Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“They say dragons never truly die. No matter how many times you kill them.”
-S.G. Rogers, Jon Hansen and the Dragon Clan of Yden

The planet breaks apart, the cold, dead rock crumbling at last, becoming so much debris. More space rock, more space dust.

The planet was long dead by then. Life gone, unsustainable. 

Except for him.

The last of his kind. The last of any living thing in that corner of the universe. Everlasting, eternal, he curls in the void of space, shielded by enormous, leathery wings, limned in starlight and unaffected by searing cold, by the lack of air, water, or food. He is the last dragon, too old to remember his name if he ever had one. Too old to remember if he was the first as well as the last, or whether that is simply an affectation.

Perhaps this is simply another turn in an endless cycle. Perhaps, should he wait long enough, an eon or two, life will reform around him once more.

Time has no meaning when nothing truly changes. But eventually, he becomes aware of a...something. A Presence. 

The sensation of time trickles back as xe does nothing but watch. Gradually, his awareness sharpens. He feels a sort of itch, beneath scales and skin. Something he hasn't felt since life had gone and he had been left alone. Curious, he identifies at last. He is curious. 

He considers further, as stars breathe and die. Boredom. He was bored. He isn't so much, now.

Why are you here? he asks the Presence.

Interesting, Xe responds.

He accepts. He is interesting, after all. 

But now he is aware, awake in a way he has not been in quite some time. And he finds himself...discontent. There was more, once. He desires more. Of anything. 

Anything? Xe asks.

He finds himself thinking of the bipedal creatures who had lived on the planet-that-was. So curious. So hasty and confusing and frightened and violent and unexpectedly ingenious. The marks and monuments they had left had long since worn away. But for such tiny, short-lived things they could be so mighty. They certainly never seemed bored.

Would you give up eternity for mortality?

Why not? he wonders, as galaxies are born and space debris collide. He has never given much thought to eternity. He simply is. Now, faced with the choice, it seems such a simple thing. He's tried eternity and it's not to his liking. Perhaps mortality is better?

Would you give up your wings and your fire?

He hesitates. What is the point, if I will not be myself?

You will always be yourself at your core. Nothing will take that away. But you will be changed, transformed into something different.

No wings or fire, he muses. What will they become? What will he? 

Why? he asks.

Interesting, Xe repeats.

He uncurls at last. Tail sweeping back, enormous wings stretching wide, head lifting as dragon eyes open to see the truth of Xem. Xe is a power, a force, beyond flesh and blood, untouched by time. New and old at once. It would not be a mistake to call Xem a god.

And Xe has an idea...a need, for a tipping point. A fulcrum on which the multiverse turns. He might be necessary, or he might be irrelevant. Xe can only put him into play, but his choices are his alone.

Interesting, he agrees. Something new. Something more. He cannot clearly remember the last time he has been so intrigued. It will be worth it, if only to feel alive once more.

Xe is satisfied. Xe knows what he has chosen.

Transform me.

Xyr being explodes in a supernova of light and power, so bright that even his eyes cannot stand it.

For as long as he can remember, Stephen Strange has always dreamed of fire and flying. The reason why trickles in slowly - the human mind cannot hold the memory of eternity, and a child's mind is completely unequipped to even try - but over time the knowledge settles. The instincts, of course, were always there. A fascination with knowledge, with fire, and a tendency to hoard pretty, shiny things, from coins to rocks to stickers. Because at his core he is always, and will always, be himself.

He was a dragon once. He has a dragon soul.

But that knowing takes a backseat to the troubles of puberty, to the cage of his father's abuse. 

And it doesn't help to prevent his sister's death.

That is agony for a boy who loves with the ferocity of a dragon, who has never lost someone before, with a soul that does not remember ever having someone to lose.

He hoards knowledge, then, and skill in medicine, with such intensity it might almost have been his Hoard. Some days he thinks it might be, but it doesn't settle quite right. It is a hoard, but not his Hoard. 

Regardless, he pursues his goal of becoming the best neurosurgeon with single-minded intensity. Mortal lives are already so fragile and fleeting. They have no time for anything - he has no time - and it is not right that something or someone should cut such a short thread even shorter.

Stephen's colleagues call him cold-blooded. He smiles thinly and doesn't say that it is unusually perceptive of them because that would be giving them too much credit. Their intelligence once again falls short. Oh, he knows that he is in many ways a cold man. His arrogance and lack of empathy, for one. The iron control he has over his temper, his passion - his fire - that was reinforced at his father's hand, combined with the endless patience of a once-immortal began the rumors of his unfeeling nature.

Truly, Stephen doesn't understand how feeling will make him a better surgeon.

But calling him cold-blooded and not actually connecting him to any sort of cold-blooded creature is just plain irritating. 

Christine, at least, has been perceptive enough to notice that he does care in his own way. While she has more cause than most to complain about the lack of consideration for her emotions in a number of situations while they date, she had been surprised by his attention to caring for her physically. Though Stephen often forgets or neglects his own welfare when he is busy, he always seems to know when she herself has missed a meal, or takes on too much, or just needs to get away for a moment and breathe. And he somehow manages to do so unobtrusively, almost without her noticing. He isn't a mother-hen by any means, and it is an almost proprietary sort of care. But he does care, and the behavior continues to a certain extent even after they break up.

Stephen, for his part, cannot help the possessiveness that is as much a part of him as his arrogance, or his intelligence. When he desires something or someone, they become his, and he takes care of what is his. With his fortune it is easy enough to gain whatever catches his eye - he's never quite curbed the impulse to hoard whatever sparkling thing catches his interest and he's built up quite a collection of watches lately - but it could have become quite a problem when it comes to people. 

