rehandle | possible endgame spoilers - the dr strange open post.

or: that one time two beings who travel regularly through space and time meet up sometimes, just cuz

[ it's a Sunday. all's quiet in the New York Sanctum: the kitchen's still, the library's empty, the cabinets of artifacts on the first floor lacking an observer. the doctor is not in, he will see you later.

it leaves room for somebody to slip in undetected, somebody who's been granted an exception to the rules of the spells that protect the building and the magic within it, the greater network. there are some doors which still do not open to everyone, but the house? the run of that is hers when she chooses. he's made sure of that.

friendship is rare. understanding even more so. those few he has are to be afforded every courtesy.

so when the door from Kamar-Taj swings open and releases him back into his home, he's no idea that he has company. there's no effort made to disguise the mess that's been made of him, dried blood and dust, no attempt to seem anything other than what he is - tired. ready to sit in hot water for three hours and sleep a few more after that.

the cloak goes unlatched, discarded to the open air where it hovers worriedly along behind him. Stephen takes the stairs down to the kitchen at a steady slump, the energy for grace gone from him the moment he thought he was alone. ]

[She sits silently in the kitchen, not out of dramatics but because it's very hard to remember to make noise. It's hard to remember to do a lot of things, honestly: look as though she's breathing, or move restlessly every so often, as opposed to simply sitting still, quiet, contained, barely there. Ghost-like, in fact, which is more or less what she is.

Sort of.

Anyway. This ghost-like thing has helped herself to some tea, alongside a bit of bread and jam, because she might not need to eat, but one misses certain things. She's reading a book, though she closes it as he enters. Watches him, her eyes darting over his body, his expression, the way he moves, the way the cloak hovers over him. Only once she's satisfied does she draw attention to herself.]

Long day?

[Ha ha, she make little joke. Rosalind pushes a second cup across from her (does she know what he likes? of course she does, and it's hot, because she'd known when he'd return) and nods. It's not really an offer so much as an order.]

It's done. There's satisfaction in that, isn't there?

[Sort of. Bare satisfaction, maybe. She hasn't seen him since Thanos' invasion had begun, too wary of that oncoming snap to stick around, but she has her ways of keeping track of things.]

[ Stephen stops still.

it says something about his state that he hadn't picked up on the traces. magic passed through, even by guests, leaves its indicators. rooms feel different, lives leave marks. then again, she's not usual in that way either.

there's a breath he's holding. it stays held as she makes her joke, as she pushes tea across the table. it stays held as she speaks and just a moment after. it's done. there's satisfaction in that, isn't there?

he could ask her to leave. he could make her leave. he could leave himself, turn and walk away to another part of the Sanctum and hope she takes the hint. open a portal and disappear to who knows where.

he releases the breath. it takes another couple of seconds of self-assessment, taking stock of himself, reforming his stance and the look on his face. there are only minor changes in the end - standing a little taller, jaw clenched a little tighter. nothing that makes any real effort to pretend. ]

There's something in it.

[ satisfaction? maybe one day - maybe for some. but the battlefield is fewer than twelve hours behind him. he's never used his sling ring to transport so many corpses.

he crosses the room, sets himself down in the seat across from her. the look he gives her is searching and sustained, there in lieu of words, a quiet check for signs of what and how much she knows, a chance for her to see him too and to make the choice to go. eventually it breaks as he reaches for his teacup, wraps hands around it, pulls it to himself like a child taking comfort in the warmth. ]

You haven't been here in the last five years, have you?

[ it's a genuine question. he hasn't got the energy to reach out his senses and search the house for traces of her, hadn't seen her in the preview for this reality - unsurprising. she's always been difficult to pin down. it doesn't mean enough to void the question. ]

Edited 2019-04-27 20:21 (UTC)

No. Not since before the start of all this.

[She'd peered in time and again, at such a distance that she wouldn't be hurt, not at all. But though she's fond of Stephen, this was a problem he had to solve on his own. Time travel is tricky enough without another factor muddling things up; she'd watched, knowing there was a chance, hoping, in her distant way, that he'd get it right.]

I saw you on Titan, though.

And I saw you on Earth, not a day ago. The moment I felt you again, I knew it was safe to return.

But that's not why you're asking, is it?

[This isn't about her. She stares at him, eerily still, her blue eyes sharp in the semi-darkness.]

How does it feel, coming back after being dead for five years?

