StangeWong
Dr. Stephen Strange lay on his bed, drenched in sweat, his face flushed with the heat of a fever that seemed relentless. The sorcerer was rarely vulnerable, but the infection that had taken hold of him was no ordinary illness. It had crept into his body after his last battle, one where he’d drawn on dark, ancient magic, something he’d sworn never to touch again. The fever was punishment—a reminder of the power he’d flirted with and the cost he was now paying.
Wong entered the room, carrying a damp cloth and a bowl of water. The Sanctum was silent, shadows cast across the room as the only light came from the dim, flickering candles around Stephen’s bed.
"Stephen," Wong said quietly, a tinge of worry breaking through his calm demeanor. He placed the cloth on Stephen's forehead, feeling the scalding heat beneath. "You’re still burning up."
Stephen’s eyes cracked open, and even that effort seemed to take everything out of him. "I’ll… I’ll be fine, Wong," he managed, though his voice was barely more than a whisper. "It’s just… it’s just a fever."
Wong pressed his lips together in a hard line. "This is no ordinary fever, Stephen. You know that as well as I do. This is the consequence of meddling with powers we vowed never to touch."
A pang of guilt mixed with the haze of pain in Stephen’s mind. He knew Wong was right, but the memory of that battle, of the lives at stake, surged through him. "I had no choice… If I hadn’t used that spell…"
Wong’s face softened as he sat beside Stephen. "I know. But that doesn’t make it any less dangerous."
The fever had left Stephen’s body weak, trembling with every shallow breath. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, and each time he came to, Wong was still there, swapping the cloths, offering water, and trying his best to ease Stephen’s suffering. But there was only so much he could do. The magic that clung to Stephen’s fever was ancient and unrelenting, and there was no spell, no herb that could truly bring him relief.
At one point, in a rare moment of lucidity, Stephen looked at Wong, his usual arrogance and wit stripped away, leaving only the raw fear in his eyes. "Wong… what if it doesn’t stop? What if this fever…"
Wong placed a reassuring hand on Stephen’s shoulder, his voice steady. "You’ve survived worse, Stephen. You’ll survive this too."
But even as he said it, a flicker of doubt crept into Wong’s heart. He had always respected Stephen’s resilience, his seemingly boundless energy. But now, seeing him laid bare, vulnerable, fighting for every breath, he realized that his friend was not invincible. And it terrified him.
Hours turned into days, and Stephen's fever only seemed to worsen, his breathing growing labored, every shallow breath a painful reminder of his fragility. Wong stayed by his side through it all, watching over him, refusing to let him slip away.
On the fourth night, as Wong replaced the cloth on Stephen’s forehead yet again, a faint voice broke the silence.
"Wong… I’m sorry."
The words barely registered, so quiet that Wong almost thought he imagined them. But when he looked down, he saw Stephen’s eyes open, glazed but filled with remorse.
"For all the times I ignored your warnings… for all the times I was too proud to listen… I’m sorry."
Wong swallowed, his own resolve cracking. "You have nothing to apologize for, Stephen."
Stephen’s hand reached up, fingers weakly brushing against Wong’s. "Thank you. For staying."
And as Stephen’s eyes closed once more, Wong squeezed his hand, his voice breaking just a little as he whispered, "Always, Stephen. Always."