If his father hadn't taught him what not to do. If his sister, while she lived, hadn't taught him what was too far.

Stephen is human, has been human his whole life, subject to human laws, human body chemistry, a human mind. He may have vaguely dragon instincts, and thoughts, and blurred memories, but they don't control him. They are a part of him, perhaps the core of him, but not all of him. And anyway, there are people who are fully human and know nothing else, who are far more monstrous than he can imagine becoming himself.

Stephen flies high, careless and callous.

And then he falls.

Fast cars are as close as he can get to the feeling of flying these days. Ironic, then, that that is how he irrevocably damages his wings. His hands.

He roars impotently, his temper exploding unchecked, and he would do anything, try anything, to fix his hands. He sells his home, his hoard, and pushes away the only one who tries to help. Christine, the only person left who is his, and he can't stand for her or anyone else to be near him. Can’t stomach her kindness, her inability to understand, her pity. At least once he drives her away he doesn’t have to hide the bottles of pills or alcohol. Anything to dull the pain. To circumvent his photographic memory and forget, even for a little while.

Depression, addiction, homelessness… He barely recognizes himself anymore. Stephen falls so much further than he ever imagined he could, and he blames himself most of all. He wonders now, more strongly than ever, whether his last memories of his previous life were delusion. If there hadn’t been some random Being after all, but simply a dragon with too much magic, driven to madness by eons of unfathomable aloneness. His own fault that he exists in a universe seemingly determined to beat humility into him.

Kamar-Taj is the last desperate gamble of a dying man. No pills, no money, no home. He’s already suffering from withdrawal, and he knows that detox is going to be painful. He’s in a foreign country without resources, without even knowing the language, and with no idea where to get more drugs if or when he gives in to his addiction. Detox could very well get him killed.

It certainly distracts him. It takes Stephen an unforgivably long time to realize just what he’s stumbled into. Not until he sees – really, truly sees – the Ancient One, does he register the first inkling that this isn’t some strange form of therapy or experimental research.

They look at each other. She sees something of the truth in him, and he sees something of her nature. But they both have their parts to play.

Stephen can’t really fault the Ancient One’s reluctance to teach him. He doesn’t know if she has gone so far as to identify his dragon soul, but if he’s being honest, he wasn’t all that great of a man either. Or, no. He had been a great man, but no one had ever accused him of being a good one.

He stays. Sits at their door and waits, because he cannot give up so easily and he has nowhere else to go. This is his last hope, and he clamps his jaws down on it with the knowledge that to let go is to die.

He spends his first days in Kamar-Taj in agony, shuts himself away to ride out the pain, and determinedly detoxes alone. He’s feverish, delirious, and barely able to keep hydrated, never mind clean up his mess. But he’s stubborn enough to get through, and grateful that he had been given the time to ‘adjust’.

The lessons in humility continue, naturally. He knew he had wielded magic once, and so of course he had tried to do so before. When nothing happened no matter what he tried, he had concluded that either magic didn’t exist on this world, or else humans were incapable of wielding it. Or perhaps humans simply couldn’t use dragon magic.

Now, knowing that magic exists, that humans can use it, and having thoroughly studied the theory, Stephen can only conclude that either his hands are interfering or his dragon soul is. The other students draw glowing mandalas in the air, perform the spells with practiced competence, and he can barely make sparks. The memory of how instinctive magic had been once simply enhances his frustration.

Then the Ancient One shoves him from the nest, to fly or die, and at last Stephen breaks through the block that held him back. He surrenders…

He flies through texts and theories and spells. There’s not enough time, there’s never enough time, and learning astral projection is a blessing when he can remain productive while he sleeps. Perhaps it’s not the healthiest lifestyle, but he’s come to realize that he’s more of a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ type of doctor.

In his curiosity, his drive for knowledge, he ends up holding time in his hands. It shouldn’t be surprising that that’s about the time everything begins to spiral out of control.

He listens to Kaecilius twist his rhetoric into something he believes would sway a doctor. He obviously believes he’s scored some sort of point, but Stephen is just struck speechless by how completely wrong he is. Stephen remembers eternity. A world without death sounds to him like absolute boredom. Like stagnation. Like…nothing.

Humans barely survive to their first century. They are not built for eternal life. And somehow, they always seem to forget that means life beyond the end of their world, the death of their planet. Until the heat death of the universe and beyond. Stephen is hard-pressed to think of something less appealing.

It’s possibly for the best that he doesn’t get a chance to say all of this to Kaecilius.

But for all that Stephen accepts death as a necessary and natural part of life, he draws the line at dealing it. He is a doctor; his identity since he was a child has centered around healing, around restoration rather than destruction. He may have forgotten his original motivation over the years, may have become the man his father molded him into, who cared more for reputation and material goods and nothing for people. But he didn’t choose his cases just so that his record would remain impeccable and unbroken.

He can accept that death is a part of life, but he cannot accept a person dying under his knife. He can’t handle it.

It’s even worse to deliberately kill a man. Not even accidentally, during or post-surgery, but to knowingly lay his hands upon a man and determinedly end his life. And Wong, Mordo, and the Ancient One aren’t helping, acting as though he is the unreasonable one. As though something is wrong with him for protesting, for balking at the violence, at cutting another’s life short. As though self-defense, or protecting this reality means it shouldn’t trouble him so much. As though disagreeing, protesting, his reluctance makes him weak. Makes him a coward.

Maybe he is. But he took an oath that has become a core part of his existence, and he refuses to feel ashamed for trying his best to uphold it.