[ it's more than he knew. blue eyes find blue, he watches her watching him. and when she asks... ]

Like nothing. [ two words that carry heavy finality. death is familiar, there and then gone. no thought, no time, nothing in between. he was erased and then returned, simple as that. just the stoppage of time.

his death is the very last to warrant discussion now that all is said and done. ]

No god. No heavenly choir. I wonder how many people will still believe, after all this is said and done.

[. . .]

There was nothing when I died. Pain, and then oblivion. And then . . . somehow, miraculously, awakening. That may have been the most frightening part. To know not only that the world has moved on without you, but that death isn't the finale you thought it would be.

[ it's rare that they volunteer vulnerability. he'd like to be careful not to stamp all over it, but he's tired and he can't relate. ]

Then it sounds like I skipped the worst of it.

[ an attempt at humor without any of his old instinct to imbue it with his usual sarcasm. being alive was not a surprise. he knew the length of time he'd be away down to the second before Thanos ever snapped his fingers and death was like blinking. either his eyes would open again or he'd never know they hadn't. when he woke, he woke to one of millions of realities already witnessed - the only surprise was in finding out which one he'd get to live.

as recently as yesterday in his own personal timeline, it might've been odd to be less human than the woman who walks through time and dimension, alive and not, dead and not. a lot of things might've been odd yesterday that aren't anymore. ]

And you're right. I can think of a few religions that might struggle now.

[ a sip of his tea, eyes closing to focus in on the hot liquid, physical and grounding. ]

Edited 2019-04-29 22:41 (UTC)

[She doesn't speak for a few seconds. It isn't that she isn't interested, but responding to his attempt at a joke won't help either of them. Instead: she nurses her own tea, letting silence fill the air for a bit.

There's so much brimming under the surface. She can sense it-- anyone could sense it-- broiling just beneath that calm facade, and she hasn't the faintest idea how to reach it. She's never been good with emotions nor words, not really; his answers to her questions are interesting, but not what she's aiming for.

Still: she tries again. She's another tactic if it doesn't work.]

So now what will you do, Stephen Strange? Or have you not thought further than your bath and your bed?

Should I have?

[ is he expected, in the midst of everything, to have made time to plan for the future?

the question is posed with his same heavy calm but the asking of it betrays the slight sting of his indignation. unwarranted indignation: the answer to his own question is, of course, yes. that's his job, his role now. to protect that which he helped to save. to look forward as best he can without a stone now turned to atoms and to help to ensure that the reversal he helped orchestrate doesn't implode in on itself.

tired, that's all. just tired. it's a lot of growing up to do in not a lot of time. he'll settle.

he pushes on before looking for any raised eyebrows, before waiting for any lilting tones. ]

The universe has done without fifty percent of its life for five years. The sudden return of everything at once will take a toll. In this dimension and in others.

[ meaning there's work to be done. meaning he'll do it. but first: his bath and his bed. small, empty rituals to help create some ties between himself and this reality. to give him space. ]

[She didn't mean it critically, but it comes out that way. Ah, well. They move on, and she doesn't take it back, whether out of impatience or pride.]

Of course it will. On a scale unlike any the world-- the universe-- has sever seen before.

[A beat, and then, honestly:]

But. Not all of that is your responsibility. And certainly not tonight. Go take your bath, Stephen. I'll even sit outside the door and talk to you, if you like.

[ oh. a moment of silence, suspended on a held breath. he looks at her for what feels like a long time, buzzing thoughts just outside of even his own reach. under-prepared for encountering kindness.

finally, cup still in hand, he pushes himself up from his chair, heavy and unsteady. his bath, yes.

and— ]

About what?

[ an acceptance. ]

[Yes, then, is what that means, and she rises, careful to do it the human way. No disappearing and reappearing, no sudden movements-- although, she thinks, if there's anyone in the universe who might understand, it's this man.]

About your reappearance, perhaps? The past five years?

[A beat, and then, lightly:]

I'm pregnant. I suppose that, too, might be a topic of conversation.

[Just gonna football spike that tidbit into the middle of things, hey, Stephen, how's it going? But really: there is a hint of roundness there. Not much, but a bit, if one's looking.]

[ Stephen falters mid-step, just about keeps his grip on his tea. you can say that as lightly as you like, it's still going to land with bombshell impact.

it's almost inevitable that he's immediately looking her over, a silent search for the signs he hadn't known to look for before - he had no idea that she was capable of carrying, being as she is, or that motherhood was ever on her to do list. but sure enough there's the suggestion of a future swell. a one-day person.

it's a little late that he manages to close his loose jaw, return his attention to her face.

what does a person say when another person is revealed to be growing a third? ]

... Congratulations.

