life was over— he had panicked, then. An animal yammering fear in the back of the throat, the hyperventilation lodged in the chest. He recognises the symptoms.
So he sits there and he just waits, and he adds in an unintentional echo of FRIDAY: ]
Deep, slow breaths.
no subject
Right... r-right. Breathing. Breathing's good.
[ Panic attack? The word glances off of him even as he bends to put his head between his knees, elbows braced on his thighs and hands linked against the back of his head as he tries to suck in deep lungfuls of air. He almost wants to sit back up and say that this, hands down, is not a panic attack. Not that he really knows what those are like, but he's just winded! He's had a long day. He just watched someone defile everything they went through to save the world.
It takes a good two minutes before his heart rate finally begins to slow, but the embarrassment of it all leaves him bowed a little longer, so as not to look the other man in the face just yet. ]
I'm okay, I swear. Just - ah. I didn't know this was your roof. Garden. Just needed a place to stop and kind of wound up here.
[ He nearly sounds apologetic, as if he's not supposed to have webbed his way over every building in New York, but here he is. Finally, he raises his head and wipes furiously at his cheeks, as if threatening his eyes to stop burning. And true to form, he's going to try and gloss over the fact that Dr. Strange is indeed face level with him, waiting for the panic attack to pass. His eyes raise to meet the older man's. ]
Needed a breather. Y'know, on the way to calculus. [ A beat, then: ] But it's good to see you, Dr. Strange. I mean, anyone, really. Who isn't normal, I guess. You know what I mean.
no subject
You're pretty abnormal yourself, kid.
[ Now that he's hunkered down here, Strange's loath to climb back up to his feet, and so they let the moment sit in companionable silence for a second; a bird twitters in the far-off distance. And then he offers an olive branch; accepting Peter's paltry excuse and running with it for now, because he knows well what it's like to scrape together the shreds of your dignity and try to wave off your weaknesses and pretend they're not there. So his next words are amiable, half-joking: ]
I don't blame you for webbing your way to calculus. I over-use the Cloak and teleportation more than I should, probably, but once you get used to traveling above the ground, it's hard to go back to it. I might never get on a subway again.
[ A second beat. Another olive branch: ]
Y'know, I figure we can probably drop the made-up names by now, too. Saving-the-world-together privilege.
no subject
I had to take a bus for a school trip the other day and it still feels weird sometimes. The subway's gotta be way worse.
[ A little huff and he's worrying his fingers together again. At the very least, he's glad they're not talking about the panic attack, about everything that led to it. His face burns under the scrutiny, however, his senses dialed up. He can almost feel the building sway on its foundation beneath him. ]
Oh, right. Made-up names. Yeah. Stephen, right? I'm Peter. I mean you knew that, but I don't know, it feels kind of weird when we met. Uh, in space. [ A beat, then: ] Sorry. For just dropping in here. I was all distracted so I bet FRIDAY landed me here as a joke.
no subject
[ For a second there, he'd cultivated a Wise and Portentous Voice™ more befitting of the Ancient One... and so Stephen winces right afterwards, self-conscious. Oh no, he didn't like that one bit. He'd meant it and he still does, but... ]
Sorry, I've been staring into the cosmos a lot lately, it leaves me a little— I don't think I can deliver those lines with the same gravitas as my predecessor did. Do you want to help with the gardening? Maybe FRIDAY sent me an assistant gardener.