There’s no time. There’s never any time. Mortal life speeds along so quickly, the Ancient One is gone (she wasn’t quite his, but he thinks he might have been hers, and it hurts regardless), and the Hong Kong Sanctum has fallen.

So Stephen makes time. He reverses as much of the destruction as he can, and then realizes what he needs to do. He allows himself one last glimpse of what he’s trying to protect before entering an alien landscape.

As he adjusts the spell around the Eye of Agamotto, it clicks.

Oh no, he thinks. No.

He’s discovered his Hoard, and it’s bad, it’s impossible. An entire world, the people of Earth, they are his Hoard.

Hoards are meant to be protected, kept safe and out of sight. A dragon is meant to know every piece, every mark, everything it is possible to know about his Hoard. To know the instant anything goes missing, to maintain every part flawlessly.

None of that is possible for Stephen, not with an entire world of people as his Hoard.

But they’re his to care for, regardless. His to protect. And no one steals from a dragon’s Hoard.

He puts his selfishness, his possessiveness, to good use, refusing to give in as he dies over and over again at the hands of a being so much more powerful than Stephen is, and less than he was. When Dormammu at last relents, it takes everything he has not to break down. Too much. It’s too much. Karl’s abandonment is just one more blow he can’t handle yet.

Push it away. Block it off. Keep moving.

He can’t break yet.

If nothing else, at least he has wings once more.

Chapter Text

“Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.”
-Mark Zusak, The Book Thief

Stephen eventually comes to terms with everything. Or, he likes to think so. Not easily, of course, but when has anything been easy?

His problematic, impossible Hoard requires some mental adjustment. He must look to the whole first, prioritize the majority. He must do what he can to help the most people before he can even think to look to individuals. Sometimes that might even mean knowingly sacrificing a few to save many. Stephen tells himself that it's not too different from triage situations at the hospital, but it isn't comforting. He still can't think too long on the Chitauri Invasion, and not just because of the threat of annihilation. 

The Time Stone is trickier, though less potentially traumatizing – disregarding how he trapped himself in a time loop where it could be considered both his savior and tormentor. He does his research into the Infinity Stones after Wong's comment, including further research into the history of the Time Stone. He isn't surprised to discover that it has developed a sort of awareness. Almost a consciousness, although not one he or any other person is equipped to understand. He's always known that objects of power with such age behind them tend to become more self-aware. On this world the relics are a prime example, his Cloak in particular. 

Although, to the best of his knowledge, he's never before interacted with an object from the birth of the universe, in this life or the other. 

Stephen gently pokes and prods at it, getting a better sense for how to communicate, and he thinks they come to an agreement. It doesn't seem to mind being used by him if it's not too frivolous, and may even occasionally assist instead of just passively allowing it. It will also warn Stephen if it no longer wishes to be used by him, rather than just erasing him from existence. He's particularly grateful for that concession.

He spends much of his free time studying or better familiarizing himself with his den. Just because he's found his Hoard, it doesn't mean that his hoarding tendencies disappear. Stephen has always craved knowledge, and now what he doesn't know could kill him. What he does know could kill him as well, but at least he'll see it coming. Probably.

At least he has an outlet for some of his more OCD tendencies now that he's Master of a Sanctum. He explores every room, catalogues every relic, and finds the time to clean and maintain each in a way the previous Master hadn't, considering the dust and condition of some of the relics. Wong sometimes watches him with a heavily judging stare; he complains occasionally of Stephen becoming a shut-in. 

Stephen thinks Wong has absolutely no room to judge considering his occasionally violent defense of some of the mishandled books in his library. Although he will concede that Wong likely gets out more than him, considering he'd once been dragged along to a Beyoncé concert in what he was pretty sure was a misuse of magic, no matter the librarian's excuses.

He thinks about arguing that all of the relics in his Sanctum like him, if only for the care that he gives them. It adds an extra layer of security. As long as he doesn't use them – much – the Cloak of Levitation won't be jealous either. 

In the end Stephen doesn't say anything. Wong has probably noticed, anyway, and he doesn't plan to change his habits.

His Cloak is an unlooked for boon. And not just because it's saved his life several times already. Sheer affection for it strikes him sometimes out of nowhere, and if it is around his neck he cannot resist stroking it and speaking a word his vocal chords were not created to say correctly. It's something of a hiss and something of a hoarse, rumbling growl, and it means freedom, open air, life, power, all at once. Sometimes he'll murmur the English translation.

“My wings.”

It always comes when he says this, whether English or a dragon's speech, and if it's already on his shoulders it will squeeze him with equal affection.

Stephen finds a rhythm, a routine as he explores the mystic arts and the myriad dimensions that come with it. Said routine is disturbed by Loki's brief presence back on Earth, and shattered when Dr. Banner crashes through his roof.

When he'd learned about the Infinity Stones he had, of course, briefly considered how impressive a hoard that contained all six would be. But that had been idle musing. That sort of collection would be far more trouble than it's worth. The very thought of actually harnessing all of that power makes him recoil. His dragon side isn't much more eager; hoards aren't really meant to be used, after all. Just cared for. And what care has a dragon for changing the universe in any case?

The news that some sort of intergalactic warlord is attempting to collect all of them is horrifying. That he's been succeeding so far has his blood running cold, and it takes quite a bit of willpower not to completely snap and rage at Stark for his unhelpful comments. It wouldn't help anything, and he knows logically that such a reaction would be rather out of proportion. But something about the other man – his flippancy, maybe – grates on Stephen's last nerve. Even knowing that it's a mask to protect himself doesn't do much to help.