[ and for all that the news is wildly unexpected, that in itself is very Rosalind.

turns out a lot can happen in five years. ]

Thank you.

[She smiles, and it's not the thin, nasty smirk she sometimes offers him. It's softer, pleased and a little amused.]

I wasn't entirely certain it could happen. Certainly there are . . . complications. But nothing threatening.

You look nearly as stunned as Robert did.

[ as she softens, so does he.

there's been so much unpleasantness in the past 48 hours of his own life, the past 5 years of everyone else's. but this? someone has the quiet chance for something better. the universe goes on and promises tomorrow not just for her, but for someone else. out there, always, someone thriving. and now she brings that into his home, on the day he's orchestrated the passing of a parent and seen many others go despite him.

it takes the edge off, just some, just for now. enough that when he smiles this time, he means it. ]

I'm not surprised. [ he is, he's very surprised, but he's not surprised that he should look as stunned or that anyone else should be stunned in the first place. it's - stunning. ] How far along?

[ he's a brain surgeon, don't make him rough estimate a baby ]

Two months.

[So not much at all, really. She comes around, nodding to indicate he ought to follow, because apparently they're going up to the bath. He's a little filthy, frankly.]

Though it feels much longer. I can only, ah, bring her to term when I'm within a world properly. Manifested, I mean, not simply passing through. You may see a great deal more of me over the coming few months.

[ you won't see him arguing a bathward trajectory. Stephen follows on and when they reach the foyer and the cloak rejoins them, he doesn't bat it away. ]

You're welcome any time. As long as you like. [ not that she's ever needed to wait for an invitation before, but it bears saying. extended stays aren't their norm. but if she needs somewhere to be, there's more than enough space in the Sanctum for another. ] I'll do my best to maybe even be here sometimes.

[ haha. ha... as for the rest, the biological and dimensional logistics of Ros' baby's gestation are inherently interesting, but the more pressing question - ]

Her?

[ knowledge, or feeling? or both. ]

[That's a sweet offer. Sweeter than she thought he'd be, truthfully, but she underestimates his occasional sentiment. She might even take him up on that, if only because she has missed him these past five years.]

A guess. Nothing more.

[Her, because she so badly wants a daughter. She's determined to adore a son as much as she would a daughter, if only because her own lady mother made her disappointment in her child's gender very well known, and she won't make that same mistake.

Still. Her, she says, and absently brushes a hand against her stomach as they head upstairs. The cloak is given a little nod, hello, you, but it's Stephen she's focused on.]

Though I admit, I'd prefer one over the other. Robert can live with two women in his life. I can cope with two men much less easily.

[ a huffed laugh. if that's not a mood. ]

One day you'll stop punishing yourself by actively seeking us out.

[ men, that is. the cloak flits by them and down the hall, heading for the bathroom. the sound of pouring water, taps already turned. ]

You'd raise a good son. [ which isn't to wish one on her, just to say that she'd raise a man she could be proud of. but - ] But you have the force of will to twist fate around your finger. She'll be the same.

[ between the mother and the as yet unborn child, Stephen doesn't doubt they'll be able to conjure up a daughter. ]

[Her mouth twitches at that wry assessment of her usual kept company. As he steps through the door, she turns her back. She'll likely end up with her back against the tub, but she'll at least give him privacy to undress.

How kind.]

Coming from you, that's worryingly more prophecy than flattery. I'm not sure which I like more.

Hm. Tell me when you're in the bath.

[ it doesn't take him long. eager for the water as he is, Stephen waves all the fastenings and ties undone, steps out of his clothes as though they were the water he steps into a moment later. they're left unceremoniously dumped there at the head of the tub, the energy for neatness long since gone. ]

You're clear.

[Carefully, she moves to sit down, nudging his clothes out of the way as she does. Leans her back against the tub, and some part of her relaxes just slightly, ramrod posture melting into something more casual. Not sloppy, no, never, but at least not quite as coiled up as she normally is.

There's silence for a fair bit, and then, quietly:]

I am sorry about your friend. He was unique.

But I find it admirable you could let him die. That isn't a trait most humans possess.

[ in the quiet, Stephen sinks further into the water. a lift of his hand summons jars of salts and oils, petals and potions. it's ostentatious, perhaps. but he's not going to deny his muscles their medicine, or his mind its small pleasures.

then she starts in on Stark, and he goes stiff. ]

I don't think anyone would appreciate you calling him my friend.

