Chapter 4
The stones had been dampening his emotions. Stephen still felt them, but it was at a much less intensity than it would have been otherwise. He would have been angry, but the gaping hollowness inside him didn't leave room for anything else.
He was crying, hands wrapped around himself in a futile attempt at a hug. His fingers hurt. They'd been in one position for too long. His breath shook and he tried to inhale deeply, only to keep breaking into sobs halfway through.
His daughter was gone, possibly dead. His best friend didn't know him, no matter how concerned he had looked for Stephen when he had led him to this room. The Time Stones had fused. Their explosion of power a beacon to anyone interested. Thanos would have felt it. He would be coming.
His plan hadn't worked. It had been too late for the universe and it had fallen apart around them. He, himself, had damaged it too. He'd left it, had dreamwalked into his own corpse, had used the Darkhold and caused an incursion.
Has it ever occurred to you that it is not solely your fault? Reality cut into his thoughts. It wasn't. I would know.
But he shared some of the blame. It had been his fault in some ways.
You tried to fix it, Soul said. The orange threads holding his soul together felt warm, gentle.
He had tried, but it hadn't worked. He'd failed.
It would have. Reality sounded as sad as as an anchor of the universe could sound. But it was too late.
You tried, Power rumbled. It felt oddly soothing. That was more than most.
Wong had helped, had agreed with his plan when no one else had. The other sorcerers had feared that would it make things worse. They were right. It had.
Black, jagged, grief cut through him. His gasp dissolved into another sob. His head pounded. His skin felt tight, his mouth dry. His knees hurt. Why was he still here? The universe was gone, everyone in it dead. Wong was dead. He'd failed. He'd failed. He'd failed and there was no reversing it. The damage couldn't be undone. There were no bargains that could be made. He'd destroy this universe too. It was only a matter of time.
He'd fail Wong again. He'd kill people again, like his plan had the first time. Half the universe gone because of him. The Illuminati said he was the largest threat to the multiverse. They were right. He'd caused the incursions, had used the Darkhold to dreamwalk into his alternates, had murdered them.
Hey-, Mind tried to interrupt. He wasn't listening. Horror sunk its claws into him, tore at his mind. Somewhere, someone was wailing, hoarse, shaky, and barely there. His throat burned. A weight was on his chest, sinking inside to burrow into his heart.
The universe was gone. Everyone he'd ever known was dead. Why was he the only one left? Why was he still alive? Why had he thought he could fix it? Why had he even tried?
Cold sunk into his bones, crawled its way beneath muscle and flesh. His hands had stopped shaking. They didn't even hurt now. He couldn't breathe. The wailing was still there. He was back in his corpse again, flesh falling off. Rot invaded his nose. The world dimmed, felt dull. The dead were trying to tear him apart. One of his fingers was gone. America was screaming. Dormammu was in front of them, in front of him. Time rewound. His flesh knit together. He was going to die here, again. He'd be trapped here forever. He'd never see Christine again. He'd never get to know Wong properly, would never be able to help America find her parents. It would be just him and Dormammu for all eternity. Why was he doing this again? Why shouldn't he-
Warmth cut into his thoughts. Everything paused. The warmth was surrounding him. There was a frantic fluttering beneath his ear. There was breathing too, a little shaky, but mostly steady. He blinked at an expanse of blue that slowly resolved itself into cloth. He blinked again. Cold fluttered around him, bringing the smell of crisp air and fizzling sound of portals being formed. The world was steady around him. Reality felt solid. The presence of Kamar-Taj's wards hummed in the background. He closed his eyes-they felt terribly dry and sore-and pushed his head further into the cloth. It rumbled underneath him and suddenly, he became aware.
There were arms around him. He was lying on someone. A blanket was tucked around them and the infinity stones were humming gently in his pocket. Slowly, he looked up. Wong looked back at him with the most relieved expression he'd ever seen on his face.
"Stephen," he said and his voice sounded relieved too. Why? This Wong didn't even know him. Time laughed in his head again, sounding amused. He ignored it. Time always seemed amused with him.
"How do you feel?" Wong asked.
Drained. Empty. He opened his mouth and coughed. There was sandpaper in his throat. His mouth was dry. Immediately, Wong looked around before looking back at him. He looked slightly alarmed. Red light flashed and suddenly there was a glass of water in Wong's hand.
Wong blinked at it. "Thank you?"
Stephen tried to push himself up, but pain shot through his arms and spiraled down his fingers. Wong set the glass down and reached for him. He helped Stephen sit up. His hands were steady, Stephen noticed. Warm, too.
He helped Stephen with the glass of water too, holding the glass steady as he sipped at it. Stephen knew better than to gulp it down; he'd only cough it back up again. The water was the best thing he'd tasted.
Why was Wong here? Why was he doing this? His Wong had never been a hugging type of person The most he would do was pat Stephen's shoulder sometimes. Grief welled up in him again. This wasn't his Wong.
He took another sip of water. Everything ached, but at least his mouth no longer felt as dry. He continued sipping and focused on breathing. Wong stayed silent. Stephen wondered what he was thinking. They'd never met before today, yet here Wong was.
Eventually, the glass was empty. Wong set it down on the nightstand and turned to him.
"I have never seen you like that," Wong said.
Stephen laughed wetly. "We've never even met."
Wong did not smile, though he looked like he very much wanted to. Stephen could see the slight upturn of his lips.
"No," Wong said. "We have not. But I know you. My alternate self knew you and those memories became mine."
Time's laughter made sense now. Sharp, jagged horror rose again. He felt nauseated. He'd gotten Wong killed and this Wong knew.
"I would like to be your friend," this Wong said and his thoughts scattered.
"Why? Why would he want to be friends?"
"Because I want to," Wong said simply.
Oh, he'd said that aloud. He swallowed, feeling his eyes get wet again. How did he still have the energy for tears? Did he know? No, he must not. He wouldn't want to be friends if he knew.
"I saw all of them," Wong continued. There was worry in his eyes, a bit of fear too. Was Wong afraid of him? The nausea got stronger. "All of them up until the end."
Wong knew.
Breath stilled in his lungs. The weight on his chest was back. He couldn't breathe through it. Horror crawled back up from the depths, chilled him from the inside. He needed to leave. He need to leave before he got Wong killed again, before -
Warm hands clasped his. Wong looked at him, serious yet gentle.
"I want to continue that friendship," he said. "I like the person I saw in those memories, you."
Wong knew and still wanted him.
Stephen stared at him for a long moment, then burst into tears again.