, The Tower was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace,
the kind that settles when everyone's finally too tired to argue with gravity.
The children, as Tony had started calling them—half-joking, half-serious—were tucked in.
Peter and Ned had been put to bed around eleven, both passed out mid-grumble over literature homework. They'd called it "cruel and unusual punishment," swearing their teacher was on a personal vendetta against gifted students.
Tony and Stephen had taken turns threatening to confiscate phones and cajoling them with promises of two full days of science and magic until the boys finally relented.
Now their rooms were dark, the hall dim, and Friday hummed low in the walls like a heartbeat.
Tony stood in the doorway between the hall and the lounge, watching the lights of Manhattan spill in long gold lines across the glass.
"Friday," he said softly, "soundproof Peter's room. Don't want the kid hearing me talk about wars."
"Soundproofing active, Boss."
Tony exhaled and turned toward the living area.
Stephen sat there, loose and unreadable, a mug of tea cradled between his palms.
Tony walked over, dragging one hand down his face.
"Thank you," he began. His voice was rougher than usual, sincere, no armor.
"I think I already told you that, but I'll say it again, because important things have to be said thrice. You helped me keep my promise to Vision."
His voice cracked, barely perceptible. "That means more than you think."
Stephen's expression softened, but he didn't interrupt.
Tony kept talking, eyes flicking to the skyline as though it made the words easier to say.
"You didn't have to stay, you know. You could've done your magic thing, made sure Loki wasn't dying, and vanished through your sparkly door. But you didn't. You stayed. You made Peter and Ned laugh. You treated Friday like she's a person, which she is. And you made yourself at home in my home."
Something in his tone flickered. Stephen froze halfway through a sip, feeling an unexpected twist in his chest. He started to apologize automatically.
"Sorry, Tony, I didn't mean to overstep…"
Tony cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.
"Marlin, if I didn't want you here, I'd have stuck you on one of the ten empty floors or left you in the med bay. You don't need to apologize. I trust you. And that's not a phrase I use lightly. You're the second person who's ever treated what I love with care."
"Second?"
"Yeah. Rhodey's the first."
That landed heavy a quiet truth that didn't need explaining.
Tony crossed to the minibar, grabbed two glasses, and filled them with water. He handed one to Stephen before collapsing into the opposite chair.
"How's Loki?"
"Recovering," Stephen said. "The Casket's doing its work. The energy flow is stable now. He'll wake when it's done."
Tony nodded, rubbing the arc-reactor scar absently through his shirt. "Good. man's earned a break."
They sat in silence for a long moment not awkward, just weighted. The kind of quiet where truth lingers in the air, daring someone to fill it.
Then Tony broke it.
"Were you serious about teaching the kids magic? Because if not, I can spin some excuse. Be the bad guy, break it gently"
"Anthony," Stephen interrupted, voice firm but kind, "I don't break promises. They asked, I agreed. You're stuck with me as co-mentor now. Relax. I'm a sorcerer of my word."
Tony gave a dry little laugh. "God help us both."
The laughter faded slowly, replaced by something colder, older. Tony leaned back, glass still in his hand, and his eyes changed. They lost that warm edge turned sharp. Reflective steel.
"So," Stephen said quietly, "how are the plans for the others going?"
Tony's answer came smooth, practiced but his tone made the hair rise on the back of Stephen's neck. Not from fear. From recognition.
"The rogues are settled at the compound," Tony said. "Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents on rotation. Private contractors. A few mercenaries I've used before good people if you keep them paid and pointed. Doctors, engineers, security detail. Weapons output doubled in a week."
Stephen sipped his tea, studying him. "You sound… proud."
Tony's mouth curved, not a smile, something colder. "Not proud. Prepared."
"And the Avengers?"
Tony's eyes glinted. "They're right where I want them. Comfortable enough to forget, restricted enough to remember who's signing the clearance forms. They can train, they can play soldier, they can pretend they're rebuilding the dream but every door opens because I say so. Every meal, every room, every comm line runs through my systems."
He looked up, meeting Stephen's gaze directly. "They wanted freedom. I gave them a cage with better lighting."
Stephen didn't flinch. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched equal parts impressed and something else, something unknown.
"That's dark."
Tony shrugged, drained his glass. "It's efficient."
"I'm not judging," Stephen said mildly. "Just noting. You've still got that edge the one the world keeps forgetting is there."
Tony's expression softened just enough to be human again. "Yeah, well. The world forgets I used to sell weapons before I decided to build better cages. Sometimes I miss being the bastard who didn't care."
"You cared," Stephen said quietly. "You just learned how to weaponize compassion."
That hit deeper than Tony wanted to admit. His gaze flicked away, toward the window where the reflection of the arc reactor shimmered faintly.
"Guess we both know what it's like to use what scares us," Tony murmured.