[ they knew each other for barely any time at all... not counting the millions of parallel lives lived out in his head. and those can't count given the choice he made as a result.

he eases again. pulls on the shroud of mild humour, some forced lightness returning to his tone. like this has all been an odd game of dice. like he's played the odds and won, but not without placing some difficult bets along the way. ]

I don't know that I deserve a medal for successfully committing to a lever-pull in the trolley problem.

[ the choice was clear. for as much of a hole one man's life will leave for the people left behind, that pain is inevitably less than itself multiplied by billions. Tony Stark had his own choice to make when Stephen gave the signal and the cost of that choice was far too high. but he saw the odds. and he made the same decision.

there's no credit Strange could possibly be owed. ]

[ they've had some time. not a great deal, not enough for the world to have fully found how to sit on its own axis with its population freshly doubled and its ecosystem thrown once again into a phase of rapid adaptation, but some time. people are remarkably resilient. cities once deteriorated are springing up anew, economies rebuilding themselves. it's a relief. if they'd done all this just for the universe, at very least the Earth, to crack under the strain...

it hasn't. not yet. there's still time, of course, plenty of it. but signs are good.

but the whole thing has brought him closer to a much bigger universe than he'd spent any time considering before. no longer can he call his domain "reality" and expect that to mean the reaches of his little planet, the outer-dimensional corner of his home.

the Earth is a very small part that very often has far too great a role to play in the fate of a very large whole. if he's to be effective at measuring that - and he has to be, that isn't in question - he's going to need to be more familiar with the people already out there doing it. the Earth will have new defenders, it'll be fine. the universe needs more people in its corner.

life at the Sanctum has been controlled chaos since he woke up from the few hours sleep he allowed himself after the day the threat of Thanos was banished. but he's careful, on the expectation of a guest, to keep things calm. he's no doubt Carol Danvers has been living a chaos of her own - not only recently, but for many long years.

so the house on Bleecker Street is quiet when the front door opens to admit their visitor. there's nobody in the entrance hall, no sound of anybody in the adjoining corridors, no foot on the stairs. but once the door has closed behind her the air in the foyer fizzes with light, sparking out and swirling until a circle is carved to another place. a library, floorboards the same dark wood as the floor she'll walk across to reach them poking out from between rugs and under the legs of tables. ]

Come on up, Captain Danvers.

[ a voice, for now disembodied, from through the portal.

beyond it, buried among bookshelves in a nook by the window, Dr. Strange sits in an armchair, a small ginger cat curled into the crook of his arm and sleeping soundly as the man himself leafs through the pages of an old tome.

if he's to have her come all this way, he'd better have a gift. and what's better than an old friend? ]

[ Stephen Strange probably wasn't accounting on becoming responsible for a wayward assassin turned hero. Hafid al Ghul - Damian Wayne - has more than enough guilt in his life to make it hard to give up heroism, even two worlds removed from the one he called home. The snap hit him and he was gone, gripping Stephen's arm and hissing through grit teeth that he wasn't done yet until he was little more than sand on thewind. And yet the world kept turning, and turning, and turning - until it's all rolled back and two are buried so that untold trillions could live.

He's used to this. What it means to weigh each life you stand with, knowing not only that they may die, but you might be the one to cut them loose so everyone else can live.

He can't say they are. Not on this scale. Not with these stakes.

He leans comfortably against the wall of Stephen's study, pried out of his armor by social obligation and a vague certainty that he could kick the asses of anyone here with minimal effort, magical bullshit notwithstanding. His hair is too long, too messy, but freshly combed and pulled back from his face, his gaze on the wizard attempting to be gentle but coming across uncomfortable and pained.. ]

If I said I'd have made the same call, would that help or make it worse?

[ the Stephen Strange who sits in this study is a time paradox in and of himself. physically, he's younger than he was when they left New Amsterdam, by half a year or so. really a couple of days older. 5 years younger than he ought to be, with a head full of the echoes of millions of futures he's now seen narrowed down to one lived reality.

the Stephen Strange who Damian speaks to isn't quite the same man he had been when they left. the same instincts in there but a different slant to his heart. a different weight to his silences.

very few people knew for a while the precise details of his choice, why he did what he did, exactly how much he knew when he made that decision. Stephen himself hadn't known it was coming before he'd left New Amsterdam. but Damian came back with him to the exact point he left, plummeting down to Titan, and it meant he was there when the fight with Thanos broke out, when Quill struck out and blew their chance, when Stephen sat and searched through the future. when he told Tony the odds.

