Chapter Text
The tremors started slowly at first: a single twitch in his index finger; a minor spasm in his wrist. Strange clenched his fist, willing them away, and it worked for a while. Long enough that he could finish drinking his tea, anyway.
Wanda sat nearby, curled up in an old leather armchair, a book resting in her lap. She'd taken to spending her downtime in the Sanctum Sanctorum, and Strange could not deny the comfort her presence brought. Given the matter with the vampires, and the metaphysical disarray of the Sanctum, he'd sent Wong and Zelma away for their own protection. Bats was good company, of course, but the presence of another sorcerer, especially one who stood as his equal in every way, relieved a loneliness within him that he'd not previously been aware of.
His gaze drifted to her, lingering on her face as she frowned slightly, perhaps puzzled by something she'd read, or distracted by thoughts of her own universe and the instability that plagued it. He'd promised her help if she could pull him from the astral plane, and she had delivered upon her end of the bargain. With any luck, solving the matter of the timestream entanglement would fix whatever troubled her world, but if it did not, then the two of them had a much longer working partnership to look forward to.
Truthfully, he was in no rush for them to part ways.
"Do you need something from me, Stephen?" Wanda asked, a playfulness to her tone as Strange came abruptly to the realisation he'd been caught staring. Her eyes, a green so pale as to be almost yellow, flicked up to meet his, and despite his embarrassment, he couldn't look away. From the first moment they'd locked eyes, that day on Wundagore, her intense stare had dominated his attention.
"Apologies," he said, smiling, "I was just thinking."
She tilted her head, waves of auburn hair cascading over her shoulder at the slight movement. "About what?"
"Your magic." It wasn't a total lie. Her magic had been on his mind a lot as of late. They'd had many opportunities to fight alongside one another, in the current state of affairs, and the turbulent, erratic nature of her magic fascinated him. It was raw, powerful, and begging for direction. In the quiet moments afforded to him between vampire attacks and hunting for the remaining Darkhold pages, the question of how Wanda's magic might be focused had provided a much needed academic distraction.
Wanda's eyebrows lifted, just a little, and she set aside her book to focus on their conversation. "What about my magic?"
He hesitated, considering the wisdom of questioning another Sorcerer Supreme's chosen methods. Wanda had achieved much without his meddling, and perhaps she wouldn't appreciate his input, but ultimately his curiosity won over his caution.
"Wanda, your magical potential is limitless, but why do you always rely on Chaos Energy?" He leaned forward in his chair, absent-mindedly massaging another tremor in the palm of his hand. "How about we try channeling the energy rather than simply unleashing it?"
Her smile turned bemused at the sudden turn their quiet evening had taken, but to Strange's relief, she did not seem offended at the question. "I already exhibit impeccable control," she said with a haughty little sniff, though after a moment of consideration, she added, "But I do admit, I often let it erupt on its own..."
There. He had her interest. "Exactly. Chaos magic is wild and unpredictable, but I've been working on a proper spell to implement some precision and structure." Standing abruptly, he gestured for her to follow, and she did so with no complaints or questions, falling into step beside him as he led the way to the other side of the attic Sanctum.
This side of the house had suffered the worst from the damage Khonshu and Dracula had caused, leaving half the building exposed to the open void beyond. It would be a repair job of cosmic proportions, but for the time being, it provided a convenient shooting range of sorts.
"Lend me a hand," Strange said, extending one of his own to Wanda. She did so without hesitation, placing her hand upon his, and for a moment he was struck by just how small it felt in his palm. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came and instead began weaving the spell he'd crafted for her.
It was a simple spell, one he had tested with his own magic. Alone it did nothing, not until raw energy was channelled through it. With a quick gesture of his free hand, two arcane bracelets appeared around Wanda's wrists, their golden design iconic of Strange's magic. An unreadable look crossed Wanda's face then, just for a fleeting moment, but it vanished so quickly Strange couldn't be sure he'd seen anything at all.
He stepped behind her, reaching for her hands with his own to shape them into the correct gestures to direct the spell. Again, Wanda did not resist him at all, allowing herself to be moved and posed as he saw fit. An odd feeling settled over him, an uneasy sort of intimacy, and he wondered if he was overstepping by touching her so much. It would be a simple matter to just demonstrate the pose, so why had he touched her at all?