They've sworn to protect the Time Stone, damn it, and they've done so for centuries. Even if they had the ability to destroy it, who knows what would happen if they did? Stephen has given the Stones and their origin quite a bit of thought, and there's just too much they don't know. Too much that doesn't make sense. Like why they came to exist in the first place. These are forces that should never be interfered with, and objects came into being that specifically allow others to interfere with them? In his opinion, nothing created naturally is solely for destruction, and that's more or less all that their history, what little the Mystic Arts practitioners know, has allowed for. It's possible, of course, that they were created unnaturally, but by what and for what purpose?

Stephen's afraid that the Stones are the forces they control. Physical representations or avatars, however they can be described, he's more than a little terrified that if they ever managed to actually destroy, say, the Time Stone, then Time itself will be destroyed.

He'd like to be able to destroy at least some of the Stones, consequence-free, to prevent what collecting all of them would mean. It's also possible that that would free those forces from ever being controlled, at least on so large a scale. But that seems a bit of a pipe-dream, and he'd feel guilty if he did end up destroying the Time Stone. It's not really possible to be friends with it, but it would feel a bit like a betrayal of their accord regardless.

Shove it down the garbage disposal, honestly. 

Everything happens so quickly after that. It's honestly a little embarrassing to need rescuing by Stark – and a kid – but he returns the favor when they crash land, anyway. What's more distressing is that the Time Stone needs to be his priority, that it's worth more than any of their lives, and he would have been far more comfortable if it was only his life immediately on the line. 

Then the so-called Guardians of the Galaxy show up, and yes, they're morons, but he doesn't want them to die either.

Stephen can't take chances, not with Thanos and the Stones. So he looks for a future in which they win. He had no idea just how slim their chances were.

When he falls back to the present, panting and panicked, a firm touch and kind voice guide his sanity back to awareness. He meets a brown-eyed gaze that has become far too familiar in over 14 million permutations. “Hi,” he breathes, but internally he’s cursing his dragon soul. His eyes dart quickly over the group gathered near him, and for a time all he can think is, Fuck no, no, nonono!

Because Stephen looks at them, all of them, and he feels it down to his very bones: mine. And this is not the generic possessiveness of his Hoard that occasionally drives him to people-watch from the window of his Sanctum. This is more personal, more intense. He feels it especially strongly for Tony and Peter, possibly because unlike the other three, they had begun as part of his Hoard.

His attention snaps back to the real problem at Quill’s question, and he decides to simply ignore these new feelings. They’re just a side-effect of seeing all those future timelines. An artificial closeness. They will fade, he’s sure, given enough time.

Knowing what has to come next is harder than he imagined, however, now that he’s fighting himself tooth and nail as well as Thanos. This is the only way they can win, the only acceptable win, and his fucking stupid instincts are screaming at him to protect what is his and, particularly, not to let anyone in this group die or dissolve into ash.

With mind and instinct in alignment for the first time since Thanos’ arrival, it’s almost a relief to give up the Time Stone for Tony’s life. Even if he ends up hating him for it.

“Tony,” he says as he feels numbness creeping up his body, gaze locked on his… Gaze locked on the other man. Ironically, there’s not enough time. He’s never felt this lack so keenly in this short life as he does at this moment. Not nearly enough time for all he wishes to convey, all that he’s not allowed to if he wants this one timeline to work. He says the only thing he can. “There was no other way.”

Stephen doesn’t know what happens while half of the universe is gone, not exactly. Perhaps it’s because of interference from the Soul Stone, but he could only see bits and pieces of what happens after Thanos snaps his fingers. What he does know, with iron-clad certainty, is that Tony is the key to the one successful timeline.

He knows that Thanos will – must – get all six Stones.

He knows what he needs to do next.

Chapter Text

“Dragons and legends…It would have been difficult for any man not to want to fight beside a dragon.”
-Patricia Briggs, Dragon Blood

Months.

Months of desperation and despair, of mourning and attempting to hold the world together while they search for a way to defeat Thanos and reverse the apocalypse. It all comes down to this. To an empty planet where a group of heroes and their allies battle Thanos and what remnants of his army he has managed to summon since their appearance.

They need get that ruined glove. They need the Stones.

They need to kill Thanos.

Lightning strikes the field; Tony’s suit protects his vision from the blinding flare and he notices immediately when the Time and Soul Stones glow as their wielder prepares to retaliate. Tony’s breath hitches. That is a particularly bad combination to his mind, one that hasn’t yet been attempted, and he really doesn’t want to see what will result.

He hastily activates the mocked-up Time and Soul energies to cancel out whatever Thanos is attempting. All that time spent traveling alternate timelines with the assistance of Wong, Lang, and a number of scientists and heroes have paid off. They’ve managed to mimic and store the energy harnessed by the Infinity Stones. Not nearly powerful enough to undo what happened, but enough to cancel out the powers Thanos attempts to summon in the middle of a fight.

They’re lucky the Stones glow before use. It’s the necessary split second they need to cancel out the attack rather than simply reducing damage. And it has the added bonus of frustrating Thanos, although that’s really a mixed blessing.

This time, however, something different happens. A storm of something…of ash erupts from nowhere, swirling and condensing within the small knot of heroes around him. A large lump on the ground remains still as it solidifies, while a standing figure just behind it is a far more identifiable shape. As the last flakes coalesce and gain color, it is already in motion. For a moment, Tony is too shocked to move. Wong is already mid-cast.