he knows that Stephen knew that there was one possible path to undo the half universe annihilation Thanos was to bring about. that he doomed them both for it, for a time. and that the faith he found in the Avengers and their allies saw them through... at no small cost.

so when he says what he says, Doctor Stephen Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts and keeper of the New York Sanctum doesn't look up for a while from the small planetary map glowing in gold in the air in front of him. he turns it, inspecting each, until he's done and only then does he will it away.

if they're to have this conversation, Damian deserves his full attention.

he died for the future Stephen hoped for. he fought for them in the battle that helped it come to pass. he's owed.

the smile he gives is small but earnest, perhaps a little amused. typical that he should drag Damian into the middle of a war for the universe and the kid still finds it in him to be kind in the bluntest way you could be. ]

It doesn't make it worse.

[ which says nothing of whether it helps.

some lost their lives for this, some gained wounds that won't heal the way they should, some lost family and friends - his only real sacrifice is the new weight of his conscience.

it can be borne. ]

Why would it?

[ he knows why. because of the things Damian feels about himself, about his own morality. but if they're to talk about this, they may as well talk about all of it. Stephen's inclined to say there's nothing to talk about but Damian clearly thinks differently, watching him like he's seen something... and Reality knows he's listened to enough of his own thoughts in the past 48 hours. better to let somebody else have a turn. ]

Edited 2019-04-27 17:22 (UTC)

[ He doesn't understand what brought him here, rather than back to his own world. Maybe it was because he didn't want to go back - that there was nothing to go back to. Nothing, nothing at all. Stephen Strange wasn't his first choice to go home with - he wanted to go back with Dick, or with Jason. To be with the family fate yanked away from him.

But he's lived long enough to know he doesn't ever get what he wants. And it's a miracle to get something better than what he had before. This is better, complicated and awful as it might be. Guilty as he may feel for no longer being in his own world, this is better. ]

A train comes barreling down the tracks, fifty people are tied to one track, two to the other.

[ He pulls off the wall and crosses the room, taking a seat across from him. ]

Everyone says they would flip the switch to save the many, but when the time comes, most just freeze and let it happen. Because if they flip the switch, in their eyes they're as much a part of the murder as the negligent conductor.

[ He doesn't need to say he doesn't have that problem. That doubt. It's shown in his every action. Human life is more than numbers, and of course he understands that - but numbers still count for something at the end of it all.]

Edited 2019-04-27 23:57 (UTC)

[ Eugenides would really like to go home. And he's not sure exactly where this is but he knows he doesn't belong here.

They thought they'd found a door, a way out of New Amsterdam, and so they did. But he didn't recognize this place. It did have a lot of nice things, though. And books— gods, Eugenides missed books.

So, while waiting fo an explanation, he starts rifling through the shelves of the Sanctum Sanctorum.

Nothing could go wrong. ]

[ it's done.

all the faith dropped into a single moment, all the millions of chances for things to go wrong, and it's done. everyone acted in the best way they could. Tony Stark did exactly as he knew he would— as he'd hoped he would. it will make him sick for the rest of his life to think that it was worth it.

there's another place. Stephen Strange had seen too many million futures. in half or so of those, he'd survived. seven million lives are a long time to practice new magic... there had been spells upon spells. libraries upturned, experiments managed, new sorcery uncovered, each attempt more desperate than the last, frantic searches for a way to put an end to all, undo the inevitable. he'd played with death - of course he had. death was half the battle.

and he remembers.

the man who sees the end of this war is not the man who saw the start of it.

somewhere beyond this moment and before the next, between the stretched pieces of time that eke a fading life out long enough to watch the snow fall, he eases a dead man out of this dimension and into another.

the place is quiet. silent of sound, empty of shape and sight and smell. absence. black voidspace. but there is Stephen Strange. and there is Tony Stark.

Stephen bears the remnants of the battle - cuts, bruises, the dust of the wreckage of the Avengers Facility, Titan's surface, Wakanda's open plains. Tony— doesn't. he arrives clean, his simplest self, dressed in something easy and comfortable, and Stephen doesn't give him time to be afraid or ask questions before he says simply - ]

Where would you like to be, Tony?

[ and although there is space between them, immeasurable in any standard way, his voice sounds close and clear, his carefully neutral expression easily read. they're real. as real as they can be when one is dead and the other somewhere that shouldn't really exist. ]

Anywhere in the world.