Wanda leaned back.
They were already so close that the shift in her posture would have gone entirely unnoticed in any other situation, but here, now, Strange was helplessly aware of it, because suddenly her back was pressed against his chest, the warmth of her body already permeating his robes. She said nothing about it, made no attempt to draw attention to what she had just done, but the gentle pressure between their bodies was inescapably distracting.
He could move away, if he wanted. Establish an appropriate distance between them. It couldn't be easier.
But he didn't.
"Focus your magic through this," he said, turning his attention back to the matter at hand.
Wanda nodded and drew upon her power. He felt it in the air around them, the sudden crackling of raw chaos, gathering at her command, but now sigils appeared around them, funneling the magic forward in a sudden, explosive stream.
It startled her, and as quickly as the barrage began, it ended. "Hmmm," she murmured, looking at her hands with fresh interest. "This feels... different. The energy flows more smoothly through your focus..." She turned, just enough to look at him over her shoulder, and Strange was suddenly, acutely aware of how close their faces were. "It seems almost more potent than my chaos magic?"
"The spell can't reach its potential on its own, unlike your chaos magic," he said, gently turning her to face the void once more, if only to avoid confronting what he felt when she looked at him. "You have to actively command it. Now, channel more of your power forward."
Again, Wanda unleashed the barrage, and this time she held the spell longer, pouring her volatile red bolts into the beauty of the void, deafening them both with the explosive cacophony that surrounded them. Despite himself, a smile tugged at Strange's lips, satisfied with the outcome of his work.
"Like this, Stephen?" she asked, a glimmer of mischief in her voice. She knew full well she was performing the spell admirably, and Strange suspected she only wished to hear him say so.
He opened his mouth to give her what she wanted, but as he searched for the words to express what he felt, he found himself suddenly lacking. What could he say that would effectively express just how impressive he found her? What words could possibly do justice to her limitless potential?
"Ah," he sighed, squeezing her hands gently in his own, "You never cease to amaze me, Wanda — it's no wonder you're the Supreme Sorcerer of your timeline." It wasn't enough. "I feel like I'm in the presence of an even greater master than the Ancient One."
Wanda laughed, a bright, delicate sound full of genuine mirth and joy. She never laughed like this when their allies were around, only when she was alone with him. Her focus faltered and the barrage wavered, startling her back to attention. Strange tightened his grip on her hands, helping her regain control, and gradually the magic withdrew until silence fell over them once again.
"This combination of spellwork... it does flow more gracefully than chaos magic," she said, turning at last to face him. "But controlling it is trickier!"
Strange shook his head. "With your exceptional knowledge, you'll master it in no time. It will become your new weapon." His gift to her, something she could use to protect herself in the face of overwhelming odds. The thought comforted him, easing an unspoken worry in the back of his mind. "Now," he said, clearing his throat and taking a small step back, gesturing to the void once more. "Adjust your rhythm and try again."
She was looking at him with that unreadable expression again, but this time it lingered longer, and Strange allowed the moment to stretch out between them as he searched her face for the truth of what she was thinking. Her eyelashes fluttered, and a smile, soft and secretive, pulled at her lips. All at once her expression was an open book.
Attraction.
"...Alright," she said, turning her back to him and once more assuming the pose he'd shown her, letting the moment pass. "But if I accidentally blow up the Sanctum Sanctorum, don't blame me."
Strange swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Trust me, after what Dracula and Khonshu did to the Sanctum, anything is an improvement."
An hour passed as Wanda practiced. Strange conjured small, shield-like disks in the void for her to use as targets, and gradually her precision and control over the stream of powerful bolts grew. When she grew bored and sought a new challenge, she leapt into the void, fading out of sight and reappearing high above, floating in a sea of cosmic beauty. Strange conjured more disks for her, some high above, others beneath her, and she destroyed all of them in rapid succession.
"You've taken to this spell admirably," Strange said, when at last she returned to him, floating down to land gently on her feet in front of him. "I look forward to seeing you use it in a real fight."