Stephe – Strange’s hands slam down to the ground, Wong redirects his magic to the air above them, and the spells from the two sorcerers merge to form a sphere around the group. A soundless explosion of energy clears away the Outriders around them and blows Thanos back. It gives them a moment to breathe, a moment for Tony’s brain to reboot. He should be more concerned with Loki, still disoriented and crumpled on the ground at Strange’s feet. But he can’t take his eyes off Strange. And not necessarily for the obvious reasons, for this further proof that the former doctor had seen the future – this future – and reacted accordingly.

He had done his research on Dr. Stephen Strange, in between struggling to figure out how to save the world. All this time there had been this community of monk sorcerers and potential threats right beneath his nose, and he’d been completely ignorant. But newspaper and journal articles hadn’t been enough. He had reached out to Wong, and the more he’d managed to extract from the taciturn man, the more his focus had begun to shift from the professional to the personal.

Tony had wanted to know everything about the man who had given up the Time Stone to save his life. Talking with Wong wasn’t enough.

And now, unexpectedly, he was back. Here, in the middle of battle, with Loki.

And so changed. Tony concedes that there are more obvious reasons for his staring as well.

“Strange?” Wong says. You can’t tell from his tone of voice, but Tony catches the look of shock in his peripheral vision.

Strange is just beginning to notice the unusual attention. He glances down at himself with a frown, and then stills, raising a hand to eye-level. His eyes blink rapidly. And yes, that might be a sign of disorientation brought about by his reappearance, milder than Loki seems to be suffering. But Tony suspects it has more to do with his slit pupils and the slight glow of his irises. His vision has to have noticeably changed; he must be adjusting. Strange studies the sharp, black claws at the end of his fingers, and then runs one hand over the back of the other where scales are peeking out beyond his wrappings. He is so covered, such little skin showing that it’s impossible to say to what extent those scales have appeared on him.

Strange claps a hand to his neck to feel the evidence of scales present there, streaked along his vulnerable throat. But he misses the swirls of small pebbled scales along his brow and extending from the corners of his eyes. They’re beautiful, a dark, midnight blue near the center, shading gradually lighter near the edges.

Tony can’t look away. He shouldn’t find those inhuman features so alluring. Shouldn’t have even found the man so alluring to begin with.

Strange’s only response is a thoughtful hum, and how the hell is he so calm about it? Tony would be freaking out if it were him. The only reason he isn’t freaking out now is because they’re technically in the middle of fighting for the fate of the universe.

And he would really like an explanation for Loki.

“I will kill you,” said god rasps, at last getting to his feet and putting a bit of distance between himself and the sorcerer. “Slowly and painfully, when this is over.”

Strange just rolls his eyes. “Are you still holding a grudge? Even if I hadn’t bested you the first time, you seem to think I’m not petty enough to get myself killed by someone else, just to spite you.”

Tony might have found this funnier, if the man hadn’t basically given up his life for him. He can’t speak up, though, because that sharp gaze has found his and his throat is abruptly too dry to attempt talking. Strange comes across as a cold man, with eyes like shards of ice. Except now those pale eyes are reminiscent of a flame so hot it shines blue, and Tony can see his core of fire, passion strong enough to break that slender man in two.

Those eyes look away and he feels he can breathe again. A part of him regrets it.

“As if some second-rate sorcerer could truly best me. You were lucky once, mortal, but don't expect to be so lucky again. You didn't even notice when I used you to escape the Soul Stone.”

“Oh, I noticed. I could have shoved you off, I just chose not to, against my better judgment. We do need a master of the Space Stone.”

“Please,” Loki sneers. “Your incompetence is written all over your body.”

Strange rolls his eyes, hard. “You're even more ignorant than I thought if you believe this is the result of any spell I cast. Or any spell that's been cast on me.”

For one insane moment, Tony's resentment towards Loki has nothing to do with any past grievances, and everything to do with how he holds Ste – Stra – oh, alright, Stephen's complete attention. In a post-apocalyptic world, battling an all-powerful warlord, and this further complication...well, there's a reason he and Pepper decided to call off the wedding. He does a mental double-take at that thought, because, yes, after the disasters that faced the world and how busy the both of them were in the aftermath, they barely had time to interact much less be together. But he's never phrased it quite like that before, in his head or out loud, and there's something about it –

“Strange!” Wong bellows, snapping them out of their distraction. Tony is relieved, and can't quite articulate why. Not yet. “If you could overcome your own ego, at least until we're done here?!”

“Good to see you too, Wong,” Stephen says, and flings shards of deadly magic that rip into the oncoming horde. 

The battle passes in a blur, only brief snapshots of time coming into focus in his memory. Most are to do with Stephen. They seem to end up fighting together or near each other more often than not. Once, the sorcerer had been in a position where he'd been forced to slash out at Thanos with his claws, his magic otherwise preoccupied with defense. He'd aimed for a hamstring, but whether Thanos' skin was too thick, or Stephen's hand strength too weak, he had barely seemed to scratch him. A vibranium shield to the back of Thanos' head had allowed him to scramble away and gain some distance.

At the very end, Tony sees him exhale fire directly into the purple asshole's face. He'd seen him doing this before to some of the troops with surprising effect – the flame was much more powerful than he would have assumed – but this time it is the timing of the distraction that makes it most memorable. Thanos reels away, attempting to activate Space which Tony immediately cancels out. Thor is in the perfect position to take his head with Stormbreaker, while at the same time Tony flies forward, low to the ground, and slices off the hand wearing the battered gauntlet.

For what seems like a long time all Tony can do is stare as the large body hits the ground. He feels numb...disbelieving. The alien that has haunted him for years is finally gone. His pulse pounds in his ears, and the world seems to go silent.