Edited 2019-04-27 19:54 (UTC)

( stillness in war is inevitable. it clears, eventually. someone wins. tony expects his snapped fingers would draw that silence over the entirety of them like a veil of peace, lulling all the bad guys to their rightful place on the losing side of conflict. only, he hasn't snapped his fingers. they're still poised in the beginnings of the motion, middle to thumb, unthinkingly ready. he isn't dying. he's winning.

he looks down and thanos is gone - the iron man suit is gone. everything, really, is gone, except for tony, and except for stephen strange.

there's been a thousand close calls in the past, so many times tony thought it was the end, drawing in like a closed circuit knocked out of place. this time, though. there's no ace up his sleeve. there's no woman donning the name captain who will come save him from demise. no backsies, no loopholes, no undo buttons on life or death. stephen's face says as much, and the reality of it hits tony like a brick in the face. he shares glances around this astral plane, but he can't kick himself into thinking about the logistics, the mathematics behind it all. right now, he's just trying to get his breathing in order, spare these last few minutes that stephen has afforded him to think over all that he's losing. everything, everyone, left behind.

your last time to see earth, and where do you go? the last five years have been hard, but earth is prevalent in beauty, just after disaster. the shores of the altantic, or the peaks of appalachia. maybe that fancy best buy he saw in downtown new york city, right before it got blown up seven years ago.

where? it's not a hard question. )

My daughter.

( he doesn't want a place. he doesn't care for beauty. the world can live now and his daughter will have all the chance in the world to enjoy it, as she grows up - tony's a lost cause. he just wants to see her, one last time. )

[ millions of futures and he never looked past the moment it failed, the one time they succeeded. millions of futures and this is improvisation, this is an after, this is the balance restored and a sorcerer reclaiming agency over splintered possibilities complete.

he never looked far enough to see this. to account for this choice and to make a better one himself.

my daughter.

of course his daughter. Stephen Strange's eyes fall closed, brow just slightly pinched, shutting himself off from reality for a second, for two, before doing what he can to fulfill Tony's request.

there's no action, no motion, no magical glow. one second they're in voidspace and the next they're in Tony Stark's humble lakeside home, sights and sounds and space and shape all once again abiding by the natural laws. the place sounds like it always does, the water outside, breeze through leaves, gentle buzzing of appliances back in the kitchen.

it also sounds empty. nobody home.

even with the house stiller than it ever is, she is everywhere. pictures of her up on walls, in frames on shelves, a small hologram of the girl rising up in pale blue from one of Tony's interfaces. more images of her than perhaps there were the last time he visited his home and more images perhaps than is right. it's difficult to judge how much is kind and how much a kick in the teeth now that Stephen's already made the wrong call.

traces of her too, these natural, these as they would be. a sippy cup discarded at one end of the sofa. soft toys where they shouldn't be, baby's first toolkit (blunt, handmade, safe, specially crafted by father for daughter) in its box on the table.

Stephen stands mute in one corner of the living room, signs of those seconds of pain erased, neutral again, waiting. there's some explaining to be done but there is also more time than Tony might expect. he won't intrude until he's asked to. ]

( an empty house. it wouldn't be uncommon to hear the distant giggles of morgan's schoolgirl fantasies pulling out imaginative conversations with imaginary beings - neither would it be odd, to hear her ruffling around where she doesn't belong, through daddy's workshop items. but it's still, the way it never is, almost eerie in the lack of kid occupying the space. he's almost mad. he just wants to see her. tell her it'll be alright, even if she can't hear him. remind her to take care of her mother, even though she's never needed help a day in her life. is it a lot to ask? he's put the world at risk and saved it all in his own time, time and time again, and all he's asking for his a five-year-old brow to kiss, a tiny hand to hold.

he takes a deep breath. reminds himself that this is more than he expected to get anyway, and that he should be grateful.

the weight of his death seeps into him like mist through a forest, winding around all the protective trees he's set up in defense against emotions. he's never going to see morgan grow up. his feet sludge forward through the thick air of his house, guiding him into the living room. he's never going to kiss pepper again. he takes a heavy seat down on the couch. there's a picture of the three of them on the coffee table that he picks up, clutching it between unstable fingers. he won't be in this house again, with his family again, holding them close but never close enough.

morgan isn't here, so he says goodbye to the house instead. goodbye to the patch of floor where morgan took her first stumbling steps, goodbye to the little notches on the door pane leading into the dining room where they'd steadily marked her growing height - five notches for five years. goodbye to the butt imprints on the couch that he and pepper have left behind in their m.a.s.h. rewatches, and goodbye to every square inch of this house he ever kissed her in, each one of those memories lit up pink with love. anguish hits tony stark in three stages - the first of masculine denial, eyebrows knitted like his eyes aren't watering, the second in complete despair, with his eyes shut tightly, breathing unstable, a palm flat on his forehead. and the last, acceptance, deep breaths filling his lungs, a loud sniff in the air as it passes.

he lifts the picture up, so stephen can see. )

You'd like her, you know. I hesitate to use the word prodigy, but.