A small, smile warmed her expression. "I didn't think you'd have the time to watch me in a real fight," she said, tilting her head curiously. "You're always so busy. Holding the line. Protecting everyone."
Was she flattering him? Teasing him? Both?
"I can't protect everyone if I'm not watching," he said, absent-mindedly massaging the dull but persistent ache in his hands, that had grown more nagging over the hour of conjuring disks for Wanda. "And I watch you more than most."
Any humour or playfulness in her expression faded, to be replaced by something soft, almost vulnerable. It surprised him, in truth, and he froze, waiting for her to say something, worried his words had upset her somehow.
"You're not the first person to say they watch me closely," she said after a long moment, "Though you might be the first in a long time who meant it as concern for me, rather than concern for what I might do."
He'd seen the looks their mutant allies gave her, of course. He'd heard the things Emma Frost said, the loud accusations made to sow seeds of doubt about Wanda's nature. She had always shrugged the comments off like they meant nothing to her, but the undeniable discomfort he saw in her now — in the way she averted her gaze; in the way she wrapped her arms around herself — begged the question of just how resilient she truly was.
"I care about you, Wanda."
She didn't look at him — her gaze was locked on his hands — but she was listening, so he kept talking in the hopes he might soothe whatever thoughts troubled her.
"I can't tell you how many universes I looked through, trying to find someone willing to help me when I needed it most." Countless Sorcerer Supremes, some of them variants of himself, most of them strangers, or friends who saw him as a stranger, none of them willing to heed his calls for aid. "You were the only one who listened. You were the only one who answered when I called to you. You were the salvation I needed when I was at my most lost, and only because you chose to be. Whatever else you may have been in another life, in this one, you are a good person, and I won't allow any harm to come to you."
Wanda's lips parted, but she said nothing and Strange did not push her. He knew what it was to doubt one's own nature — he was not infallible himself, and had seen more than a few outcomes for other Stephen Stranges that had ended poorly, due to his own failings, poor decisions, or personal weaknesses. It was a difficult thing to reckon with, knowing the wickedness that could exist within his own heart, and for Wanda, Strange could only imagine how much worse it was. Her power was unfathomable — how could she ever guard against herself when even she didn't know the full extent of what she was capable?
"Your hands," she said at last, and he blinked in surprise. "They're shaking."
"Oh." He lifted one to look at it. Sure enough, the usual tremors that came after a long day of casting spells and other general use had set in. "It's nothing," he said, clenching his fist to try and ward it off, though this time it did not work. "Nerve damage from the accident. It's normally not an issue, but this happens sometimes."
Wanda glanced at his face, her gaze searching. "Does it hurt?"
He shrugged. "A little. It's more of a... dull ache, really. It's been there so long now that most of the time I don't notice it." There were nights when the pain could be so bad that it would keep him from sleep; a constant, throbbing ache in his tendons and joints that simply couldn't be eased. But he didn't mention that.
Wanda nipped her lower lip, her expression thoughtful, and then she extended a hand towards him. "May I?"
Strange hesitated, but only out of confusion over what she could possibly intend to do. He offered her his hand and she took it, gripping his forearm and stripping him of his glove with quick, deft movements. "What—" he started to say, but then Wanda's hands were roaming across his palm, turning his hand this way and that as she examined the scars he still carried, all these years after the accident. They'd never made him self-conscious before, but her sudden scrutiny stirred an unusual feeling in the pit of stomach. He fell silent, and let her do as she pleased.
Her fingertips, delicate and probing, began to glow with the telltale crimson of her chaos magic. "Tell me if it's uncomfortable," she said, gripping Strange's hand in both of hers. She pressed her thumbs into his palm, stroking upward along the length of his hand, tracing the fine tendons and muscles as she went. Strange had tried hand massages plenty of times in the past, and had achieved some relief that way, but as Wanda worked, he became increasingly aware of something different this time.
A humming sensation beneath the skin; a faint red glow between the bones of his hand, like holding a flashlight behind the fingers as a child; a sudden overwhelming feeling of being completely at Wanda's mercy — her magic was inside of him, raw chaos, weaving its way through muscle and bone, kept in check by nothing more than her control.