“-ony. Tony.”

He jerks, wondering when he had removed his helmet. 

“Quickly,” Stephen says, a shaking hand on his shoulder, and he mourns that the armor prevents him from feeling the touch. “It's not over yet.” Around them, the fighting is beginning to die down.

“Right,” he says faintly. “The Stones. We need to...to reverse...”

“No,” says his companion. “Not just reverse what Thanos did. We need to undo it.”

“How?” he wonders, lets himself be led to where Loki is crouched by the gauntlet. He should feel extremely concerned by that, but mostly he just feels numb as he stares blankly at the Stones set in ruined metal. Thor had told them what had happened to the gauntlet once Thanos had snapped his fingers, but Tony had hoped that it would be able to hold together for one more use. Now that he sees it up close, this...doesn't seem to be the case. He leans heavily against the sorcerer, realizing for the first time just how warm Stephen is. He should probably worry about that, but it seems only natural when taking into account the other physical changes. 

Maybe he should worry after all.

Stephen calls Carol over, and Tony doesn't even realize at first that Jane Foster has somehow appeared. Magically.

“We can still undo it,” Stephen says. “Thanos never truly mastered any of the Stones, which gives us an advantage. They've chosen or been more or less mastered by others, and their allegiance hasn't changed yet. All of us in agreement can direct them to undo what Thanos has done.”

It works. Hell if Tony knows how, or even how he knows it has, considering they're still on some empty planet in space. Loki with Space, Foster with Reality, Stephen on Time, Carol directing Power, and Tony and Gamora, working together from without and within the Soul Stone, direct the energies. They should be missing Mind, it shouldn't work, but everything that Vision is...was, the blueprint of his existence was birthed from Mind and is now embedded within it. Almost as if he is here in spirit. It works, and that's all that matters. 

They are exhausted, all of them. Avengers and allies. For the time being they just sit or lay on this planet, this little pocket universe, and breathe. Once they leave, this will disappear and they'll return to their time and place before all of this happened. Before half of the universe was wiped from existence. Thanos is dead, and the battle is won at last.

They're so tired.

Chapter Text

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Wong and Stephen settle on a rock formation a bit away from the others, and Tony doesn't realize that he automatically orients himself towards them. Him. Partly to be distracted, but mostly because he's overwhelmingly curious, he listens to their quiet conversation.

“No portals in the library, Stephen,” Wong says sternly.

“You think I've been sneaking advanced books?” Stephen hisses indignantly. “...This time?” he amends.

Tony shifts closer, entertained. It is one thing to hear about the trouble New York's Master got himself into. It is quite another to witness it first-hand. He knows which he prefers.

Perhaps it's his imagination, but there seems to be a slight edge of desperation to their interactions. No one wants to think about what they've been through, so they let other things take up their attention. They focus, and they pretend that everything is normal. That the last however many months - years, even, depending on how long spent in alternate timelines - haven't happened.

“Shapeshifting spells should never, ever be attempted by a novice, and especially without supervision,” the librarian almost snarls. 

Stephen snarls right back, and Tony is close enough to see that his canines look sharper, and maybe slightly larger than they should be. “Wong, I have deliberately stayed away from human Shapeshifting magic so far. At most I skimmed the theory over a year ago. I didn't dare actually attempt anything.”

“Truly?” Wong stares at him, deadpan.

“Yes. You know I would never use magic that...I'm...I wouldn't...” He trails off, mouth opening and closing but unable to finish that thought. Not truthfully, anyway.

Wong smirks. “How was that sentence going to end?”

Stephen glowers and mutters, “I would never use magic I'm too inexperienced or not ready to use, and not without reading all of the warnings.”

Wong throws his head back and laughs uproariously. Everyone even slightly familiar with the stoic man jerk around to stare, including Tony. He had been positive that the man was incapable of it.

“Why is it that pretty much the only time you laugh is when it's at me?”

“Strange, your jokes are terrible. You, however, are an occasionally funny mess.”

Stephen glowers. “Oh, just, shut up.”

Wong sobers and makes a gesture to encompass all of the physical changes evident on the taller man's body. “If it isn't Shapeshifting magic gone wrong, then explain why you suddenly have scales, claws, and glowing eyes.”

“Glowing...?” Stephen brings a hand up to his eyes and stops short, frowning at just how badly it's shaking. In exhaustion, Tony presumes, and watches him bring that hand down, making sure sharp claws are well away from his skin. He thinks back and remembers how he kept his trembling hands carefully away from everyone around him. He hadn't dared get too close for fear of accidentally slicing into flesh, and Tony realizes just what it would mean if Stephen were to live like this. He would hardly dare touch anyone for fear of hurting them, unable to control hands that are now tipped with dangerous weapons, and his heart aches for him. Surely whatever happened can be undone? Will be, once they leave this place?

Stephen says, “I think either the Soul Stone was confused, or it and Time were trying to be funny. Hopefully it's temporary or reversible.”

Tony would interject with disbelief about Stones having any sort of consciousness, but after what he just helped to undo, he has a rather intimate knowledge regarding their capabilities. Instead he says, “How do you confuse the Soul Stone? Should we be worried? Are people going to return with the wrong bodies?!”

Stephen seems unsurprised by his eavesdropping. “I wouldn't worry. I'm pretty sure I'm just a special case.”

“How are you so calm?”

“Honestly,” he says, “it feels more natural than the first time I ended up with multiple arms or extra eyes.”

Tony...has no idea how to respond to that. “Um.”

“You still haven't explained why the Stones would have done this to you,” Wong says.