Stephen's lips curved faintly. "I did bargain with a cosmic god using nothing but sarcasm and a clock."
Tony huffed. "Touché."
He smirked faintly. "And your side?"
Strange leaned back, the city lights catching in his eyes like reflections of distant stars. "Let's just say the Mystic Arts are paying attention again—and are ready to assist in any way possible."
They sat in silence again two men forged by impossible choices, bound by understanding.
"War's coming," Tony said finally. "Not sure when, but it's coming."
Stephen nodded. "Then we'll be ready."
Tony smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the skyline. "Yeah. We will."
Part 2 – The Sorcerer's Reflection
The Tower had gone quiet.
Most of the lights dimmed; Tony had finally gone back to bed or at least promised to. The man's promises to sleep were as reliable as quantum stability, but the attempt counted for something.
Stephen stood alone by the window, mug of untouched tea cooling between his fingers. Below, New York glittered, the glass reflecting back a faint, weary ghost of himself.
He could still hear Tony's voice sharp, brilliant, exhausted, cracked, human.
The way it softened when he spoke of Peter and Ned.
The way it broke when he said Vision's name.
The way it turned cold, surgical, when he described the rogues now living in cages of their own design.
It wasn't cruelty. It was calculus. Mercy wearing armor. It was brilliance.
Stephen understood it too well.
He'd worn that same armor once when he'd stood before Dormammu and bartered eternity for survival.
But Tony's armor wasn't mystical. His was mechanical, deliberate, personal. Every wall, every suit, every AI was built to keep grief out and love in.
And it would never be enough.
Stephen set the mug down and looked around the empty lounge, the traces of a life built out of control and care, both at war with each other. Tools. Screens. A small sunflower on the counter that Ned had left behind, petals glowing faintly under ambient light.
Even in Tony's chaos, there was tenderness.
He doesn't build to dominate, Stephen thought. He builds to protect and then the world takes what he loves.
"You keep trying to save the world," he murmured to the window, "and the world keeps taking pieces of you for payment."
Strange knew the look of a man who carried too many ghosts.
He'd seen it in mirrors after Christine's funeral. In Kamar-Taj's candlelight when the world went quiet.
But Tony's ghosts didn't haunt him, they followed him, tethered to every blueprint, every AI, every reckless attempt to make sure no one else fell like he did.
Stephen breathed out slowly. "You're too human for your own good, Stark."
Friday's voice whispered softly through the speakers, respectful, almost human.
"He pretends not to care, Doctor, but he still checks on them. All of them."
A faint smile ghosted across Stephen's mouth. "Of course he does."
He took a slow sip—cold now—and felt the tremor under the surface of his calm.
That tremor had a name: understanding.
He'd seen what was coming. He'd seen the purple horizon of war, the dead worlds, the falling stars.
He'd seen Tony die a thousand ways.
He'd seen Peter's mask cracked open in blood. Ned's laughter silenced mid-word. Harley's hands burnt black around an arc reactor.
He could not watch it again.
His reflection in the glass stared back, dark circles under the eyes, a man fraying at the edges of sanity.
The Sorcerer Supreme, protector of reality, haunted by three teenagers and one man who refused to quit.
"God help me," he whispered, "I finally understand him."
Because he did. The Merchant of Death and the Master of the Mystic Arts were not opposites, they were symmetries.
Both men played chess with catastrophe. Both believed they were the final barrier between order and oblivion.
And both would burn the board before losing a single piece they loved.
The thought slid through him like a blade terrifying and sweet.
He set the mug down carefully—too carefully—and pressed his hands flat to the glass.
If he lost Tony, the world would lose its axis. He would lose his anchor.
If he lost the children, he and Tony would break and with them, every fragile defense humanity still had.
The logic was simple. Elegant. Ruthless.
Protect the axis. Protect the legacy. Protect the heart.
No matter what it costs.
Stephen smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.
He could almost hear the multiverse whisper in reply.
And what would you give for that, Doctor?
"Everything," he murmured. "And then some."
Behind him, Friday's hologram flickered softly to life, faint and curious.
"Doctor Strange," she said, almost tentative, "should I help get you anything?"
Stephen turned, the gentleness in his expression back like a mask sliding into place.
"No. Rest, Friday. I'll be just fine."
He watched the lights dim again as she vanished.
Then, alone once more, he whispered into the quiet,
"I'll keep them safe. All of them. Whatever it takes. They are mine to keep."
His hands curled behind his back a surgeon's habit, a soldier's stance and for the briefest moment, something in his eyes shimmered with the cold certainty of the inevitable.
Not cruelty. Not madness.
Purpose.
Outside, the city kept breathing, unaware that somewhere in the tallest tower of glass and iron, a sorcerer had just decided that love was worth any sin.