( but she's smart. the picture comes back down, and he watches his daughter, as if expecting her to move around, come to life. he remembers belatedly that he has a paper of her crayon scribbled mathematical equations tucked into his wallet, the way another father would carry artwork. tony's eyebrows knit, jaw clenched. )

Why am I here, Stephen?

[ to say that it's difficult to watch would be to waste breath, but he doesn't remove himself. the only concession he makes is to avert his eyes, afford Tony some small privacy when the ache sinks in. there is nobody else to stand witness. Tony Stark is both dead and grieving and now isn't the time to think of his own comfort.

eventually he's finished. eventually it passes. Stephen watches a man say goodbye to his life with dry eyes, knowing he himself has more time out there, knowing he is lucky, knowing that feeling from now on is something to be earned.

later, Stephen. for you, there will always be later.

Tony holds out the picture of his family - finds humor, somehow, amidst the mire. Stephen manages the smallest of smiles before the picture drops again, the man in front of him crumbling around the edges, holding on as best he can.

I don't know if I would. I've seen her journey through the terrible twos once or twice, he wants to say. You might hesitate, but I wouldn't, he wants to say. She loves you more than I know how to express he wouldn't ever say but knows, knows because he's seen. Morgan Stark's early childhood played out in variant after variant, a few million of them, all filled with more love than he can bear in this moment to remember.

and Tony's asked him a question. and it's his place to answer it. ]

Because it's done.

[ memory is a fickle thing. it cuts out the parts that will take time to process. more often than not the dead don't have a need for dying - there's never the opportunity to play back final moments, untangle those feelings, put themselves to rest. as far as he's learned, dead is dead is dead.

he's drawn up a cheat code. the rewards are slim and what the consequences will be remain to be seen, but for now all it means for sure is that there's time. ]

You may not remember. When it was over, you drifted. The power in those stones was too much. But you stayed around long enough for a few important people to say goodbye.

[ Why am I here, Stephen? he still hasn't answered the question. he swallows, throat thick with every feeling he won't let reach his face. takes a new, quick breath and presses on. ]

Thanos and his army are gone, the universe can rebuild.

[ come on, Stephen. ]

I have a decision for you to make.

[ he's already made the decision of his life. what's one more? ]

Edited (attempts to edit, fucks up the edit, edits again) 2019-04-28 15:10 (UTC)

( already happened, the strangest doctor says. you think you're dying? already dead, man. tony's eyebrows furrow. he remembers surprisingly little from the fight as a whole - there was steve, he's sure, standing tall in the face of danger. he remembers seeing peter, of course, remembers embracing him like a lost son. other things, here and there. in the grand scheme of five long, sweat born years, the whole thing was over in an instant. the glove, yes. slight of the hand. stephen's all knowing eyes, betraying that veil of neutrality. snap. he knew. of course he did. stark didn't become tony for no reason.

even still, he finds himself slipping. further and further away, years pulled off him like garlic cloves, bunches at a time. whose house is this? it must be his. whose box set of lost is that? maybe his. who are these people?

eyes back on the picture, he remembers. pepper, morgan. his wife, his daughter. his world. he shuts his eyes.

what the fuck are you talking about, strange. )

As, apparently, my afterlife primary care physician — and I hate to tell you how to do your job — but maybe being pussyfooted with a recently deceased person isn't the best choice you've made.

( he lifts his brows, stands up, lips mashed together while his hands fold in front of him. what does he have left, strange? what more could anyone take from him? )

I mean I'm forgetting things by the second. ( he squints his eyes, inquisitively ) Doctor Oddball, was it? Doctor Weirdo? Doctor Love?

[ a break in still clouds as Tony casts out with wit and some urgency. ]

Don't be so dramatic.

[ sure, you're dead, but you're not gone yet.

this is the first time Stephen's had a person in here. theory made flesh, straight to human testing. not necessarily the best plan. but it can be done. he knows it can. the things he's already managed, he can manage this, make room for this and hold it steady, whatever the cost. Tony's already losing pieces, he can feel it as it happens, but all it does is reveal more of him. that's good. still "alive", still kicking, and Stephen's got the rest - over 14 million versions of it. all he has to do is make sure he gives back the right one.

but not yet.