“Well,” Stephen says, eyeing his friend like he thought maybe he should have guessed by now, “in my last life I was a dragon.”

Wong's eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Reincarnation?”

Stephen nods. “More or less. I was never sure if it was just the Ancient One that noticed.”

“And you remembered your last life? When?”

“Is this a wizard thing?” Tony interrupts, voice cracking in disbelief. “Reincarnation? Is that normal?”

“No,” says Wong at the same time Stephen says, “Yes.” They look at each other.

“Normal for me,” the taller man amends. “I've always remembered in one way or another.” He blows a small flame into the palm of his hand and stares, fascinated by the lack of pain and injury. “You would not believe how often I burned myself as a child. I'm pretty sure my mother thought I was either exceptionally clumsy or rather slow.”

“No wonder the Ancient One changed her mind and decided to teach you. 

“And no, Stark, even for sorcerers proof of reincarnation is extremely rare. Memories of past lives are almost unheard of.”

Tony's eyes dart over to Wong for a brief moment in response to being addressed before returning to Stephen. He can't seem to look away, and wonders again if he should really find the man so captivating even with scales and talons. It's not that he has some sort of fetish. He doesn't find Stephen to be somehow more attractive than before. Nor does he really find him less attractive. It's just Stephen, himself, and he knows then that he's completely fucked.

“Isn't that weird?” he says, to distract him from his thoughts. “Being a human and remembering being a dragon? Is that like having two different people in your head? That must be insane. How do you deal with it?”

Stephen shrugs nonchalantly, nose wrinkling as he watches him from the corner of his eye. “Isn't it weirder just living this one life? I've never understood how everyone can deal with only remembering humanity. Isn't that monotonous?”

That sort of skewed perspective almost breaks Tony's brain. He splutters, flails a bit, and reaches up to tug at his hair in frustration. “What the - how - you...”

Stephen turns to face him fully, brow arched inquiringly. But behind the curiosity, he detects the barest glimmer of mischief and Tony settles with a glower. The sorcerer's inability to relate might be genuine, but he isn't completely ignorant to how such a perspective comes across. 

“Asshole,” Tony mutters, but it's good-natured. “How'd you end up becoming a doctor then? A dragon doctor. How does that happen? I mean, that's not a combination you see often. Or ever, I guess.”

Stephen's expression shutters, then. Closing off to appear more like the man who first stepped out of a portal in Central Park. “I had my reasons.”

Tony watches, curious, but not pushing yet. He wants to know everything, but for now he'll take what he can get. He doesn't want to think about anything else. He just wants to ignore the last few months. And either Stephen understands or he feels the same way, because he thaws enough to admit, “There's never enough time in a mortal life. It's so short, and over so quickly. I can't stand aside when something or someone attempts to cut a short life even shorter.”

“How much do you remember?” Wong wonders. "Before, how long was your life and do you remember all of it?"

Stephen hesitates. Perhaps thinking over what to say, or perhaps wondering if he should say anything. “I remember the end most clearly, and broad strokes of what came before. The human mind isn't capable of remembering such a long stretch of time, especially when even my dragon mind couldn't.

“I was the last dragon, you see. And so old that while I might remember being called the first, I had no idea whether that was true.”

Tony lets out a low whistle. “Is that measured in centuries? Millennia?” He can't truly comprehend it. It's like a story. How can this be something that really happened? 

“Eons, maybe.” Stephen shrugs. “Time becomes rather meaningless when you're that old.”

“Were you hunted down, or was it extreme old age?” he asks insensitively. But he's always had a poor brain-to-mouth filter, particularly when he’s trying very hard not to be struck dumb with awe or shock. And in any case, the other man hardly seems bothered.

“Neither. I should probably have mentioned,” he adds, “that it would be more accurate to say that I was the last living thing on my world.”

“What happened?” Wong asks.

“Did you eat everyone?” It slips out before Tony can stop it, and he immediately wishes he could take it back. Yeah, the thought of what dragons eat had lingered in the back of his mind, but he wasn't planning to actually say anything.

“Time happened,” Stephen growls, glaring at Tony as he responds to Wong. “I don't know if the bipedal creatures all perished or if some left, but the planet died regardless. Over time the atmosphere was stripped away, and the rock eventually crumbled into so much space debris.”

“You sound like you witnessed this,” Wong observes. Was he actually displaying curiosity? Tony doesn't think he's ever seen such animated expressions on the usually stoic librarian. Was that a requirement of wizards? Stone-faced neutrality?

“I did. I slept through most of it, but I did.”

“But that's impossible,” Tony blurts out. “No one could survive that. You would starve first, or suffocate, or something!”

“And yet...” Stephen watches them struggle with the concept, a hint of a smug smile on his lips.

“So what happened, then? If you could survive all of that?” Tony finally asks.

“I was offered a chance, and realized how...bored I was. How empty. I might have had to wait eons before life returned, if it ever did. I thought mortality might be more interesting, so I agreed.”

“What approached you?” Wong questions sharply.

Stephen keeps his silence. All he will say is that there is no need for worry.

“Well, this does explain some things,” Wong says after a long period of silence with which to digest this unexpected revelation. 

Stephen scowls. “Possessiveness, hoarding tendencies, and a temper are not traits exclusive to dragons. There are quite a few people who take them to far greater extremes than I could dream of.”

“Actually, I was thinking of that time you came back from the Ataltraxi home dimension,” Wong corrects blandly. “Do you remember?”

“Not really.”

“I'm not surprised. You were extremely high.”