His breath barrelled out of him. "Wanda—" he said, alarm and fascination warring within him.
"Trust me," she said. "I'll never hurt you, Stephen."
And despite himself, he did.
Strange relaxed, letting his hand go slack in Wanda's grip. The humming beneath his skin grew stronger, more purposeful, and as she wove her magic through him, the dull ache, so familiar to him now, began to give way to something else. Warmth saturated his bones, and a tingling sensation lit up along every nerve in his hand. Though a peculiar feeling, it was not at all disagreeable, and as Wanda continued massaging his palm, the sensation evolved into something altogether more... pleasurable.
For the first time in a long time, his hand felt good.
"I was not aware your magic could be utilised in such a way," he said, his voice pitched lower than usual.
Wanda smiled to herself, continuing her gentle ministrations. "I can heal wounds, of course, though your case is somewhat different. Your hands aren't wounded — they're fully healed, just... not in an ideal fashion." Her gaze drifted, like she was seeing something that was not there. "Scar tissue, nerve damage... I could undo it all, if you wanted me to." She looked at him again, her focus returning to him. "But so could you. Why don't you?"
Huffing out a rueful breath, Strange leaned against the wall behind him, half for support in recalling the decision to leave his hands in their current state, and half to keep himself on his feet, as Wanda's magic rendered him ever more weak at the knees. "It... is a form of penance, I suppose." It felt a touch melodramatic to describe it that way, but it was the most accurate description he could think of. "I was not the man I want to be, before the accident. Arrogance blinded me to my flaws. It made me cruel, in an unthinking sort of way. Losing everything that I thought gave me worth... As hard as it was, it changed me for the better. The pain keeps me humble."
Wanda released his hand and reached for the other, working that glove free too and letting it drop to the ground at their feet with its partner. This time, Strange was prepared for what was coming but even so, as her magic eased its way past his skin, the pleasurable violation of it still took him by surprise. His head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, and before he knew it was happening, a quiet moan passed his lips.
"I would not describe you as humble," Wanda said, and he could hear the mirth in her voice, though he was momentarily too embarrassed to look at her. "But I understand where you're coming from. I don't approve of self-flagellation, but I would be a hypocrite if I were to try and change your mind." She lapsed into silence for a time as she worked, applying gentle pressure to the parts of his hand that needed it most, until Strange was left questioning if his hands had ever hurt to begin with.
When at last she was done, Wanda clasped his hands in hers, cradling them both with infinite tenderness. "If you insist on living with the damage," she said, gazing up at him with an earnestness he did not know how to handle, "Then at the very least, let me ease the pain. Don't suffer needlessly, Stephen. Call on me at any time."
Strange hesitated, his hands gripping hers, stable and lighter than they usually felt. Her offer was dangerous — not because he did not trust her magic, nor because it might lessen the burden he'd willingly chosen to carry, but because now, when he looked at her, all he felt was an overwhelming desire to kiss her.
The boundaries between them were crumbling, and he lacked the willpower to rebuild them.
"You know it goes for you too," he said, knowing the offer needed to be made, no matter how much of a risk he was taking. "I know you're hurting, Wanda. It's a different kind of pain, but I see it written all over your face."
She blinked, visibly taken aback, but she didn't deny it.
"I'll always be here, if you need..." What? A shoulder to cry on? An empathetic ear? He couldn't give her a cliche after all of this. He cast his gaze past her to the void beyond, and with a deep breath, said what he truly meant. "If you need me, I am yours. Come to me, at any time. You will always have a home with me."
He let himself look at her again. She hid nothing from him now, her expression raw vulnerability and warmth. As she touched a hand to his cheek, Strange felt the last of his resolve fail him, and as she rose up, her magic lifting her to bring them eye level, he wondered if she could see it in his face — his willingness to do whatever she asked of him.
The kiss, when it came, was less of a kiss and more a sharing of breath. Her lips ghosted across his, the touch so light than it might have been imagined, and he fought the need to lean into it, the urge to chase, letting her dictate the pace. "You," Wanda murmured, her mouth shaping the word against his, "Are a good man, Stephen Strange."
And then, with only a whisper of chaos magic, she was gone.