Tony's owed a life, yes. but he's also owed peace. and if that's what he chooses, there's no need to give it to him at any higher a cost.

he'll even leave him to be an asshole about the name. ]

When I asked you where you wanted to go, you said your daughter. I can't do that directly here. [ there's a but in that somewhere. he's coming to it. ] We're in an artificial pocket dimension. Small, uniquely undetectable. At present it's not accessible by the usual avenues, it's too volatile to stand up to that kind of magical intrusion.

You came in through a back door.

[ facts, simplicity, the complexities of it left for now. another dimension. nobody can reach it. ]

I can't take you to her and I can't bring her to you. But you can oversee. If you want to watch her grow, it can happen.

[ even as he lays it out, he knows it isn't kind. cruel, almost unfathomably cruel, for a man like Tony Stark whose better times have always been spent with people. he's not designed for extended solitude outside of a workshop and he's not designed for sitting on the sidelines.

but the detail of it can wait. no need for it if the other choice is made first. ]

[ Natasha Romanoff was a pivotal part of the saving of the universe. her love of her best friend, her lost sense of purpose, her strength found in the small family she and those who remained had made of themselves after the Decimation. these things, the culmination of her nature, meant that she would do what it took - and maybe even take some small satisfaction in the doing of it. serving purpose: saving the world, saving Clint's family the loss of him.

in some cases, lives have had to be lost for this. but not always. sometimes there are loopholes.

the Black Widow deserves a chance to find value in her own life. she has made a big enough sacrifice.

Stephen's seen the journey for the Soul stone more times than he needs to remember. he's heard the Red Skull lay down the terms, knows them inside and out. in order to take the stone, you must lose that which you love. a soul for a soul.

there are three key elements. loss, love and a soul exchanged.

never once has the Red Skull demanded life. never blood.

theory 1: the soul doesn't refer to the body at the foot of the fall. the soul that is given up is the one left behind, the one who watched as love was lost. who gave love up for power.

theory 2: there only needs to be a sacrifice. there doesn't need to be a body.

time is a tricky thing. but there's a window of it between the end of the war and Steve Rogers' journey to return the stone into the hands of a woman whose faith in Stephen provided them the chance they needed. it's a big enough window in which to do something important.

high on a cliff face, Clint Barton clings to life and to Natasha Romanoff. he refuses to let go. he reaches for her - there isn't enough give. she tells him what needs to be done. he refuses again. she smiles. kicks out her feet and takes back the choice.

she falls. Clint watches her go until he has to close his eyes against the impact. seconds later a body hits the floor and bleeds, bleeds, bleeds.

but Natasha Romanoff is not on the ground. her head is not split on stone. Clint Barton disappears at the whim of the Soul stone and she finds herself suspended, caught in a net of spun and sparking gold. to her right hovers a man in a cloak that moves as if held aloft by a wind. around her, the view of the world is split as if by fractured panes of glass. below, the image similarly distorted, what would seem to be her own broken body lays bleeding. ]

Hello, Miss Romanoff.

[ a precise twist of his hand from flat, open palm to closed, bunched fist, and the body some few feet beneath them first glows bright gold then fades away entirely, leaving no trace of blood or bone or anything that might say a woman once lay there, dropped from a great height to save the lives of trillions (but one in particular). ]

Got a 5 year old's birthday coming up, you booked?

1. 🖕
2. She can't have friends over.

Okay I have to ask

Where can I get one of those rings?

Because so many times I have to be somewhere like RIGHT AWAY

They're not exactly on public sale.

I’ll trade you a web shooter for a ring?

[ Two years after he's returned all the Infinity Stones to their rightful places-- including some more pitstops and awkward reunions and first-meetings, Steve has settled into his life right where he left off, back in 1947. In fact, some days it seems like it was all a dream, even though he spent a good decade in the future from here.

Two years later and he hardly thinks about that old life anymore, almost never even so much as slips into an anachronistic thought, much less has to catch himself before saying one.

This is why, when he first sees the orange-yellow sparkles, it catches him off guard for a second, and, in his backyard chopping wood, he looks up with a slightly confused expression. ]

...Strange.

possible endgame spoilers - the dr strange open post.

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post-endgame (spoilers)

Re: post-endgame (spoilers)

i havent seen endgame but HIT ME WITH SPOILERSs

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SPOILERS for endgame, locked for tony.

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big time spoilers pls / fix-it thanks magic man

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gen text, spoilers edition.

bc tfln captcha'd

👏👏

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extrEME spoilers ahoy