Tony notices that Stephen's ears - are they pointed at the tip? - have gone red. He doesn't know why Stephen and Wong are speaking so openly in front of him, but he leans back to enjoy the entertaining distraction.

“Do you at least remember my attempts to warn you about the atmosphere there? About preparations you should take, and didn't?”

“Vaguely,” the taller man bites out.

“Well, once you returned, you piled every shiny relic on display in your bedroom, and then growled when I tried to enter.”

By this point, Stephen is quite obviously blushing while Tony snickers at his embarrassment. 

“I was certain that you were going to bite me if I got too close.”

“All right, enough.”

"Do you miss it?" Tony asks.

Stephen hesitates. "Sometimes," he responds slowly. "Things were much simpler then. Quiet."

Tony remembers floating, dying in space, and yes. It had been quiet, and cold. He imagines there could be a sort of peace there. A glance at his companion's scars, and he thinks that certainly it was less physically painful. 

"But you don't regret it," he states. He can tell. This is one of the many ways they're alike. For all that they've suffered, they wouldn't have chosen any differently.

"No," Stephen agrees, and there's a tranquility about him as he admits this. "I don't."

Tony hears footsteps during a moment of silence before their conversation can restart, and as he turns towards the person approaching them he notices that Stephen's subtly relaxed expression has closed off again, becoming cold and impassive as Wong goes silent. It's Carol, gathering everyone so that they can leave this little bubble and return to a world without Thanos. A world before the universe knew the horror of a mad titan.

Stephen hovers in the background, lingering on the edges of the group where no one pays attention to him. He's studying his hands again, and Tony gravitates towards him, beyond tired of the spotlight himself. Is it just him, or have those claws become slightly shorter and blunter? When Stephen strokes the clasp of his Cloak, Tony is close enough to hear the hissing sort of growl that prods directly at his lizard hindbrain and causes him to break out in a cold sweat as his damaged heart jackrabbits in his chest. It's a sound human vocal chords should not be able to reproduce.

“Fuck,” he breathes as the Cloak squeezes its almost-human affectionately.

Stephen flinches and jerks his head up, taking in his appearance with clinical attention to detail. “I apologize,” he says, looking away and retreating a little. Tony thinks he's trying to appear unthreatening, and that irritates him because he's fought gods and titans and lived through his worst nightmare. Stephen Strange, of all people, doesn't frighten him and shouldn't be making himself appear lesser just to reassure him. 

“For what?” he demands belligerently, and refuses to fidget as the sorcerer focuses that intense gaze and formidable mind upon him. His eyes aren't glowing as brightly anymore, he notes absently. It seems that his dragon features are wearing off on their own.

Stephen slowly smirks. “That you're no longer the most impressive person in the room.”

“Excuse you?” Tony feigns offense. “Who saved your ungrateful ass yet again?”

“It wouldn't surprise me if you hadn't noticed, but it was my spell on the Time Stone that pulled me back.”

“And who was it that triggered it? Genius here, Merlin. Not stupid, thanks.”

They let the argument peter out, both knowing that Stephen made it possible, and Tony and the others did most of the dirty work when it came to defeating Thanos. They honestly care more that it got done, than in taking credit for the doing.

Tony is exhausted. He doesn't notice when he begins to stare blankly at those glittering blue scales on Stephen's neck, and his attention only drifts to follow them upward when the body they are attached to shifts. Cheek, temple, corner of the eye... His breath hitches, abruptly aware of the man before him when he registers the look in those pale eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like...that,” Tony gestures at him, trying not to appear as flustered as he is.

Stephen tilts his head inquiringly. One corner of that thin mouth is curled upward. He doesn't even try to make his professed ignorance appear genuine.

“Like I belong to you.”

“Well,” Stephen shrugs, eyes glittering, “you are mine.”

Tony suppresses a shiver and lifts his chin.

“Yes,” the former dragon seems to anticipate what he is about to say, “you are an independent, self-actualized human being, fully capable of making your own decisions and beholden to no one. But still. Mine.”

“Am I?” Tony says. They are silent for a time as their gazes lock and hold. Slowly he begins to smile, knowing and smug. “Dragon lore got it wrong, didn't it? Dragons don't possess...they are possessed.”

Stephen glances to the side. “That depends entirely on the point of view, I suppose.”

Tony's smile turns fond. He doesn't know much about wizard, not really. But he wants to. He wants to know everything. “C'mere, Dr. Dragon Wizard,” he murmurs as he grabs onto the front of his blue tunic and pulls.

Stephen scowls. “Don't call me th – ”

Tony interrupts him with a kiss.

It's awkward at first, compounded by the fact that Stephen had been mid-word and not quite prepared. But they adapt quickly, falling into sync as easily they do when fighting together physically, or each other verbally. When they part, they simply watch the other, solemn and quiet. Tony barely notices the light in his peripheral vision as Thor and Wong prepare to transport the group. No one seems to have noticed the kiss, or they just aren’t being obvious about it. He hardly cares which.

The group that fought Thanos will be the only ones who remember it. Bonds forged and reforged by unimaginable tragedy and desperation will be bound further by this secret. By being the only ones to know. But at least they’ll know that this threat is over, too. They won’t be waiting for the blade to fall, they’ll be struggling to heal the scars. And despite the nightmare, good things came from it as well.

He prefers to remember, no matter how painful it is.

Tony rests his forehead against Stephen’s as Stormbreaker’s glow brightens. “I’ll come find you,” he murmurs. “My dragon.”

Heat flares in pale eyes, intense and thrilling…Dangerous. It’s a combination Tony has never been able to resist.

He doesn’t look away as they leave that planet, that little pocket universe, behind.